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A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita Read the first half of this story here. Torn between allegiance to his parents and the demands of his conscience, the son of two ruthless guerrillas makes a dangerous pilgrimage to become a nonviolent soldier for Christ. One month after the death of Comrade Carlos At some point, Comrade Juana announces to the young Abimael that he will be sent to an “education” camp for young guerrillas located in an occupied territory somewhere in the province of Ayacucho. She tells him that at his age, he should already be thinking of his revolutionary future and that he must learn Gonzalo Thought and train in the use of weapons. “It is an axiom of Gonzalo Thought,” she tells him, sounding as robotic as all the senderistas, “that children must be encouraged to participate in the popular war.” Soon she dyes his hair, since he would stand out in the indoctrination camp if he went as a blond boy. Despite having light hair, he has the Amerindian features and color of his dead father, and so he will be able to fit right in with the other young recruits once his hair is black. On the day when two men arrive in a pickup truck to take him to the camp, his mother also announces that he should not expect Winnie to be in the home when he comes back. “You’re at an age where you no longer need a nanny. Comrade Barbara and I have decided that she should be let go.” “Why?” asks Abimael. “I love her so.” “The decision has already been made.” “Can I at least say goodbye to her?” asks the young Abimael. “Can I at least give her a last hug?” “I suppose,” replies Comrade Juana. “But make it snappy.” Soon Winnie appears in the living room, her eyes red and swollen from recent tears. “I am leaving for Ayacucho,” he tells her. “To a training camp.” “I know,” says Winnie, trying to avoid crying in order not to upset the boy. “And I’ve been told you won’t be here when I come back,” he adds. “You have to go, Abimael!” Comrade Juana cries out. “Come on, the men are waiting for you.” Then Winnie puts something in Abimael’s hands. On the front, there is a depiction of El Señor de los Milagros – the Christ of Miracles – and on the back a portrait of Saint Martin de Porres. The young Abimael looks at the image of the crucified Christ, with His mother Mary at His right, a sword piercing her heart, and Mary Magdalene sitting at His feet. The Holy Spirit is depicted above him, all with a purple background. Abimael knows the image was painted by an Angolan slave in a small adobe church in Pachacamilla many centuries earlier. During a great earthquake, the entire church had collapsed, except for the wall where the “dark Christ” had been painted. Thereafter, the wall where the crucified Christ was worshipped had withstood a number of other earthquakes. The image came to be venerated by all Peru, culminating with a multitudinous procession in Lima every October. “Don’t forget everything I’ve taught you,” says Winnie. “Your faith is going to be tested. Remember what the good Lord said in Genesis: ‘I am with you and will watch over you wherever you may go.’ Don’t do anything that will stain your soul. And in the most difficult moments, know that God is with you, know that God is still with you, know that God is always with you.” Abimael gets into the pickup truck with the two men, and they drive several hours before they abandon the car and tell him they’ll have to make the rest of the trek on foot. After two more hours traversing the verdant mountains, even crossing rivers, they finally arrive at the hamlet of Urubamba, controlled by the Shining Path. A tall indigenous man awaits Abimael in the largest house in the village and greets him warmly, knowing he is the son of Comrades Carlos and Juana. “You have great shoes to fill,” the man tells him. “Your father was a relentless warrior, and your mother has done great things in Lima. I expect you to shine among the brave ‘pioneers’ of the camp. Tell me by what name you want to be addressed. You can’t be a comrade at your age, but still you must choose a nom de guerre.” “You can call me Martin,” Abimael answers, without giving it a second thought. “Yes, Martin is my name.” There are about fifty other “pioneers” in the camp, none older than about fourteen and most of them sons of peasants who speak no Spanish. The thin man who initially greeted Abimael – his name is Comrade Jose – addresses them as “seedlings of the revolution” in Quechua and tells them a brilliant future awaits them. Then he tells them what their daily schedule will be: breakfast at six in the morning, classes on the teachings of Mariategui, Lenin, Mao and Gonzalo Thought from eight to noon, lunch at one, and training in the use of weapons, dynamite and explosives in the afternoon. Near the end of the course, some of the “pioneers” – the ones who prove the most adept – will be allowed to join older senderistas in occupying a nearby village or looting a mine for dynamite. He then addresses Abimael directly: “And I am sure you will be among them, Martin, for the armed struggle is in your veins. You imbibed it in your mother’s milk.” At first, Abimael understands nothing of the Communist philosophy he is forced to study every day. Among these, it is Presidente Gonzalo’s statements about the necessity for violence that befuddle him the most. He is simply perplexed when he learns that Presidente Gonzalo had written that “violence without remorse” is necessary to liberate the peasantry from capitalism and feudalism. And the more Abimael understands the message beneath the philosophical gibberish, the more he is astounded by its meaning. How could anyone possibly defend Presidente Gonzalo’s statement that political executions used as terror tactics were comparable to “killing weeds”? How to justify the claim that negotiating with the government instead of using selective and extreme violence was akin to eating “chocolate with poison inside”? How to approve Presidente Gonzalo’s maxim that you “kill one and influence a thousand”? And there is one thing also: what Presidente Gonzalo has said about religion. Religion is a “social phenomena,” he wrote, “the product of exploitation that will end with the end of exploitation, to be swept aside as a new society arises.” To the extent Abimael understands what Presidente Gonzalo says about religion, he finds himself in profound disagreement, even at his young age, and he finds his stomach itself rebelling. So, gradually, the more he learns, the more he discovers that everything he is being taught is contrary to what he has learned at church during Father Robles’ sermons. The senderistas are simply trying to teach him how to hate and how to kill. He engages in training in the use of arms reluctantly, wondering if it might not be a sin merely to participate in such practices. And yet he excels in the use of weapons. He learns how to discharge pistols and rifles, how to use pineapple grenades, how to wrap dynamite in balls of mud and launch them with a huaranco, the traditional llama-skin sling invented by the Incas. He knows the only reason he is being given these lessons is so that in the future he might use his weapons to kill actual humans, and he winces at the idea. He begins to pray relentlessly, prays in the morning and in the evening and whenever he has a moment by himself. He certainly has no interest in contributing to the “all-consuming river of blood” proclaimed as the supreme goal by his instructors. He is appalled at the senderista anthems chanting that “the blood of the people has a rich perfume, it smells like jasmine, violets, geraniums and daisies…” Why this emphasis on spilling blood? Finally, the day comes, the day Abimael has been dreading. Comrade Jose approaches him and has nothing but compliments for him, saying he had received excellent marks in all the classes on Communist philosophy, that he had excelled in the use of firearms and explosives, and that he was ready to take the next step. There is a mine not too far from Urubamba, about three days away walking on foot through twisting dirt roads which wound around the side of the mountains. The mine has dynamite, necessary to continue training the “pioneers.” About fifteen battle-hardened senderistas are to launch the mission, but Comrade Jose has decided that Abimael and another boy should go along to learn firsthand about the armed struggle and experience real conflict. “There’s only so much you can learn from books,” Comrade Jose says to Abimael. “Only so much you can learn on the firing range.” Abimael does not know how to respond. An attack on a mine would certainly result in deaths. He cannot contemplate the idea of actually killing a human being, or even of assisting others in doing so. But he cannot say “No.” One of the “pioneers” had done so when offered the chance to participate in the stabbing of a local varayoc suspected of collaborating with the Sinchi Battalions, and his punishment had been swift and decisive. He was left naked in the mountains, tied up so that he could not escape, and left to die for his infidelity. Of course, the doomed thirteen-year-old was not the son of Comrade Carlos and Comrade Juana, which gave Abimael certain perquisites. Abimael, unlike the others, is not expected to fight in the highlands but to aid in his mother’s activities in Lima. Still, there are no guarantees, and Abimael feels deathly afraid that his punishment will be severe. For the first time in his young life, he has to think of the possibility of his own death. What if the senderistas decide to stone or hang him for his cowardice? What if they use him as an example for the rest? And yet something deep inside him tells him it would be sheer evil to kill any of the men guarding the mines or any of the miners. What can he do? What recourse does he have? His first instinct is to pray. He takes out of his pocket the image of el Señor de los Milagros that Winnie had given to him on the day of his departure and pleads with the crucified Christ. “Lord, guide me,” he says. “If you want me to tell Comrade Jose that I shall not go on the expedition at the mine under any circumstances, please give me a sign. And if you allow me to go, please don’t let there be any casualties. I’ve heard that some of the Shining Path missions don’t result in any deaths. Grant me this favor, and I shall consecrate my whole life to you. But not my will, but Thine be done.” On the day of the expedition to the mine, Abimael rises early in the morning, with renewed vigor. Since the Christ has not given him a sign, he thinks of it as permission to go, is certain there will be no deaths. Comrade Jose appears a few hours later and tells him it is time to go. “I’m glad you’re going on this mission, Martin. It will make a man of you,” he says. “And if this expedition requires you to kill for the first time, it should be a great source of pride, not only for you but also for your mother. That would mean that, young as you are, you could be addressed as ‘comrade.’ Usually that only happens when a ‘pioneer’ kills a policeman and brings back his revolver. But killing a guard at a mine would be just the same.” The trek is long and hard. Finally, almost at nightfall, they appear at the mine, known as the Cienfuegos Mine. “Viva Presidente Gonzalo!” cry out the Shining Path guerrillas, already unholstering their weapons. But there are only two guards protecting the mine, and they raise their arms in the air as soon as they hear the senderista chants. “You can take all the dynamite you want,” says one of the guards. “We won’t stop you.” “Just leave us with our lives,” says the other. “All the miners are deep underground, and they won’t bother you.” “Do you want to shoot one of them?” Comrade Jose asks the young Abimael as if he were asking him if he wanted a cup of hot chocolate. “His death would be a trophy for your mother and would make you a ‘comrade’ immediately.” Abimael says a very quick and silent prayer to the Lord of Miracles before he responds. “No, I’d rather not,” he says. “I think I should receive the title of ‘comrade’ like all the others do.” “You’re a little squeamish, aren’t you?” Comrade Carlos laughs. “The first death is always the hardest. But don’t worry. You’ll have more than enough time to earn your stripes, particularly given that your mother is Comrade Juana. Come, let us collect the dynamite.” And with that, the night ends. It is Pentecost Sunday, and God has granted him a small miracle. Abimael will spend three more months at the guerrilla camp, but he will never again be asked to go on a mission. He redoubles his prayers and reaffirms his promise to consecrate himself to Christ. * * * One year after the death of Comrade Carlos Soon after the young Abimael returns from the training camp, the older Abimael – Presidente Gonzalo – appears and begins to sleep in the room vacated by Winnie. The young Abimael is sure that her mother has asked Winnie to leave under pressure from Comrade Barbara, who disliked the nanny with a passionate intensity. Of course the feeling was reciprocated. Comrade Barbara was in the habit of parading buck naked through the apartment, and Winnie was scandalized by her conduct. Abimael Guzman, a.k.a. Presidente Gonzalo, is a stout man, weighing almost three-hundred pounds, but he speaks with a soft voice that is almost like a whisper. Unlike Comrade Barbara, he is very gentle when dealing with the young Abimael. The young Abimael somehow knows that everything this man says has to be followed, that he is the grand puppet master over the lives of Comrade Barbara and his mother, as well as in the lives of many others. Unlike the late Carlos, neither Comrade Barbara nor the older Abimael care if the young Abimael overhears their conversations. Now that Winnie is gone, there is no longer a danger that the boy will report what he hears to his intrusive nanny. So the young Abimael figures out that his older namesake has come to Lima with a special purpose, a unique mission having to do with a black woman named Maria Elena Moyano, a person simply called “la perra” by Comrade Barbara and “la revisionista” by the older Abimael. Based upon what he hears, the young Abimael deduces that la perra is distributing milk to the children of a place called Villa El Salvador through public kitchens, and that somehow, that act of kindness is an unpardonable crime. “She is a traitor to the revolution, recalcitrant and counterrevolutionary,” says the older Abimael as if he were stating gospel doctrine, “and there is no alternative but to end her life. After all, we have warned her. Programs directed to ease the plight