“Woe to the warrior, woe to the woman of the street, and woe most all of all he who hears but does not believe!”
The braying, bleating voice was once again calling out in the square. People came to trade and gossip, often from ten miles away and the last thing anyone needed was the shaming voice of a pious preacher.
So, Herndon, retired but still a respected war hero, decided to talk some sense into the young Christian, and if not sense, perhaps a little muscle.
“You may have heard of me,” he began with his typical modesty “I’m Herndon, son of Paradorn, fought in the battle of Cambrian Hill and killed around, oh, three hundred men in a single day, nothing to boast of course because that was just the first chapter in a long illustrious career.”
A not-so-subtle nod that if the Christian didn’t leave, Herndon would have him limping back to Rome with a broken nose. But the missionary, skinny, youthful, and possessed of that condescending air that the young have no business giving to their elders, was not impressed.
“Three hundred?” he replied coldly “Three hundred of your brothers slaughtered, for the earthly approval of man, not for the love of Heaven?”
“Hey now,” Herndon laughed, “it was nothing personal, we all knew the risks of war. I came out on top because I was the best. I’m a hero.”
“A killer,” the Christian countered “a common murderer! I am here to save my brothers’ souls from fiery torment, but you! Why did you even fight in the war?”
Herndon considered and said, “Wasn’t much else for me to do, besides girls loved the uniform.”
“And what was the cause of that war?” the Christian pressed.
“Dunno,” shrugged Herndon, “politics usually give me a headache.”
The Christian looked upon Herndon if he were tragically simple minded.
“You call yourself a hero and all you ever did was kill people just because you were bored, for reasons you barely understood. How heroic is that?”
Herndon suppressed a yawn as he drowned out the impromptu sermon by noting a little detail of the young man’s ropes. Pure white with a red emblem of a cross upon the breast.
“Ah,” he said pointing at the emblem. “You’re one of Bishop Blanchard’s disciples, aren’t you? I’ve been to his missions, seen plenty of your brothers wither and die on dirty slabs. Impressive that your sect can conjure up vast donations and yet spend so little on treating the sick.”
“Our mission isn’t earthly comforts, it’s to minister to the sick and the dying, to save their souls from the pit!”
Herndon recalled his visit to the bishop just a year prior and he could still see the old goat, sitting upon a velvet cushion, sipping from a chalice and counting the hills of golden coins with his bright piggy eyes.
