Etched in Plaster | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Etched in Plaster | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
04/27/21
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The sun rose and set like any other day. Yet, this was not like any other day. You could smell it, taste it, feel it in the air. It wasn’t the Jasmine lingering on the breeze, the sting of the ash in the back of your throat from the unending rows of flickering torches, or even the restlessness of the chained lions raising their maned heads toward the tumbling clouds overhead. It was something darker, sinister even.

Why would his father leave him in this predicament to chase his own passions? Why did the responsibility to sort out life’s challenges always fall on the firstborn son? Why did favor fly away with the ravens just when he needed it most?

The king paced again as he waited another report on the approaching enemy. This was the time for war but he should have been the one on the march instead of holed up with his nobles, shaking. When your grandfather’s shadow creates a permanent indentation on your people, and there’s simply a matter of time before your own legacy gets erased, then your time is limited.

Golden goblets lined the tables. A thousand of them. One for each of his nobles. They were trophies and treasures of war taken by his grandfather. Taken from the Temple. One of the seven wonders of the world. Maybe the spirit of the gods in them might bolster his strength. Maybe the power of those who had gone before would rise again.

The choicest wines for his wives and concubines. This was not the time for fear and dread. Drown it all. Praise the gods of gold, silver, bronze, iron, wood and stone. Focus on the monuments of glory. The work of the hands you know. The comforts and channels of wisdom that never let you down.

There are things that not even terror can describe. This day. A bodiless, bloodless hand hung in space etching a record in the plaster of the wall. The lampstand seemed to quiver in the presence of the holy as the final words finished. His face pale, his legs weak, his knees knocking, he stared, waiting for more. There was no more.

What did it mean? Enchanters, astrologers, diviners were speechless. Wisemen had no wisdom. “Endless rewards you’ll have,” the monarch promised “if you only interpret the record on the wall.” Nothing.

The queen enters the banquet under the moonless night. “There is someone,” she says. “Someone who was your grandfather’s chief. Someone who has a keen mind, knowledge and understanding, an ability to interpret dreams, to explain riddles and to solve difficult problems. Call him and he’ll solve the record on the wall, this etching in plaster.”

An aging sage, serene and sedate, is called. “Are you the one?” the monarch asks. “Belteshazzar, Daniel? Are you the dream teller, the truth giver, the wisest of the wise? I’ve heard of your legacy and I’ll reward you if you only share the record on the wall.”

The keen eye of the ancient focused on the etching in plaster. “Keep your gifts, give your rewards to others,” he said. “I’ll read it. Your grandfather held the fear and awe of all peoples and did as he willed until the Sovereign one humbled him for his arrogance. He lived like an animal at the mercy of his Creator until he looked to the True One who is over all.” A piercing eye fixated on the king. “But you, though you know this, chose arrogance instead of humility. You chose alternate sources for devotion even though they are deaf and dumb. So, listen to the etching in the plaster:

“The end has come. You’ve fallen short. The enemy at the gate will divide all you have.”

The cry of the sentries. “The river we depended on for security has been diverted. We are at the mercy of the enemy.” The sword claimed its own and toppled gods returned to their treasure boxes with no record of their successes. The record of this king continues its call. Be careful of what you depend on for your future and your hope. It can never stand against the hand that etches in the plaster.

The sovereign hand etches still. Records of names in the book of life or the book of death. Records of where trust has been placed. Records of where hope has been shown. Records of where peace has been secured. Arrogance or humility. The choice is ours.

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