of the poor like the milk program diminish grievances against the government and lessen the revolutionary fervor of the masses.” The young Abimael tells himself perhaps he is misunderstanding, perhaps Maria Elena Moyano had committed other crimes, not just instituting the Glass of Milk program for the children of Villa El Salvador. But the more he learns about the doomed zamba, the more senseless the older Abimael’s plans appear to be. And now the young Abimael has no one with whom to share his anxieties. His father Carlos is dead and his nanny vanished, his mother fully co-opted by the words of Comrade Barbara and the man hailed as Presidente Gonzalo. And the young Abimael, as usual, seeks solace in prayer. One bright morning a group of armed men appears at the apartment building bringing with them a man in handcuffs. Comrade Juana immediately ushers them into a room next to the young Abimael’s bedroom. Everything is done in a hurry, and the young Abimael sees through the passageway that the men tie the hostage to a chair as they scream at him. “Capitalist pig! Now we shall see if you ever again write your bourgeois propaganda against Presidente Gonzalo and the revolution! Know that you won’t escape from this situation with your life, you revisionist worm.” The man – a thin, slight creature in horn-rimmed glasses – has a red handkerchief in his mouth and can say nothing. But his eyes alone tell the young Abimael that he is terrified. Later the young Abimael learns that his name is Guillermo Townsend and that he is a reporter with the magazine Caretas. Apparently he has written a number of negative stories about the Shining Path’s incursion into the towns of the Andean highlands in the province of Cajamarca. The young Abimael gathers from conversations that the Shining Path is seeking a ransom in exchange for the life of the journalist, but that Presidente Gonzalo has no intention of releasing him alive. The months draw out. His mother, Comrade Barbara and the older Abimael continue to revise their plans with respect to the retaliatory assassination of Maria Elena Moyano, the black woman who distributes milk in the shantytowns of Lima. At some point, a group of young men – none of them Amerindians – begin to join in the discussions. The young Abimael is beginning to get a fuller picture of why they plan to kill the Afro-Peruvian community organizer. He figures out that they resent anything done to help the poor outside of the “revolution” – it is a word repeated again and again by the older Abimael – so they decide to punish her for the Glass of Milk program which she has instituted. Then the day comes. The older Abimael, Comrade Barbara and his mother are glued to the television set. They don’t mind that the younger Abimael is sitting with them. At around one o’clock in the afternoon, the first reports begin to come in. Maria Elena Moyano, the black feminist and community organizer, has been shot dead in front of her family as she attended a community event organized by the Glass of Milk committee. Then the television announcer states that afterward her assailants dynamited her corpse, whereupon the older Abimael, Comrade Barbara and his mother all erupt in cheers. The young Abimael sees Maria Elena Moyano’s two children on the screen – their faces full of shock and a limitless sorrow – and he begins to cry. The older Abimael appears surprised by the boy’s tears. “I promise you,” he says. “Once we seize power, the deaths will cease.” “Go to your room right now,” Comrade Barbara orders, in the presence of his mother. Comrade Juana says nothing as her son leaves the living room still weeping. * * * Comrade Juana, Comrade Barbara and Presidente Gonzalo often disappear during the day, leaving the young Abimael alone with Guillermo Townsend. His mother leaves TV dinners in the refrigerator for the young Abimael and the kidnapped journalist, with instructions for her son to feed him, but to never, ever untie the ropes that bind him. “If he ever escapes,” she warns her neglected son, “the police will come after me. You wouldn’t want to live alone with Comrade Barbara.” But slowly the journalist begins to befriend the young Abimael as he is being fed. When Townsend learns that the young Abimael’s mother is an American, he starts to tell the boy wonderful stories about the United States, about Hollywood and Miami and the Florida Keys, about the skyscrapers of New York City and the Grand Canyon and the Mississippi River and America’s great baseball and football teams. “I like to play soccer,” the boy confides. “I love soccer too,” Townsend replies. “Are you an incha of Alianza Lima or Sporting Cristal?” “Alianza Lima,” responds the young Abimael. “I think they have the best goalkeeper.” “What’s your name?” Townsend asks. “Some people call me Abimael. But you can call me Martin. Martin is my baptized name. I’m named after Saint Martin de Porres.” “So you’re a Catholic?” Townsend queries. “I guess,” responds the young Abimael. “But I never get to go to Mass. I used to sometimes, when my nanny Winnie lived with us. But my mother doesn’t believe so we never go anymore. One October, Winnie even took me to a procession in honor of El Señor de los Milagros when my parents weren’t in town.” “I, too, have participated in the procession of Our Lord of Miracles,” Townsend replies. “I’m a Catholic just like you. And what a wondrous sight it was! Hundreds of thousands of the faithful, all the women in their purple habits with a white rope about their waists, the men in purple frocks carrying the heavy altar bearing the Dark Christ’s image, everywhere the purple and white balloons…” After some time passes, the journalist asks the young Abimael for a favor. “Couldn’t you unfasten the ropes, Martin, so that I can escape? I have a son about your age. His name is Claudio, and I’m sure he would love to see me.” “I’m sorry,” responds the young Abimael. “If I let you go, my mother will be arrested or maybe worse. I don’t want to have to live with Comrade Barbara.” “Comrade Barbara?” Townsend repeats. “She’s a very mean woman, the one with the twin braids. She’s the one who puts all the bad ideas in my mother’s mind.” “What if I don’t tell anybody? What if you just unfasten the ropes and we keep your mother’s involvement a secret?” “I don’t believe it. I’m not a baby, you know.” But a few days later, the young Abimael learns something dark and terrible from the older Abimael. Guillermo Townsend’s family has paid a ransom, and there is no longer any reason to keep the journalist alive. The young Abimael remembers what happened to Maria Elena Moyano. He faces the toughest dilemma of his young life, a tipping point unlike any other. To release the kind reporter knowing it might lead to his mother’s imprisonment? Or to let his mother kill him? The young Abimael decides to unfasten the ropes binding Guillermo Townsend. He knows his mother will probably be arrested, but he cannot allow a man to be killed merely because he is a journalist. The young Abimael wishes he could have saved the life of Maria Elena Moyano too, as well as the man who was stoned in Huanca Sancos, but he could not have done anything for them. But he can do something for the skeletal Townsend and after some initial hesitation decides to set him free. The journalist kisses the hands of the young Abimael before he swiftly departs. “You’re a saint,” he says. “You’re an absolute saint.” * * * Twenty years after the incarceration of Comrade Juana “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” The woman’s face is covered by a black mantilla veil, but the priest can still see the tears running down her face. “What do you have to confess, Margaret? When was your last Confession?” “About six months ago, Father Martin. It’s just that – well – I had nothing to confess.” “And now you do?” “It’s just that – well – it happened again. I’m sorry, Father, but Gregory is so handsome, and I let him have his way with me. I cheated on my husband once again.” “Are you seriously contrite?” “Yes, Father Martin. But I don’t know if the Lord can forgive me so many times for the same sin.” “Not seven times, not seventy times, more like seventy times seven. God will always forgive you if you sincerely repent and have the firm resolve never to sin again.” “That is my resolve, father, but I’m so weak. I dream about him sometimes, think about him when I am with my husband. I can’t – honestly – I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again.” “Be patient with all things,” Father Martin says, quoting Saint Francis de Sales, “but first of all yourself. And pray to God for strength.” “I just think that I’m a miserable person in the eyes of the Lord. How can I receive His mercy when I sin and sin again?” “Your misery does not hinder His mercy, Margaret. That is the way of the Christian. We fall, we rise, we fall again. But we never tire in seeking God’s mercy. I still pray for my mother, who has been incarcerated in the Yanamayo Prison in southern Peru for the last twenty years. And she is guilty of sins far worse than marital infidelity. I still dream of her redemption.” “You don’t speak with an accent, Father Martin. Are you a South American?” “My father was, but my mother was born and raised right here in Los Angeles, before she moved to Peru. After my mother was imprisoned, my grandparents brought me to California.” “Your mother is in prison, Father Martin? What did she do?” “She was a terrorist, Margaret, guilty of murder, bombings, kidnapping, you name it.” “Your mother?” “Yes, it’s true.” “So how did you end up becoming a priest?” “Because of the mercy and grace of God. Also an angel named Winnie, who died a holy death, surrounded by her children. I myself was responsible for my mother’s incarceration, something that pains me even today. But the alternative was to let an innocent man be killed.” “That sounds much worse than committing adultery.” “Yes, but don’t forget that small sins can lead to greater sins. My mother started her descent bombing electric transmission towers. And look where that led her, to bigger and bigger crimes.” “I’ll try not to sin again, Father Martin.” “Good!” says the priest. “I am hereby giving you absolution. The Lord declares you righteous, forgiven! Just remember that we are all beset by temptations. Don’t be mortified merely because you are tempted, for you have Christ and the Virgin Mary in your corner. Every time you are tempted, say the Lord’s prayer, and ask the Father to deliver you from temptation. And invoke the name of the Virgin Mary, a powerful intercessor when the evil of lust assaults you. With such powerful soldiers behind you, you are certain to prevail in your struggle against temptation.” The woman makes the sign of the cross and leaves the confessional. Father Martin is an excellent confessor, for over the years, he has learned to understand the great weaknesses of the human heart. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022)
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A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita Torn between allegiance to his parents and the demands of his conscience, the son of two ruthless guerrillas makes a dangerous pilgrimage to become a nonviolent soldier for Christ. “The loss of Eden is experienced by every one of us as we leave the wonder and magic and also the pains and terrors of childhood.” Dennis Potter When Abimael Jones meets Abimael Guzman, his namesake and the head of Peru’s Shining Path guerrilla movement, the young Abimael is surprised by how ordinary and undistinguished the older man looks. Abimael Guzman, a.k.a. Presidente Gonzalo, is a short, rotund figure with squinting eyes that look through bottle-bottom glasses and a thin scraggly beard. He looks so different from the poster above Abimael’s parents’ bed, the place where a crucifix or an image of the Sacred Heart would ordinarily go. In the poster, the older Abimael is fully bearded, robust but not obese, with dark, penetrating eyes and stripes of red and yellow emanating from his person, as if he were the sun itself. Not surprising that his followers hail him as “Puka Inti,” Quechua for “red sun.” Behind him are the figures of at least two dozen Amerindians bearing clubs, rifles and swords, marching as if they were in a parade and following a shining path. “I want you to meet someone,” Karen Jones, now known as Comrade Juana, says to her blond son as she moves him toward the older Abimael. The man is dancing in the living room with his arms up in the air, his fingers snapping. There are more than forty people in the living room, celebrating as if it were someone’s birthday or the twenty-eighth day of July, Peru’s fiestas patrias. As soon as Comrade Juana introduces her son to his older namesake, the obese man stops dancing, hugs the younger Abimael and gives him a wet kiss on the cheek. The older Abimael, despite the images of swords and guns in his posters, despite his history of ruthlessness, despite his reputation for calm, intellectual cruelty, is said to love children like the Christ. Sometimes – before he went completely underground – after a village was “occupied” by his men, he would sit surrounded by children in the center of the town plaza and preach to them about the wonders of the revolution. The older Abimael tells the younger one, “You should be proud of your father. Comrade Carlos was a great man, a hero in the struggle to oust the white oppressor from power in the land of the Incas.” The young Abimael does not understand why the older Abimael is speaking of his father in the past tense. Comrade Carlos has been missing from the house for about a week, but that is nothing unusual. The young Abimael is used to his father’s frequent absences. “Why do you talk about my father as if he were dead?” the young Abimael asks. The older Abimael looks askance at the boy’s mother, as if he doesn’t know what to say. Tears begin to well up in the eyes of the younger Abimael. “Your father has died, Abimael,” says Comrade Juana. “That is why we’re all celebrating his life. All these people have come to pay their last respects. Even Presidente Gonzalo, who is such an important man, fourth sword of international Communism, after Marx, Lenin and Mao.” “That shouldn’t make you feel sad,” the older Abimael intervenes. “Your father was one of the most valiant warriors in the fight to liberate the peasants of Peru. And he died as a martyr, at the hands of the police.” “So you’re telling me that someone has killed my father?” The older Abimael inanely quotes the last Inca, Atahualpa. “Such are the laws of war,” he says, “to defeat or be defeated.” The younger Abimael collapses at