SPIRITUAL STORIES ARCHIVE
By Mark Edgemon
As prophesied, they came! Seeing only flames of burnt orange in the distance, the townspeople huddled close together, believing their homes and their very lives would soon be ashes. Standing at the edge of town was a lone figure, a former wizard turned spiritualist, who was known only as Xandulandu.
He had been a promising sorcerer and conjuror of magic, who months earlier had his powers removed by the Council of Wizards for practicing "White Magic" leaving the Black Arts for a more spiritual approach to the secret powers beneath our human existence. The gift of foresight could not be numbered among the sovereignty of the wizards for they would not have extricated Xandulanduís powers if they knew of the holocaustic inferno that would soon engulf them.
He had always been a good man, assisting others when they were in need, which was in stark contrast to the wizards insatiable desire for power, who used the dark forces to enslave the good people of the village kingdom, controlling them in every aspect of their lives.
And now, the long awaited prophecy had come to pass. The dragons were emerging from their caverns beneath the earthís core, where they had dwelled since the new days of earthís first beginnings. And through their reemergence, it needs be that they scorch the earth to adapt its outer shell to the volcanic environment that they have lived in for many millennia. The abyss from which they arose was only miles from the village, which now lay directly in their path.
The heat could already be felt within the village from the dragonís breath still miles away. The grey and aged Council of Wizards had planned to meet the Dragonhorde at the Silesia River and defeat them through the amalgamation of their combined powers as they had envisaged since the founding of their powerful union thousands of years past.
And so they awaited the horde surrounded by a magic shield, which protected the wizards from the heat that was spewing forth from the dragonís mouths, which was hotter than any volcanic eruption. Within minutes, the dragons were upon them, incinerating the rocks, trees and evaporating the river, including a tiny wooden duck decoy that was floating by at the time. At that moment, the wizards cast their spell of dark magic, calling upon the demons beneath the earth and the dark principalities of the air to empower their spell and cast the dragons back into the bowels of the earth, sealing the entrance forever.
Unbeknownst to the wizards, the dragons were immune to magic. The wizards and their demon familiars had only enough time to be horrified, before they were devoured by the dragonís fire. The approaching speed of the dragons was not impeded as they moved with force toward the village.
Although it was too far away to witness, Xandulandu knew of the extinction of the wizards, for he saw in his spirit their end before the battle was engaged. He had no magical powers to speak of, just the spiritual gifts and abilities that have been available to all people since the beginning of time. But in his case, he believed and he walked in the knowledge of the spiritual truth he had come to know through the ancient book placed on earth from on high.
He was not terrified of death nor was he afraid of failure. He did not know if he would be triumphant or be incinerated as the wizards had been. However, he knew that this was a moment of testing and that either way, his life was in the hands of his Creator and that the only thing he needed to doÖwas surrender to Him!
As the dragon horde appeared over the horizon, he stood there in the warm breeze and raised his hands to his Maker. Magic had been about controlling his own destiny, but now he had discovered that spirituality was about yielding yourself to the power that fills all and is in all. And as he stood there, hands raised above his head waving in the breeze, he sang a song he did not know and power emanated through his voice and brought stillness to the place in which he stood. And the more he sang the more he was filled with the confidence and the power he had not known, prior to his surrender.
As he was abandoned to his Creator in song, he had not witnessed the approach of the Dragonhorde who were now standing in front of him, observing his movement and his tranquility. When his eyes opened and he saw the dragonís peering at him, he had pity on them, for he could see that they suffered the absence of the peace and serenity that he was now experiencing. And so he touched the face of the closest dragon, who began to cry. Hell was all the dragons had ever experienced, and now they had peace for the first time as he touched each dragonís face. And with that, their purpose had been fulfilled. They were restored by the touch of this surrendered soul, who was moved by the presence of God.
Xandulandu led the dragons to caves that they could scorch and make home, leaving the rest of the land for human folk to dwell in without fear. Xandulandu delivered many people that day including those who were perceived as his enemies, but few knew of his bravery. But from that day on, no one spoke of him by name; he was only referred to as the man who lived with God!
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