the feet of the older Abimael and begins to sob. “Why did he have to be in a war?” cries out the young Abimael. “Why couldn’t he be like the fathers of all the other children and be a carpenter or a butcher?” Suddenly, out of the shadows, Comrade Barbara appears. She is a stout Amerindian woman, olive-skinned, her hair cropped short, wearing olive-green pants and an alpaca sweater. Comrade Barbara has been living with the family of Abimael Jones ever since her own husband was killed by the military in the Andean town of Cajabamba. “I think you should leave Presidente Gonzalo alone,” Comrade Barbara says starkly, addressing the young Abimael. “You should just go to your room and let us be.” The boy does not like Comrade Barbara. She is bossy and once called him an “imbecile” when he opened the door to the bathroom when she was using it. Another time she called him a “rubio desdichado,” an unfortunate blond boy, when he complained of the meager food she had served him for dinner on a rare day when his nanny Winnie was absent. The young Abimael wondered if Comrade Barbara disliked him precisely because he was blond. The young Abimael does what he always does when he wants to circumvent Comrade Barbara: he speaks to his mother in English. The English language is his secret weapon, a connection to his mother with which nobody can interfere, the language she first spoke, before the American Karen Jones became the Peruvian Comrade Juana. Just like Quechua was once his secret link to his father, for his father proudly taught him the language and the history of the Amerindian. “I don’t want to be alone,” he tells his mother in English. “I shall miss my father. What does it mean to be dead?” “Leave your mother in peace,” Comrade Barbara again interrupts. And the young Abimael wonders what Comrade Barbara means when she uses the word “peace.” Is it peace to be drinking and eating, dancing and carousing, all because his father is dead? The boy looks to his mother, searching for consolation, but as usual she agrees with whatever Comrade Barbara says. “I think you should go to your room now,” says his mother. “We can talk about all of this later.” And the young Abimael does what he always does when his mother rejects him. He goes outside, into the garden, where his beloved Winnie has a room of her own. Winnie is what they call a zamba in Peru, of mixed Amerindian and African blood. Her tawny hair is curly, her skin a soft brown color, and she has soft hands that the young Abimael likes to feel on the surface of his skin. Ever since he was about three years old, she has helped to raise him and filled the void left by his mother’s indifference and her overriding dedication to “the armed struggle.” “Mama Winnie,” he cries out to her as he knocks on her door. The woman greets him with a hug and asks him what is wrong when she sees his face. “They say my father is dead,” he tells her. Winnie knows that Comrade Carlos had been a kind father, despite the extremity of his views and his role in the Shining Path’s millenarian war. But while the young Abimael’s mother had hardened with the years, Carlos had softened instead. Not that Winnie was ever told exactly what Abimael’s parents were doing. But sometimes they were absent from Lima for weeks. Indeed, that is why Winnie had first been hired, to take care of the young Abimael when his parents left Lima in one of their “expeditions.” Soon she became a permanent presence in their home and even traveled with them when they left Lima for Andean towns. Winnie always told the young Abimael wonderful stories, tales about Saint Martin de Porres, a man of African blood just like Winnie, about Saint Rose of Lima and how roses fell from the sky on the day of her death, about Jesus the Lord and Mary His mother. In his earliest childhood, she told him stories about Sinbad the sailor, Snow White, and all sorts of fairy tales. Winnie listens when the young Abimael tells her, “I guess my father is now with the Lord in Heaven.” Winnie has been expecting this moment, ever since she learned that Comrade Carlos had been shot by a policeman. “I’m sorry, Martin,” she says. “But I’m sure he is with the Lord now. Do you want to say a prayer for him?” And the young Abimael nods and says, “Yes, the Hail Mary.” He knows that she calls him Martin when they are alone. It is a secret between them, that when he was about six years old she had taken him to a priest in Magdalena Nueva and had him baptized as Martin, in honor of the saint to whom they sometimes pray at night when nobody sees them. Winnie didn’t like the fact that the young Abimael’s parents had named him after an unrepentant killer. “We can pray the Rosary,” Winnie tells him. She begins the first half of the Our Father, then Abimael completes it. They do the same with all the Hail Marys. Winnie mouths the beginning, the salutation, and Abimael says the rest of the prayer, “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he intones as he bows his head down devoutly, “pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.” Then he adds some words of his own: “Also pray for the soul of my father in Heaven.” * * * Eighteen months before the death of Comrade Carlos The young Abimael is used to moving from apartment to apartment, often without much notice from his parents. But this time he is roused in the middle of the night as his mother cries out at him with urgency. “Hurry, hurry,” says his mother. “We have to leave this apartment now!” “What about my clothes?” asks Abimael. “Do I get to take my bicycle with me?” “Just put on a jacket,” his mother orders. “Snap to it!” she commands in English. When they go outside, his father is already waiting for them. Abimael notices that in addition to a single valise, his father is loading several rifles into the trunk of the vehicle. Winnie is already sitting silently in the back of the white Chevy Impala, holding a small bag of clothing. “Where are we going?” the young Abimael asks once the car is running. “And what is Papi doing with all those guns?” His mother is nervously looking out the window as his father drives with great speed, not stopping for any red lights. “Don’t worry about it,” she says to her son. “Just sit tight.” They continue to drive until they reach a small apartment. A woman is waiting for them outside. All the young Abimael sees is a shadow. “Just wait till I speak with Comrade Barbara,” his father says, and after a quick conversation, he comes back into the car. “I have the money now,” he tells Abimael’s mother. “That will be enough for a month in Huanca Sancos.” “How did they find out about us?” Comrade Juana asks. “I have no idea,” responds Comrade Carlos. “Duermete, mi niñito,” Winnie says as she caresses the young Abimael’s hair. Sleep, my child. “Aren’t you scared too?” the child asks Winnie. “Just place your faith in Saint Martin de Porres,” she whispers in Abimael’s ear. He knows she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. After about an hour, Abimael’s father finally speaks. He is already on the Panamericana, the highway that will take them all the way to the province of Ayacucho. He looks behind him to see if his son is asleep and thinks he is. Winnie is certainly asleep. But the young boy hears everything. “How they figured out we had anything to do with the bombing of the Banco Wiese, I will never understand,” says Comrade Carlos to Comrade Juana. “There must have been an informant. I don’t trust that new fellow, Castelblanco. I’m going to ask Presidente Gonzalo to launch an investigation. If Castelblanco’s guilty, I shall demand revolutionary justice. According to Gonzalo Thought, all traitors must be hanged.” “Still, it’s a good thing we were forewarned. Now I see the value of having spies within the government. Presidente Gonzalo is a genius.” At some point, the young Abimael falls asleep, unsure of what he has heard. Even at his young age, there are things that intrigue him. Why would anyone bomb a bank? And what did that have to do with escaping in the night? Why does his mother call Presidente Gonzalo a genius? Who is this strange man who is venerated like a god? Abimael sleeps for about six hours, cradled in Winnie’s lap. When he wakes, his father is still talking, but the boy remains silent. His parents have never before discussed their business in front of him, and now he has a morbid curiosity about it, drawn to his parents’ words like a moth to the heat of a lightbulb. So he feigns that he is still asleep even as Winnie seems to move restlessly. “You know what awaits us in Huanca Sanco,” his father says. “They will be stoning the mayor, a fellow named Rodrigo Huaman.” “I can tell he’s an Indian by his name,” says the mother of the young Abimael. “That is the worst kind of revisionist. The natives who side with the oligarchy are the greatest enemies of the revolution. And I’ll be the first to throw a stone.” There are a lot of words Abimael does not understand. Revisionist. Oligarchy. Revolution. And yet he realizes they are talking about stoning an Indian man to death. He’d like to think he’s just dreaming, going through a nightmare, but he knows that he isn’t. There’s a world beyond the confines of his home, far from the prayers he and his Winnie pray whenever they can, and it is a world where killing men is possible. It is a place where his own mother would help stone a man because he is – what were his mother’s words? – “a traitorous revisionist.” “They should just make it easy and shoot him,” says the father of the young Abimael as he continues to drive, his car hugging the mountains. “No sense in torturing the man.” “Since when have you had scruples?” asks the boy’s mother. “What difference does it make?” “I’m an old revolutionary by now,” responds his father. “I’m no longer given to the excesses of youth. Revisionists must be killed – it is the law of Gonzalo Thought – but there is no reason for human beings to be tortured.” “You’re forgetting something,” Comrade Juana responds. “By forcing the people to participate in the stoning, we’re leading them forward in their movement toward the armed struggle. That is why women are often asked to fire the final shot in an execution. Once they participate in their first homicide, the rest is easy. And they can then follow the shining path toward liberation without a second thought.” Suddenly Winnie has had enough. “Must you speak of such things in front of the child? Don’t you realize he can hear everything? Can’t you talk about movies or about the beauty of the Andean highlands instead? Why must you speak of revolution, bloodshed and war? You are going to destroy his childhood.” “Don’t act so surprised,” says Abimael’s mother. “You’ve known for a long time that Carlos and I are disciples of Presidente Gonzalo.” “You know I only stay with you because I love your son. I know your activities all too well. And your words about violence and immorality will only startle him. At some point, of course, he will know, but you should preserve his innocence as long as possible.” “Don’t get sassy with me,” cries out Comrade Juana, turning her face toward Winnie. “Don’t forget your only role is to take care of Abimael, not to give me advice about what you consider morality.” “Please,” interrupts Abimael, no longer pretending to sleep. “Please stop fighting over me.” He’s deathly afraid that Winnie might be fired. But Winnie continues, perhaps too angry to control her words. “I am but a humble, penniless zamba, but I know the difference between right and wrong. And stoning a man merely because he does not follow your demented faith is wrong itself.” “All right, let’s change the subject,” interjects the boy’s father. “I didn’t realize you or the boy were awake, Winnie. I’m truly sorry. And I’m sure Juana doesn’t mean to offend you. She’s just a little hot under the collar, given everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours.” * * * The following Monday the young Abimael hears a commotion coming from the plaza, which is just below the apartment his parents have rented in the Andean town of Huanca Sancos. His parents left early in the morning and he’s alone with Winnie. When Winnie realizes he is going toward the window, she tries to stop him. “Don’t look outside,” she tells him, but it is too late. He has already seen the crowds congregating in the plaza. “What are so many people doing outside?” he asks Winnie. “Martin, don’t worry about it. Come with me to the kitchen and we’ll make some picarones.” “No, I want to see,” responds the young Abimael. “Is it a celebration? Or is it some important man giving a speech?” Suddenly the young Abimael notices that the people in the plaza are casting stones at a man tied to a tree. From the window, he cannot see the face of the doomed revisionist, but he can definitely see he is the object of the crowd’s fury. And sometimes amid the clamor, he can hear the man’s wails. “What are they doing?” he asks, terrified by the man’s cries. “Is that the stoning my father spoke about last week while we were driving in the mountains? Are they really doing it?” “Yes,” Winnie assents, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are my parents among them?” asks the young Abimael. “I pray they’re not among the killers.” “I’m sure they’re not there, Martin,” Winnie lies. “Where else could they be? They talked about it in the car.” “They might be,” Winnie replies. She doesn’t know what else to say. And then they hear once again the man shrieking in the distance. “Wouldn’t they be guilty of a great sin?” ask the young Abimael. “You’ve taught me about all the Commandments, and I remember the commandment not to kill.” Winnie responds, in a thoughtful voice. “Yes, the stoning of that man is not pleasing in the eyes of God. Come, Martin, let’s say a prayer for the man being stoned and another for the conversion of both your parents.” “What do you mean by ‘conversion,’ Winnie?” Abimael asks. “Are we praying to deliver them from evil, as it says in the prayer which you have taught me?” “Conversion means that they will repent of – I don’t know what word to use, Martin – that they will repent of their extreme conduct. I don’t want to alarm you. Let’s just say we should pray that your parents get closer to God, that they abandon the wrong path.” “Are they on the wrong path, Winnie? Do you mean the stoning of that man?” “A long time ago there was a man named Saint Paul, Martin, and he participated in the stoning of a man called Stephen. Paul persecuted the followers of God and even consented to their killing. But through the actions of the Lord, he converted and recanted his wicked ways. So never stop praying for your parents.” “Why do they want to kill him, Winnie? Do they think he is a bad man?” “Let’s just say, Martin, that your parents are staunch followers of an ideology that is extreme. How can I put it? They’re so interested in saving the poor people of Peru that sometimes they do bad things.” And the doomed man wails again. After hearing the tumult of the death of the man in the plaza, the young Abimael returns to his room and waits for the return of his parents. When he hears the door of the living room opening, he sees that it is only his father returning, but that is just as well. It is his father with whom he wishes to speak. “I saw something from the window early this afternoon, and I didn’t like it, Papi. People throwing rocks at a man tied to a tree. I heard him cry. I think it really hurt him.” “Oh, you saw that, huh? I thought you might.” “Papi, tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it.” Comrade Carlos lights a cigarette, weighing the words he will say. “I don’t want to lie to you. You’re no longer an infant. I was there this afternoon, as was your mother.” “Did you throw a rock at him?” “You have to understand it’s all part of a great war. Haven’t you heard in school about the heroes Bolognesi and Miguel Grau, about the martyrs Tupac Amaru and Atahualpa? They had to do stuff they didn’t like. Your mother and I are involved in a war now, and to win a war, sometimes you have to do ugly things.” “But I don’t think the Lord Jesus would like it.” “Who has taught you about Jesus? Did you hear about Him at school? Or was it Winnie?” “Don’t get mad at her. Sometimes she tells me stories.” “You love her, don’t you?” Comrade Carlos asks. “As much as I love you, Papi. As much as I love my mother.” “Well, that’s all right. I don’t mind her telling you stories. If only reality were as simple as Winnie’s tales.” “Why did you hurt him? I mean – the man…” “Have you noticed while walking close to the Plaza de Armas in Lima that there are sometimes women on the ground, dressed in rags, begging for help? Have you seen their skinny children?” “Yes.” “And have you noticed that others – very few – go about town in fancy new cars, driven by chauffeurs?” “I have.” “Well, your mother and I believe that is unjust. We’re fighting for a world where man’s exploitation of man will be a thing of the past. Do you understand me?” “I don’t understand the word ‘exploitation.’” “How shall I put it? That means when a person takes advantage of another. Like the way rich white Peruvians abuse the Indians and let them live in poverty when it doesn’t have to be that way. We want a government run by the peasants.” “And you need a war to fix that?” asks the young Abimael. “I don’t think the Lord would like it. If war means throwing rocks at a naked man until he dies...” “Jesus was a great man. I won’t disagree with that. But He was also the first true Communist. Just like Presidente Gonzalo is a true Communist. In the first Christian communities, everything was shared. The rich Christians gave their wealth to the poor, and the poor gave to those who were poorer.” “So why not just do it that way?” “Over the years, people forgot His true message, son. Many Christians follow the letter of the law, but not its spirit. And it’s gotten so bad that it’s not enough just to ask people to give alms to the poor. We need a world where there are no longer a few rich people on the one hand and millions of desperately poor on the other. With time, you will understand. Is that enough for today, my son?” “I love you, Papi.” As the young Abimael is leaving, Comrade Carlos calls him back. “Son,” he says. “What?” responds Abimael. “Don’t talk about all this with your mother. And please never tell her that Winnie has been teaching you about Jesus or about religion in general. I know how important Winnie is in your life.” “Why would it make a difference?” “Well, your mother at some point in her life was very Catholic. And she’s sort of rejected all of that. Now she has very strong feelings against religion. So she might tell Winnie to leave if she hears that she’s been teaching you anything about Jesus. Sometimes it’s best just to keep mum.” * * * If anything, the young Abimael is more loving toward his parents in the week after his father’s explanation of the stoning than he has ever been before. He gets up early and sometimes serves them breakfast in bed, and when they come back home at night, he’s usually waiting for them, ready to give them a hug. His father responds in kind and tells him, “What’s up, champion?” His mother, on the other hand, averts her face as the young Abimael attempts to kiss it. “You don’t need to slobber all over me,” she tells him, surprised by the sudden new display of affection. “It’s not as if I’ve just come back from a long trip or been killed or something. And you don’t have to call me Mami. You can just call me Juana, as you always do.” And the young Abimael is surly when he interacts with Winnie. He refuses to speak with her as they share lunch and dinner, no longer sits with her as in the past when she watched her telenovelas on television. Finally, one day after she has served him a plate of aji de gallina – one of his favorites – he explodes in anger. “I don’t want to eat,” he cries out. “You know I hate your chicken dishes and everything else you cook!” “What’s wrong?” Winnie asks him. “Sit down and eat your dinner. You’ve already missed lunch this morning.” The young Abimael takes the plate of aji de gallina and throws it against a window. The yellow stew drips slowly down the glass as Winnie shakes her head, not knowing what is happening. “Now why did you do that, Martin? You’ve never behaved this way before.” “I did it because I felt like it. I’m not hungry. And don’t call me Martin. My name is Abimael, and it always will be. It is the name of a great man.” “Eat your dinner right now! Let me serve you another plate. Sit down, young Martin.” “Get away from me, you dirty zamba!” he says with pent-up rage. Winnie pulls him by the ear and forces him to sit at the table. “Where have you learned to be so disrespectful?” “Leave me alone!” he cries out as he begins to bawl. “You think God hates my parents!” “Where have you gotten such an idea? I’ve never said anything like that. Of course God loves both your mother and your father.” “Don’t you understand they’re in a war? That is why they have to do mean things. Haven’t you told me the story of Tupac Amaru, how his arms and legs were attached to four horses in order to kill him? All because he had killed some Spaniards. Didn’t he also do mean things because he was in a war?” “It’s complicated, Martin. Come, sit on my lap. You don’t need to cry. I see why you are so perturbed.” “Didn’t you tell me Tupac Amaru was a hero? My father says he is like Tupac Amaru, that all he wants to do is help the poor people. That is why he threw a stone against that naked man in the plaza.” And with those words, the young Abimael buries his head in Winnie’s chest and begins to cry. “Tell me about Saint Paul,” Abimael says, “how he stoned a man, and God still loved him. How he was blinded on his horse because God wanted to convert him.” “That’s right,” Winnie responds, caressing the boy’s blond hair. “Saint Paul was blinded on his way to Damascus. God wanted Saint Paul to see how much He cared for him. And by making him blind, the Lord made him see for the first time, not with the eyes of his face, but with the eyes of his soul.” “Do you think God is going to blind my parents, to make them see it was mean to throw rocks against that naked man in the plaza?” “I don’t know, Martin. God makes His presence known in people’s lives in different ways. With Saint Paul, it was blindness. With others, it’s the birth of a child or a cure for cancer. All you can do is pray for your parents, that they recognize the Lord when He appears before them.” “I pray for them every night,” the young Abimael responds. “Even this week when I haven’t been praying with you.” “You have to be stubborn. Don’t ever give up on prayer. Ask Jesus to enlighten your parents. And perhaps God will respond with a miracle.” -- Read the second half of this story here. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) By Kat Kovalevska Anabelle lay on her bed. Her journal was open in front of her, but she hadn’t written anything. She used to spend hours every day scribbling in the pages of her journal or typing away on her laptop, but now she often sat down to write, only to stare at an empty page. Anabelle got up and looked out the window of her high-rise building. Much of the city could be seen from her ninth-story room: the skyscrapers of the business district, the park with the skating rink, and, of course, the lake. The lake was the heart of the city and Anabelle’s favorite spot. It was January, two weeks into the new year, and the streets were covered in thick layers of snow. Last night, it had finally stopped snowing. Since the beginning of the new semester, most days of school had been canceled due to heavy snowfall and freezing temperatures. However, Anabelle had still been given homework to do in science, history, and English. The first two had been easy. As for English, she had an essay to write: “A Recent Lesson and How It’s Changed Me.” Dumb assignment. What was a recent lesson in her life? She couldn’t think of anything, let alone put it into words. She had attempted to start the essay several times but hadn’t written anything of substance. Since school had been canceled, Anabelle had barely left home. But this morning, looking outside, she felt like taking a walk along the lake and through the snow-covered streets. Winter days were short—only a few hours of light, and then it got dark again. Mom and Dad were at work; they wouldn’t know about her going out into the freezing cold. Anabelle donned her thick coat, wool scarf, boots, and a hat, then left the building. She walked up to the lake and watched the ice as it glided through the water. The rink was empty save for a few people. Anabelle hurried further. The snow hadn’t been shuffled off the streets; it went up to her ankles in many places. She kept trudging. She soon reached an area where she had rarely been. The buildings were smaller—many had only four or five stories. There were no high-rise apartment complexes here. Anabelle stopped by a church. In and of itself, it was nondescript. It was built with ochre bricks; a rose window was above the entrance. It had narrow, tall windows and a gable roof with a cross on the ridge. What caught her attention was the line of people waiting outside. It looked like one of those soup-kitchen charities was set up by the entrance. These people had gathered to get hot meals; many of them looked homeless. She had forgotten that this area had a large homeless population. That had to be awful—staying out on the streets in the cold, especially at night. Several people were serving the meals. One of them was a girl that looked Anabelle’s age. Their eyes met, and the girl came up to her. “Hey,” the girl said and smiled. “I saw you looking. Do you want to join?” Anabelle didn’t know what to say. Just because she was looking at what was happening didn’t mean she wanted to participate. But, on the other hand, why not? The other option was to go to the mall to get warm and get something to eat—and then head back home. Anabelle agreed, and they walked into the church together. The girl, who said her name was Laura, showed Anabelle the food preparation area. Two women, fellow volunteers, were cooking on portable stoves. Two large pots were situated on a table. Laura grabbed a pot filled with soup. “We need to take these out. You can take the one with rice and beans.” Anabelle carried out the other pot, then began giving out meals. It was peculiar to be around people who were without a home or otherwise disadvantaged. Some of them smelled bad or had no teeth. Even though Anabelle liked serving the meals, it was still work. It wasn’t long before she got tired. “I don’t think I can do this for much longer,” she said to Laura. “I get it. I think I’ll stop as well. Been here since morning.” They walked back into the church. “So have you been doing this for a long time—helping the underprivileged?” Anabelle asked. “For quite a while now. I spend most of my free time doing that.” “That’s awesome. I liked it too. But, to be honest, I was disgusted by the homeless people. I think maybe after a while, I could get used to them, though. How did you find them the first time you volunteered here?” “I was OK with being around them. Largely because I used to be homeless myself.” Anabelle stared at her in disbelief. Laura was wearing what looked like expensive clothing. Her hair and skin were clean, and she looked perfectly healthy. It was hard to imagine that she had once been living on the streets, that she used to be like these disheveled people that reeked of alcohol and other nasty things. At the same time, Anabelle was curious. “Are you hungry?” Anabelle asked. “Do you know that place in the mall by the lake where you can get pancakes?” “No, I’ve never been there. I live in a different neighborhood. But yes, I am hungry.” “Do you want to go there? But, if we do, I’d like to learn about your story. I hope you don’t mind telling me.” They walked to the mall. The pancake café was on the third floor. They sat at a table by the window—Anabelle liked the view from this particular table. “I like coming here and looking at the lake,” Anabelle said. “It’s, like, my favorite part of the city. So, you said you’d tell me about your past homeless situation.” “That was my life when I was twelve. Both my parents were abusive. I was badly beaten, often starved, and sometimes locked in the apartment for hours on end. I thought it’d change. But it got worse. Seemed like I had no choice but to run away. Being on the streets seemed safer than staying with them. “So I did. I went to the place next to the warehouses—that’s where the homeless tents are. I befriended some folks, and they let me sleep in their tent. That continued for a while. Whenever they’d get food, they’d give some to me. “Many of them went to the church to get meals. I never did because I was too young. I was afraid I’d attract attention and then be forced to go back to my parents. But then one day, I got too hungry, and going to the church seemed like the only option. I went there and stood in line. Of course, they noticed that I was a child and all by myself, and so they informed the services. “I had no choice but to tell them the truth. But I wasn’t sent back home. They deemed my parents unfit. That’s how I ended up in foster care. Now I’m staying with an elderly couple. They’re nice people that have fostered many kids and teens over the years. They have a good apartment. I have a spacious room and get fed regularly.” “It’s good that you’re doing better. But do you know why your parents did that to you?” “Mom had mental issues. I made them worse. She couldn’t handle taking care of a child. From when I was very young, I remember being blamed for sleepless nights and her not having time for herself. She’d also tell me how costly it was to have a kid. I always knew I was unwanted. And Dad was always abusive. She was unable to leave him because of me. Another reason why she resented me.” “Wow. That’s heartbreaking to hear. And you started volunteering at the church because you used to be homeless?” “Yes and no. Like I said, I was in foster care and doing much better when it came to my living circumstances. But I was also deeply depressed. Mostly because I had time to think. Before that, it was all about survival. Having foster parents was good, but I kept thinking that it couldn’t replace the love I never got from my real parents. “Eventually, I came back to the church. I thought that maybe this was the place where I could find answers. Church people had ultimately saved me from being homeless, and I liked the idea that the creator of the universe loved me and valued me, even if my parents didn’t.” “Is that what Christianity teaches?” “Yes. The people at the church told me that I am God’s child first and foremost. He also gave me a purpose. Thinking that way was life-changing. I was no longer desperate for the love I never got from my parents. According to Christianity, the love of humans is limited, but God’s love has no limits or conditions.” “And the volunteering?” “One of the lessons that the church people taught me was to give if I wanted to receive. They kept on saying that giving love to others would help me better understand God's own love for me—and for all of us. They quoted the Gospel of Luke: Give and it will be given to you. “This was what was wrong with the world, what was wrong with my parents: Everybody was way too selfish. I was selfish too. So I began volunteering. I did the soup kitchen. I helped out at animal shelters. I grew my hair long, cut it off, and donated it. It was difficult—spending my time doing charity work rather than the usual kid stuff. But it was so rewarding. And my life began to change. Good things randomly started happening to me. I couldn’t explain it at first. But then I could—what I had given others was coming back to me. Give and it will be given to you became my mantra.” “That’s awesome. Your story’s so unbelievable and inspiring. You know, I left home today because I was bored. I thought I’d just take a walk. I didn’t expect to meet someone like you.” “Life is unpredictable, what can I say?” Laura said and laughed. Anabelle looked outside. While they had been eating and talking, it had gotten dark. The streetlights had switched on, making the snow look yellow. They left the mall and walked until they reached the high-rise building. “That’s where I live,” Anabelle said, pointing at it. For a moment, she considered the homeless people. They’d be staying in tents while she’d be spending the night in her warm room. But she had made their day a little better by giving out meals. “Are you coming back to the church?” Laura asked. “I have a feeling you want to.” “Yes. I do. I can come on Saturday. Will you be there?” “I can be there on Saturday morning. I’ll see you there.” Anabelle hugged Laura goodbye. She then hurried into the building and up the stairs. Mom and Dad would be back soon. When they arrived, she’d hug them too and tell them that she was lucky to have them. From the window of her room, Anabelle looked outside at the lake, the skyscrapers, and the park. She then observed the journal on her bed and the laptop on her desk. For the first time in weeks, she had a desire to write. Anabelle sat down at her desk and turned on the laptop. She then began her essay: Very recently, I met a girl named Laura. She taught me that giving is receiving. She’s someone who’s had a lot of pain in her life. She deals with it by helping people in need. We’re all broken in some way. And sometimes the best path to healing is being of service to others. Kat Kovalevska writes to transport readers to new places, introduce them to compelling characters and lead them through intriguing plots. She lives in London, England.
Please support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. Katie Sampias tells a short story of a woman deciding over an arranged marriage, a practice common in the time of Jesus Sepphora was stunned when her father first mentioned that he had received a proposal for her hand in marriage. Although 16 years old, she had not thought the time for marriage would come so soon. Sepphora had been around men all her life -- her father and brothers -- but the intricacies of marriage remained a mystery. Sometimes she imagined herself as the heroine in an ancient land, called upon to marry a mysterious man who was dark and attractive but needed to be tamed. She had been intrigued by the story of Esther living in the palace of King Ahasuerus, who used her feminine charms and intelligence to save her Jewish people. It must have been on one of her outings to the centre of town that the man from whom her father had received a proposal had seen her. Her father had returned from buying some timber for building and repairing the fishing boats. He said it would seem only practical to consider this. The man was the second eldest son of the house where he had purchased his wood, and his name was Alexander. ‘Alexander has not yet received the blessing of his family’, her father admitted. ‘They are of greater means than us, and it is possible there may be some objection. I have every reason to believe he is a man of honour, but I will make some further enquiries about this’. Sepphora shuddered a little at this last statement. How would her father be able to find out for sure that this man would treat her fairly and kindly? What if this man turned out to be like the ones she had heard horror stories about at the temple -- men who could become violent and cause pain, physically, verbally or emotionally? Her mind quickly ventured to a scary place, where her options were to leave a traumatizing situation without any security and risk being shamed by her community or remain trapped in a dangerous domestic situation. ‘What do you have to say, Sepphora?’ her father asked. ‘What are your thoughts?’ Her father’s questions broke her dark reverie. She felt a sudden urge to get away so she could process the massive life change that may be about to take place. ‘Sorry, father, this has taken me a little by surprise’, said Sepphora. 'Are you all right?' her mother asked. ‘I think I need to get away for a little while’, Sepphora told them. 'I need some time to think about this. Maybe I could visit Aunt Mary? I know she has been feeling lonely after Joseph has passed away. And I know Jesus is there for her, but maybe she would be glad of my company too.' 'I think that's a wonderful idea,' her mother said. 'Give it some time to think over your father's proposal.’ *** Mary welcomed Sepphora with loving hospitality. Mary was extremely grateful to have someone to chat with and take her mind off her own troubles. Sepphora easily fit into Mary's daily routine, helping her as she went about her chores. Conversation was easy, and Sepphora found relief in telling Mary her anxieties about marriage. Mary listened intently and did not dismiss her concerns. ‘Spend time in prayer and tell God how you feel about this prospect of marriage with Alexander’, Mary advised. ‘Marriage is a way of life in which a couple seeks to love one another and any children that might be born as a physical manifestation of God's love for us. You will never find a perfect person. Any marriage you enter into will have ups and downs, good days and bad days. Joseph and I certainly had our share of difficulties to navigate together. But what made our marriage work through it all was that we both were committed to helping each other be the best versions of ourselves for God, for each other and for other people. We put God at the centre of our marriage and prayed for our needs, relying upon God to find a way for them to be met. Ask God for his wisdom over your life and if Alexander is the best person for you. Try to learn what you can about him. Your parents are quite reasonable and will respect your wishes if you do not feel this is right for you.’ Just as Sepphora and Mary were talking over these things, a door opened, and in walked Jesus. He was carrying a hammer in one hand, and at first, he seemed deep in thought about something he had just been working on. But once he looked at Sepphora and Mary’s faces, these thoughts appeared to dissolve. He must have been able to intuit the conversation that had just passed between the two women. He smiled and let out a laugh. ‘Oh, so quiet as soon as I enter! Sorry to interrupt. I'm just here to get a bite to eat’, he said, as he casually reached for a bunch of grapes sitting on the table behind Mary and some flatbread left over from breakfast. He raised an eyebrow and looked earnestly at his cousin. ‘He's a great fellow, Sepphora. You have nothing to fear. I see him fairly regularly with my work. His family is one of my suppliers, and I actually need to go today to get some more supplies. Would you like to come with me? I know you may not want to meet Alexander in person, but you can wait for me while I go about my business. You can keep me company and get an idea about where he comes from.’ Sepphora felt both excited and nervous, but she could not refuse this offer of perhaps finding out a little more about her potential husband. When they arrived, a few people were tending to some crops and cattle. One end of the estate was filled with the largest pistachio trees Sepphora had ever seen, and alongside the large ones were others in various stages of growth. ‘Wait here,’ Jesus said, gesturing to the entrance of the main residential building. Sepphora stayed with the wagon and watched from a distance as a man came out to greet Jesus. Jesus gestured toward the pistachio trees, and the two men began walking towards the trees purposefully. Once they reached their destination, the second man seemed to be advising Jesus on which one to cut. Sepphora realised he must be Alexander. Alexander seemed quite serious and officious at first, but then Sepphora noticed Jesus was working to soften him, and before long, the two men were laughing and sharing a joke. Sepphora saw Alexander’s smile, and she could just make out small crinkles around his eyes. When he laughed, he threw his head back and softened his shoulders. Sepphora's heart warmed. If this man could share a joke with Jesus, at least she knew they could find a sense of humour in common. Sepphora then found a seat on the wagon and lay back. It would be a little while before the wood would be cut and ready to take back to Nazareth. Sepphora returned to Bethsaida a few days later. Her father told her that the marriage had indeed been approved by Alexander's family, and the couple would soon meet in person. *** When Sepphora met Alexander in person, she felt calm and peaceful. She found that he was easy to talk to, polite and considerate of her needs. He showed a genuine interest in her as a person, asked her about her hobbies and interests and listened intently. Over the next few weeks, Sepphora met with Alexander along with various members of her own and his family to discern if she wanted to accept his proposal. A new excitement about future possibilities started to enter her mind. She started to imagine the love that would be created in her new family and the new relationships that her marriage would create. She imagined holding her own children, sharing their joy and supporting them and her husband in more difficult times. She experienced deep satisfaction when imagining these scenarios, but she also started to feel some sadness. She realised she was grieving for her childhood and the life she would be leaving behind. Her days would be different, and the routines and rhythms she had known before would be gone. Her simple days of helping her mother with running the household, balancing the books and administering their family's fishing business would end. She had had a busy life as a single young woman, but not so busy that she didn’t have time to wander up and down the seashore. She would meditate on the different shapes and colours of the rocks and sand or lie on the shore and watch the clouds roll above her as her brothers, father and their men toiled on the water. Sepphora pondered how blessed she had been in her childhood. Her parents had nurtured her and provided such that she had never wanted anything. In addition to this sadness, Sepphora also experienced doubt. She began to wonder if Alexander was the best possible suitor for her. She had not met any other potential husbands. She started to worry that she would marry him, only to find out later that in fact there was a better match for her. Sepphora struggled to reconcile these different thoughts and feelings within her so that she could make a clear decision. She did as Mary suggested and asked God to reveal to her whether the marriage with Alexander was right for her. She listened and felt that when making any big decision, there was always bound to be some uncertainty and even grief in leaving things behind. Sepphora felt she should decide based on whether she believed this path of marriage with Alexander would best help her serve and love God and others, including herself. Sepphora’s family members who had met with him had only made positive comments about the prospective match, like her mother, who had noted that Alexander’s practical bent would complement Sepphora’s creative and imaginative tendencies. Her father had noted that Sepphora and Alexander shared a similar sense of humour, and when they were both laughing together, their joy was contagious and felt by all those around them. And Alexander's own family had a good name, a reputation Alexander had lived up to in his dealings with other people through his business and personal relationships. He seemed to love and serve God to the best of his ability, which included loving and serving the people in his life. Despite the doubts and sadness, Sepphora felt an overriding peace. She decided to act on that and told Alexander she wished to accept his proposal. *** Sepphora’s attendants made the final adjustments to her finery. Once they were satisfied with their work, one lit a torch, and then the others followed, one by one, carefully and silently. The occasion was joyous, but at this moment, the quiet also marked its solemnity. All the anxiety from uncertainty and sadness for what she was leaving behind left her. She felt her soul lifted up by what almost felt like winds of joy and peace. Now it was time. She and her attendants began to walk slowly towards Alexander's home -- the home that, after this evening, would also be her own. The air was warm but dry and crisp, and some amber light left over from the sunset glowed above the mountains on the horizon. Several men were carrying large stone containers for storing water into the house. The pebbles on the path crunched beneath her sandals, and her attendants began to sing. Sepphora too joined in their trills, letting the newfound peace swell within her. A smile glowed from within and filled her face as the group continued on their journey to where Sepphora's new life would begin in the town of Cana. Katie Sampias writes fiction based on the Gospels and is a wife and mother of three children. She is based in Australia. You can find out more about her work here.
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita Hanging upside-down on his cross, St. Peter experiences flashbacks of his encounters with Christ. Read the first half of this short story here. -- Out at sea, Peter thought about all of Jesus’ miracles and began to feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps Jesus would rise from the dead, as He had promised. Perhaps all was not yet lost. Perhaps he shouldn’t be afraid. And yet, he felt a nagging doubt, a thorn at his side, a wound in his soul as deep as the wound at Jesus’ side as He had been pierced by Longinus’ spear. Maybe he was deluding himself, thought Peter. After all, there is a fearful divide between filling a boat with tilapia and conquering Death. So Peter cast his nets into the sea of Galilee and waited for the fish, uncertain about what the future portended. As Peter had thought, the open air and the strenuous activity of fishing and rowing were good for his soul. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Peter repeated the words in his mind and remembered his Master’s pleas during the Last Supper: “Don’t let your hearts be troubled,” He had said, “and don’t let them be afraid!” And He said it knowing what was to come, the torture He would have to endure. Perhaps his Master was sending him a message from wherever He had gone that all was not yet lost, that there was no reason to despair. For Peter was afraid not only for his physical safety, knowing that the Pharisees would come after Jesus’ friends, but mostly because he feared a life in the absence of his Master. The water was dark green now, so green and dark that it reflected the state of his spirit when he had first learned of the death of Jesus. He decided to just drift for a while, for he had grown tired of oaring against the current. He sat as close to the bow as he could get and rested against the wood, sitting in the sunshine, a brilliant light, dazzling like faith and reflected as bright uneven ripples on the dark green water. A woman had told him, amid her tears, Your Master is no more. She was an olive-skinned woman named Joanna, an intimate of Mary Magdalene, who had been possessed by seven demons, which the Lord had cast out in one of His many miracles. Peter had a hard time believing his Master was dead, even though he had known for hours about the verdict of crucifixion and had seen the throngs on either side of the road as Christ was lugging His cross – although he had not seen the Christ Himself, for Peter in his fear had made sure to keep a distance from the crowds. He had forgotten his Master’s admonition, Do not be afraid, and had cowered in the darkness caused by the looming cumulonimbus clouds that seemed to announce the death of his Messiah. The fear had started immediately after his Master had been apprehended. Peter had walked through the streets hugging the walls aimlessly, not knowing where he was going, the night gripping his spirit, but steadily following his Master as He was led to the High Priest. All of the other apostles had dispersed, and Judas would soon hang himself. Suddenly a young woman saw Peter’s face in the light of a torch and recognized him. “Weren’t you one of the Twelve?” she asked. “Weren’t you one of the friends of the One who called Himself the Son of Man?” “I never met the Man,” Peter dissembled. “You must be mistaken.” Then a man next to her insisted. “I’m sure I saw you with Him as He was preaching.” “No,” Peter lied again. “You must have seen another person.” Finally, a third man spoke to him. “Certainly you were with Him, for you are also a Galilean.” “Man, I do not know what you are talking about,” responded Peter, and a rooster crowed in the night, as His Master had predicted. *** And then, back on his cross, Peter dreams of something that has never happened. He is on a small skiff, with a line in the water, searching for bottom dwellers, his hook many fathoms below the surface of the sea. At some point, a big fish takes the bait, and Peter knows that it is a huge bloated fish, a fish so grand and proud that Peter has never seen its like before. Peter does not reel him in right away – he has to be patient with such a great fish – so he slackens the line and lets the fish pull at the skiff in any direction he wants. In his dream, Peter sees clearly that the fish represents a human soul, vain, cruel, unbelieving, and Peter knows it will be especially difficult to pull him in from the bottom. The fish races through the sea for hours, Peter’s line always taut. For some reason, the fish is swimming against the current, and Peter finds solace in that, for the fish will soon tire. Most of the fish he has caught have been small and humble, easily rescued by his nets. But this is a behemoth, probably eighteen feet long, and it is almost impossible to reel him in, as Peter’s line can be torn at any moment, and the fish can dart back to the bottom. After many hours of slackening the pressure of the line and then pulling it closer to him, Peter senses the huge fish approaching the surface, and then miraculously, he sees the fish break through the water, shining purple and golden in the light of the sun. Peter knows that he will have to kill him, piercing him through with a harpoon, but that symbolizes his death in Jesus, the death to his sins, the death to his bottomless pride and to temptations of the flesh. But then Peter sees something else. Sharks are beginning to surround the great fish, and Peter knows that he has to act quickly, lest they reach the huge fish before he does. The great beast is stubborn and continues to pull against Peter until he snaps the line. And the sharks are all too happy to devour him. Peter wakes up in a sweat, as if exhausted from pursuing the great fish that had escaped. He hears the distant screams of male and female Christians as they are whipped. As he hangs from his inverted cross, Peter ponders his strange dream. Who was the proud fish that had gotten away from the fisherman only to be swallowed by the sharks? Herod, who killed infants? Judas, who sealed his betrayal of the Lord with a kiss? Caiaphas, who tried the Christ? Or did it reflect the peril faced by Peter’s own doubting and terrified soul that distant Friday afternoon when he had fled from Jesus? *** The next time he falls asleep, he returns to the sight of his original vision and finds himself fishing on the Sea of Galilee again, the day after Jesus died. His net had been filled with tilapia, forcing him to pull at the heavy net with great difficulty. In some way, his Lord was telling him that even if he didn’t catch all the big fish, he had been triumphant with smaller creatures. And with time, Peter would learn to catch even the biggest sturgeon, would discover how to reel in even the greatest sinners. Peter was alone this time, which made his work collecting the fish doubly hard. He wished his brother Andrew were with him, as well as the sons of Zebedee, but they were mourning the Christ along with the other apostles. Communal fishing was so much easier, Peter thought, as he attempted to carry the tilapia one by one onto his boat, a process that took him several hours. Finally, his boat filled with fish, he decided to return to the land and to the house where the other apostles had congregated. *** “Do not be afraid.” Those were the words the women reported that the angel had told them when he had first appeared to them at the entrance to the sepulcher where the Master had been buried. And then the women reported that the crucified Christ Himself had appeared to them. A number of the apostles said the women’s words were idle chatter and did not believe them. Peter also doubted, but he pricked his ears and asked them to explain. According to Mary Magdalene, they had found that someone had removed the stone blocking access to Christ’s sepulcher, and they had found no one inside. Suddenly, an angel had appeared to them and asked them, “Why are you seeking someone alive among the dead?” Upon hearing these words, Peter and John, the apostle Jesus loved, rushed to the sepulcher. When they arrived, it was as the women had said. The stone at the entrance to the tomb had been removed, and the tomb was empty. The linen clothes of the Lord were lying on the ground. But the Master did not appear to them. Peter, downcast and dejected, returned to the home he was sharing with the other disciples and muttered to himself that the Christ was not risen. Like many fishermen, he had learned to speak to himself when he spent long hours alone at sea. And his first instinct was always disbelief. At some point, as Peter hangs on his inverted cross, he opens his eyes from his reveries and realizes that he has gone completely blind. There is simply too much pressure on his eyes, which he now realizes are also bleeding. In his darkness, he cries out for a drink of water. “Anybody, please, I’m thirsty!” he exclaims. But he only hears the chuckles of someone in the distance and the sound of the hooves of a horse clopping on the ground nearby. “Die like your Christ!” he suddenly hears somebody taunt him, and he remembers, half-awake now, how the Christ had appeared to him after His Resurrection, once again bringing to mind thoughts of the sea. *** Peter and several of the disciples had spent the whole night fishing but had caught nothing. Suddenly, shortly after sunrise, a man had asked them from the shore, “Children, do you have any meat?”, and they had responded no, there was nothing in their nets. And then the stranger had said to them, “Cast the net on the right side of the skiff, and you shall find your fish.” And when they hurled their nets into the sea, they captured a multitude of tilapia, mackerels, and sardines. At that moment, John, the disciple Jesus loved, told Peter that the man on the shore was the Messiah Himself. And Peter, this time unafraid, jumped into the waters and swam until he reached the beach, whereupon he threw himself at Jesus’ feet. Soon the other disciples arrived, pulling the net full of fish behind them, and they were afraid to ask the stranger who He was, for they knew He was the Lord. The Master asked them to dine with Him, not only fish but also bread that He had brought with Him. And being in His company and eating after a long night at sea strengthened and comforted the fishermen, especially Peter. After the meal, Jesus approached Peter and asked him a question point-blank: “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me more than these?” And Peter had replied, looking at Jesus fixedly in the eyes, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” In the distance, he could hear the waves and suddenly the thunder. But Jesus had insisted and asked him a second time, “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me?” And Peter heard the stubborn roar of the waves, the insistent thunder. “Yes, Lord,” Peter answered. “You know that I love you.” Jesus asked the same question a third time, and Peter was discomfited. “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me?” The water of the waves came close to them, and again there was a clap of thunder. “Lord, you know everything,” Peter retorted. “You know that I love you.” “Feed my sheep,” his Master ordered. And at that very instant, amid the roar of the waves and the thunder, Jesus predicted that as an old man, Peter himself would be crucified. “When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will tie you and carry you where you don’t want to go.” Peter trembled with fear, not needing to hear the gruesome details to understand just what his Master meant, and yet he bowed his head down without saying anything, in blind acceptance of his fate. That was one of his tipping points. And the good Lord said, “Follow me!” Follow me into crucifixion! Follow me into martyrdom! Follow me to the gates of Heaven through the ladder of the Cross! *** Hanging upside down on his cross, Peter lapses in and out of consciousness. At some point, dizzied by the blood coming down to his brain and oozing from his eyes, he thinks briefly of begging his tormentors to unfasten him from the wood or, at a minimum, to alter the position of the cross so that he would be upright. “My Lord, my Lord, why have you forsaken me?” his Master had asked during His own crucifixion. But Peter does not use the same words, for he does not feel that God has forsaken him. Instead, Peter says, “Let me sleep,” and God grants his wish. *** In a dream, Peter remembers how he had first mustered courage – not because of his own strength but because the Holy Spirit had descended upon him. And yet Peter was not only a passive recipient of the Lord’s grace and power. He fully embraced it, although it was up to him to accept it or reject it, just as Judas Iscariot could have embraced or rejected the Lord during his final moment of decision. It was another tipping point in Peter’s life, and it launched him into a life of service. At first, there had been a great wind frightening all of the apostles in the Upper Room of the house they shared. Then they had seen tongues of fire descend upon their heads, and at first, they had been afraid. But soon they realized it was the Holy Spirit that was descending upon them, giving them great strength, allowing them to speak in tongues, and pushing them on their mission to convert the world to faith in the resurrected Messiah. Suddenly, Peter left the house and began to preach in a multitude of languages, since a great number of men had gathered outside the home of the apostles, and some of them came from distant lands. He found himself inculcating trust in Jesus to an Egyptian in his own tongue – Peter, a fisherman who had never traveled far from Galilee, and certainly not to Egypt. Then, a man from Crete approached him, asked him about the miracles performed by Jesus Christ, and Peter was shocked to realize he had become fluent in his dialect. And so it happened with many others: Parthians, Medes and Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, and the districts of Libya, as well as those who hailed from Rome. Peter felt a frisson of excitement when he suddenly realized that he was able to preach intelligently and in multiple languages. He quickly realized he was a participant in a great miracle, which redoubled his fervor to preach the message of his Master to the masses. He knew he would probably be arrested by the Sanhedrin, possibly killed, for his activities, but that was unimportant. Suddenly, he felt great courage and a great certainty, so unlike the nagging fear and doubt that had plagued him intermittently throughout his life. And that courage and fearlessness was a choice; he could have looked the other way, but he chose not to do so. He accepted the Way of the cross, with all the agony and suffering that entailed. In the end, Peter converted more than three thousand souls to the Way in a single afternoon: quite a catch for a lowly fisherman from Bethsaida. “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation,” he had told them, a message that could have been proclaimed in many other times in human history. And yet, as he suspected, the enemies of Jesus were soon hot on his trail, for he had performed an unpardonable act: he had moved thousands of men to quit the faith of their forefathers to follow the Way of Jesus. The persecution would last for thirty years, flowing and ebbing with time, even as Peter spread the faith throughout the known world and eventually led the Lord’s Church in Rome, the eternal city he had once derided as “Babylon” and the place where he would meet his ultimate antagonist, Emperor Nero, rumored to be the Antichrist. *** It is in Rome, where Peter died after two days of pain, that Caravaggio the chiaroscurist lives. He knows all of Rome’s nooks and crannies, its hidden spaces, the dark alleys where prostitutes and beggars gather. He has just been involved in a brawl, like so many other times, for he is furious in light of what he has just discovered. He returns bloodied and bruised to his studio, where Cecco's face is lit by the light of a lamp. “What has happened?” Cecco asks as he wipes Caravaggio’s forehead with a green silk handkerchief. “Those idiots are doing it again,” Caravaggio answers. “I think they want me to paint the conversion of Saint Paul and the crucifixion of Saint Peter once again. They already rejected my two prior paintings on those themes, and they were perfect works, Cecco. Now they want me to try another time.” “Why are they going to reject the pieces? I don’t understand. I thought they were marvelous paintings.” “They have come up with the silliest of objections. They say that the haunch of a horse is too prominent in The Conversion of Saint Paul. And that in The Crucifixion of Saint Peter, too much space is given to the backside of one of Saint Peter’s tormentors, that it is the first thing one sees when looking at the work. They claim it is almost sacrilegious.” “I’m sorry,” Cecco says. “Some people don’t understand your work.” “That’s an understatement,” Caravaggio responds. “What could be a greater homage to the saints than the way I represent them? The critics notice the backside of one of the executioners, but they don’t see Peter raising his illuminated face in defiance as he places his faith in God in the darkest of moments. I tell you, those people know nothing about God.” “Do you believe, my master?” “What prompts the question?” “Well, your paintings are so full of devotion, and yet the way you lead your life – the brawling, the prostitutes, other things I won’t get into –” “I am a great sinner, that’s true, but I paint miracles. And I believe in miracles too. In some way, I’m a fisherman just like Peter. My works draw people violently into the faith in Jesus, thousands of them, Cecco. Anyone who witnesses my Crucifixion of Saint Peter will be challenged to seek God through the experience of viewing the painting.” “So you’re at peace with God?” Cecco asks. “Let’s say that I’m a work in progress. I exist in media res. I fall, I rise, I fall again. But I never tire of seeking God’s mercy. At some point, I shall depict a scene of Saint Peter with a bloated sturgeon hooked after the apostle wrestled with the great fish for three days. And the face of Peter’s prey shall be my own.” Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2) (Fiction, August 2022) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita  Art: Caravaggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons “Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions, your old men shall dream dreams…” Acts of the Apostles, 2:17 Peter’s feet and hands are nailed to the half-raised cross, his body bloodied and crucified upside down, unlike his Christ. One of the workmen, his face shielded like that of the others, is pulling a thick rope at the top of the cross, where Peter’s feet are secured. Another is beneath the cross, trying with all his might to lift it so that the stake might sink into the ground. The third has both hands below the wood attached to the apostle’s feet. On the ground, a shovel vaguely reflects light as a knife would. And in front of the cross is a rock. Caravaggio looks at his painting and thinks it is a masterpiece. Caravaggio has spent all morning and afternoon adding the last details to the painting, accompanied by his assistant Cecco, who is quickly learning. Caravaggio has multi-colored paint all over his workclothes, on his hands and arms, even on his curly black hair and his swarthy face. Caravaggio never prepares his paintings based on drawings but paints directly in color and often doesn’t know how he will complete a piece until the very end. The last thing he painted in his piece on Peter was the rock at the foot of the inverted cross. He wanted it to be perfect. He has always told his assistant that even the most minute detail in a painting must be masterful. He learned to paint as an adolescent in Milan, helping Simone Peterzano by adding minor details to his master’s works – an apple, a flower, the blond locks of an angel – and he has never forgotten that even the most insignificant aspect of a painting is important. It was also in Milan that he learned to brawl. Caravaggio has always been ill-tempered, ready at any moment to use his fists to resolve an argument, which has often been a subject of his confessions. Once he threw a plate of artichokes at the face of a waiter merely because the poor man refused to tell him whether they were cooked in oil or butter. The piece on Peter does what Caravaggio attempts to do in all of his paintings: it encapsulates a whole life in a single scene, the one moment when a life is riven asunder between the before and the after. Every person’s life must have a tipping point – the irrevocable instant when an existential decision is made, the fork in the road that cannot be reversed. Yet it is also true, Caravaggio thinks, that in certain lives there is a progression of tipping points, one choice leading to another, inexorably, until the final choice is made from which there is no return. Earlier, in painting Saint Paul on the way to Damascus, Caravaggio had depicted the tipping point in the life of Saul of Tarsus, the moment when he was blinded, the moment that rendered asunder the before and the after. The persecutor of Christians in an instant became Christ’s greatest apostle. Peter’s life, by contrast, was more of a progression of tipping points, although Caravaggio thinks it most appropriate to depict him at the moment when he was crucified. Before that moment, there had always been the possibility of retraction, of going back, of somehow refusing his mission. And it is true that Peter had at first decided to escape from Rome to avoid his crucifixion. But as he was fleeing, the Christ had appeared to him at the Appian Gate and told him not to do so, pleading that Peter remain with his flock. Once Peter opted to return, the die had already in some way been cast. He had decided not to abandon his sheep in Rome or to forfeit his episcopate for his own safety. But it was on the cross that he made his ultimate decision. Would he cringe in fear? Would he second-guess his choice? Would he accept his killing at the hands of Nero with cowardice or courage? That’s why Caravaggio chose to depict Peter when he was first nailed to his cross, not a second before and not a second after. Caravaggio also likes to think that his paintings tell a story like written works do. As with any narrative, as in the Bible itself, the protagonist's true character is often revealed by his reaction to extreme temptation in a single dramatic scene. Of course, the story of Peter began long before his crucifixion, although it was obviously impossible to represent it in a single work of art. Nevertheless, Caravaggio tells his 17-year-old apprentice that The Crucifixion of Saint Peter, if analyzed closely, depicts more than one event – indeed, it captures Peter’s entire life. Cecco listens to his master in rapt attention as they speak in his large atelier with its high-sloped ceilings. Cecco knows that Caravaggio loves him like a son, even though the great painter is only thirty years old, but he also knows that Caravaggio is a tough taskmaster. Caravaggio does not allow imperfections in Cecco’s work and was furious when he saw Cecco’s initial depiction of the shovel in the painting of the crucified Peter. For a moment, Cecco thought that his master was about to strike him. Caravaggio had assigned him a minor detail in the piece, and Cecco had not completed it to his master’s satisfaction. But soon Caravaggio’s anger dissipated, and he showed his apprentice how to render the details of the shovel with artistry. On a large canvas, Caravaggio usually began the work with large brushes and larger brush strokes, but as the work got closer to completion, he used smaller brushes. Caravaggio patiently showed his pupil how to paint the shovel with a small brush, telling him that the most important detail was the glint of light reflecting upon it. The next time Caravaggio’s saw Cecco’s work, he was satisfied, smiled broadly, and told his young apprentice that it approached perfection. Cecco had learned from his master and had ably depicted the shovel in chiaroscuro. For the cognoscenti, it wouldn’t be difficult to see that although Peter is here portrayed as an old man, he is still well-muscled, reflecting a man strong in his faith. That would remind them that Peter’s faith had developed like a muscle, growing in strength as he was tested again and again, even if he sometimes failed at the most critical moments – when he was walking on the water, for example, or when he denied the Christ three times before the cock crowed. Caravaggio knows that a man’s conscience can wither away like a muscle if ignored and fortified if followed in the most challenging of moments. And the artist also knows that those who knew Peter’s story would not miss the allusion to the rock Caravaggio has painted at the feet of Peter’s inverted cross. It tells the story of how, long before Peter’s crucifixion, Jesus had told him he was the rock upon which He would build His Church. And yet Caravaggio isn’t fully satisfied. The painting doesn’t have any symbols to represent Peter’s doubts, especially those that assaulted him after the crucifixion of the Christ. Perhaps he should have included a rooster, just as certain fourth-century sarcophagi had done, to remind the onlookers of Peter’s denial of Jesus. Or perhaps a fishing rod or a boat, to symbolize Peter’s role as a fisher of men. But then Caravaggio thinks again. As he was hanging on his cross for hours, dying a slow and grueling death, Peter must have been thinking about the moment when he learned of his Master’s crucifixion and of everything that had happened thereafter. So in a way, by depicting Peter’s face as he was crucified, Caravaggio had represented him pondering the Passion of the Christ and the miraculous events that followed. In a great work of art, Caravaggio believes, everything must be understated. “It’s a masterpiece,” he says to Cecco, “so much better than the depiction of Peter’s crucifixion by Michelangelo. After all, Michelangelo’s fresco is crowded with too many figures, which detracts from the centrality of Peter in the work. In my piece, the light shines fully on the crucified apostle. Nothing distracts the viewer from the brutality of the crucifixion. Peter’s face, bathed in the light of God Himself, is the only one you can see in the massive painting. And while in Michelangelo’s fresco Saint Peter looks toward the viewer, in my painting he is looking toward God.” “What do you mean?” Cecco asks. “Don’t you realize that I have painted him so that his eyes are on the chapel altar once it is placed in the Chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo? Peter is resolute, not fearful, in his final moment, and he is already looking forward to his reunion with Christ.” “So you think your work is comparable to that of the great Michelangelo?” Cecco asks. “I’ve surpassed him. I tell you, I’ve surpassed him. Titian too.” Cecco laughs at Caravaggio’s vanity, knowing that his master’s biggest flaw, among many others, is his preternatural pride. *** Peter is hanging on his cross, his head pointed downward, trying to remember how his Master suffered a similar ordeal in order to give himself courage. The sores on his back from the flogging of the previous night – more than a hundred lashes as he was being pressed to disavow his faith – are bleeding profusely as they rub against the wood and smarting like bright lightning. He feels great pain at his wrists and his feet, all his limbs immobilized and in a strange contracture. It becomes harder and harder to breathe. The weight of his body, pulled by gravity, makes the act of breathing almost impossible. It isn’t so difficult for Peter to breathe in, but it is excruciating to get the air out of his lungs as his body leans forward, hanging by the arms, the pressure mounting against his chest. But it is hanging upside down that leads to the greatest desperation. He knows the blood is flowing down into his head. He feels great dizziness and lightheadedness and thinks that he is about to go mad. During the first few hours, it hadn’t bothered him greatly, but with the passage of time, it has become sheer torture, interrupting his thoughts, making him see strange visions. He suspects that the effect on his brain of hanging upside down will lead to his death more quickly than will the failure of his lungs and heart. At some point, the weight on the ligaments and muscles of his arms is so great that they are pulled out of their sockets. Throughout the ordeal, he lapses in and out of consciousness, which is a sort of unexpected relief. During these moments, he has visions of his past, of what he went through after the Christ Himself was crucified: about Jesus’s promises, about the Lord’s prediction that he, too, would be crucified. And he remembers the sea – the Sea of Galilee – where he encountered many wonders when he was the least of fishermen. *** On the day when Peter learned of the Christ’s crucifixion, Peter was deathly afraid, and at the same time, he felt a limitless sorrow. The night enveloped Jerusalem in darkness black as death, and the Messiah was dead. Carousers still filled the streets, drinking and laughing, as if they had just witnessed a scene of gladiators and not an unimaginable crime. Dead. Dead. His Master was dead, and Peter could not grapple with the enormity of that fact. His anguish was a stone that weighed not only on his spirit, but also on his gut, an enormous boulder pressing against his chest and asphyxiating his lungs as if Peter himself was the one who had been crucified. Peter, given the name of rock by the Christ, was suddenly crushed by the great stone of despair. Dead. Peter had not had the courage to witness his Master’s torture and crucifixion, afraid he would himself be killed. Thrice he had denied Him, saying “I do not know the man,” and now He was dead, no longer in the world. Peter muttered a prayer under his breath, hoping the wind would take the words to his Master’s ear. But there was only silence and the stillness of the night. His Master was dead, like a rose clipped before blooming, like the saddest insect crushed by the foot of a centurion as the soldier walked across the grass. Peter comes back to consciousness as he hangs from his inverted cross. He looks out with great difficulty at Nero’s Circus Maximus. Being upside down, it is very difficult for him to see things with much clarity. Still, as he adjusts his vision, he can vaguely distinguish all the other crosses, probably more than a hundred of them, where all the other Christians are being killed, all the sheep that he had been unable to save. The stands are full of Romans watching the gruesome spectacle as if it were an athletic match: men, women, children, entire families intent on seeing the death of the men and women they so despise, the besotted Christians who have been accused of burning down the city of Rome. But Peter soon lapses back into unconsciousness. *** Peter had run into John, the apostle Jesus loved, shortly after the Master’s crucifixion. John had been more courageous, had accompanied Mary at the foot of the Cross as the Messiah exhaled His last breath. Alone among the apostles, John had not avoided the scene in terror. John had helped bring the dead body, pale and bloodied, from the tree where His execution had transpired. A dead body just like any other, lifeless, still, unbothered, and now laid securely in a sepulcher guarded by Mary Magdalene and the other women. “Who am I?” the Christ had asked Peter, and he had responded, “You are the Son of the Living God, you are the Messiah.” But now He was in a tomb, just like any other mortal being. Peter wept; he could not cease weeping, despairing because he had not been with the man in His moment of greatest tribulation. “Why have you fallen asleep in my moment of suffering?” the Messiah had rebuked him in the Garden of Gethsemane. And now Peter had done something infinitely worse. He had not been with his Master as His feet and hands were pierced with nails, as His head was crowned by a crown of thorns, as He died – unjustly! – like an ordinary human. Peter remembered the words of Jesus on the previous night: “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.” But Peter had given small heed to the words of his Master and had allowed himself to be tempted to despair. Peter could not fathom the man’s death. He had imagined a Messiah who would rule over the Jews, an earthly king, a respected ruler more powerful than an Egyptian pharaoh. And yet His holocaust had been akin to that of a lamb, the merest animal, offended and insulted, spat upon by the onlookers. How could such a death be that of the promised Messiah predicted by the Holy Scriptures? Peter asked for another drink at the tavern. He hoped that no one would recognize him in the darkness, covering his head with a cowl, yet he still felt a fear that made him shiver. Surely he didn’t want to die like his Master. Why, oh why didn’t Jesus allow him to smite the men who had apprehended Him? A righteous Messiah would have defended His throne, not allowed Himself to be captured so easily by His enemies. So Peter drank and drank until his body was weary with wine, and in the darkness, he made his way to the home he shared with the other apostles, burdened by monstrous anxiety and sadness as vast as the Sea of Galilee. Matthew the tax collector opened the door. “Peace to you,” he said to Peter, and Peter responded, “Peace.” All the apostles were congregated in the room where Jesus had administered the Last Supper to them earlier in the week, and Jesus’ mother was sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, exhausted by the day’s events. All the apostles were somber, their faces darkened by pain, both physical and spiritual, except John, the apostle Jesus loved. When he saw Peter, he hugged him and, noticing Peter’s ashen face, asked him why he was so distraught. “Jesus has died,” Peter answered. “How do you want me to feel?” “But He will come back,” replied John. “Didn’t you yourself seal his cadaver in a tomb?” Peter inquired. “Didn’t you place a rock in front of His sepulcher? How can you tell me not to be struck by grief?” “You’re forgetting something,” said John. “Do you forget that the Master told you that He would suffer, be killed, and rise again? Do you forget that He warned us about His death time and time again?” “How can I forget?” Peter answered. “I had never seen Him respond as furiously as when I objected to the prediction of His death. ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ He cried out at me. ‘You don’t have in mind the things of God but the things of men.’” “Then why are you lapsing into despair, my brother? Jesus is still with us in spirit. And He will return in body as well, to establish His kingdom. Have you never understood His message? He said it quite plainly: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified, and on the third day be raised again.’” “I don’t know,” Peter answered. “I wish I had your faith. But I am bedeviled by doubt. What purpose would it serve for Him to be slaughtered like an animal? What benefit derived from such an inglorious death? Why would the nails go through His hands into the wood? The only thing it’s done is to perplex all His followers. And I must confess to you that I am among the perplexed.” *** Peter is awakened by his own pain and his inability to breathe easily. Sleeping is such a relief that he prays only for that. From his inverted position, Peter can vaguely see that Nero has begun the rest of his show, pitting the strongest Christian soldiers against the beasts: lions, tigers, and python snakes. One brave Christian prisoner, armed with only a kitchen knife and a wooden lance, is facing a black panther. Upside down, it is difficult for Peter to understand what is happening. But upon hearing the tumult among the crowds, the cheers, and the backslaps, Peter is certain that the panther has vanquished its prey. And Peter lapses back into unconsciousness, a vision of the sea, dreams within dreams. Surely, if he doesn’t sleep, the veins of his brain will soon explode. *** The day after the crucifixion of Jesus, Peter decided to go out to sea early in the morning, before it was light. Back to the Sea of Galilee, the sea he loved, where he could be caressed by the breeze, lulled by the waves, enchanted by the sun’s luminous reflection on the water. He knew that it was the Sabbath, and that he should not fish on the Sabbath, but he had breached that law before, and Jesus had not castigated him for it. So he let the sail float around the mast and let the wind take him wherever it wanted. And for an instant, he forgot his pain, his deep sense of loss. His eyes were suddenly undefeated. Hadn’t he walked on this very water on the orders of the Messiah? Wasn’t it on the sea that Jesus had often told him not to be afraid? Peter looked out at the blue immensity before him and at the pelicans, lonely fishermen just like him, swooping down swiftly from the sky to catch fish. Peter had always struggled between faith and doubt. Once, while he and the other disciples were rowing on the water, a great wave rocked their boat, and they were afraid that it would capsize. They feared they would all drown, swallowed by the hunger of the sea. They turned their eyes to heaven and said a silent prayer to YHWH. In the distance, beyond the mounting waves, they vaguely distinguished a human figure apparently walking on the water. Peter mistook it for an otherworldly apparition and trembled with great fright. “It’s some sort of ghost,” he told his brother. “A specter who portends no good.” Suddenly they heard a voice as the figure approached them. “Take courage. I am! Do not be afraid.” The figure, dressed in light, said this as if, by virtue of His very existence, men should never fear. They recognized it as the voice of Jesus, but Peter doubted. It was neither the first nor the last time that Jesus would tell Peter not to be afraid when he braved the Sea of Galilee. “Lord, if it is you, then prove it,” Peter said, still unbelieving. “Tell me to come to you on the water.” “Come,” the figure said. And Peter started to walk on the water, hesitatingly placing one sandal in front of the other. The sea felt as solid as concrete, as solid as hardened bricks, and Peter quickened his pace. It was as if he were striding on terra firma and not on the bottomless surf of the sea. He was amazed by his supernatural feat and felt a frisson of recognition: truly, the man who was calling him was the Son of God! Peter continued to march toward the luminescent figure, growing in confidence at each step, feeling the breeze but not the waves, more and more certain that he would not plunge into the liquid beneath his feet. He began to saunter more quickly, almost running toward his Master, delighted by the steadiness of his gait. But then Peter was afraid, lost his nerve, doubted the miracle he was experiencing, and started to sink into the water. Surely, what he was doing was impossible! No one could walk on water, certainly not an ordinary mortal like him. It must all be an illusion, a dream, a fantasy! He felt his body slowly enter into the sea, first his feet, then his legs up to the knee, then felt the water reach his waist. He was sure that he would drown that very instant despite the admonition of his Master, and in his bottomless despair, he cried out for help. By then, only his desperate face was above the surface of the sea, and suddenly he felt the buffeting waves and heard the roar of the omnivorous water. “Lord, save me!” he exclaimed, doubting he would be saved. Immediately, the Lord reached out, caught him, and helped him walk back to his skiff, one step ahead of the other. “You of little faith,” He said, shaking his head as Peter looked at Him with fear still painted on his face. “Why do you doubt? Haven’t I repeatedly told you not to be afraid?” The truth is, Peter always alternated between faith and doubt, certainty and indecision, although on the sea, he also always felt the presence of God. It was the one place where his faith was restored, peering at the vastness of the water and, above it, the sky its endless mirror. So as he was half-asleep on his inverted cross, he thought again about the delight of fishing, about how on the day after His master’s death, he had decided to fish again, to cast his net into the water. “You shall be a fisher of men,” the Messiah had told him when He had first called upon him to be a disciple. But this day, Peter would revert back to his ancient trade and simply haul in the blue tilapia and the sardines, though the words of his Master about fishing for men would stay on his mind all morning and into the afternoon. *** Peter remembered the first time his Master had told him to cast his nets and fish. It happened shortly after Peter met Him, after He had cured Peter’s mother-in-law from a terrible fever and had cast out a demon from a possessed man in the synagogue. Peter, as well as James and John, the sons of Zebedee, had been fishing all night but had caught nothing. For some reason, the Lord was always closest to Peter when his nets were barren. In the morning, Jesus sat on Peter’s boat and began to preach, telling all about the kingdom of Heaven. It was a place so different from the Temple, lacking the austerity demanded by the Pharisees, and yet Peter felt it was appropriate for Jesus to spread His message from the sea, since it was so close to Heaven, indivisible from it. At some point, after the preaching was done and the crowds had dissipated, Jesus directed Peter to go out to sea and cast his nets. Peter doubted again. Jesus was a carpenter, after all, and He knew nothing about fishing. If they had been unable to catch fish all night, how much more difficult to do it in the morning? But Peter did not want to disobey his Master. “Because you say so,” he said, “I shall put out the nets,” and then he proceeded to hurl his nets into the water. And then the miraculous happened: they caught so many tilapia that their boat was full, and they had to place the rest of the fish they had caught in another boat. Both boats began to sink under the enormous weight of the multitudinous catch. Peter and his fellow fishermen pulled at their crowded nets with difficulty toward the shore. Peter, astounded by such a miracle, had suddenly felt unworthy of receiving his Master’s bounty. Why would the Lord reward a man as weak as him? “Go away from me, Lord,” Peter cried out. “I am a sinful man.” But Peter soon learned that Jesus does not withhold His favors from sinners. “Do not be afraid,” the Lord commanded, as He did so many times. “From now on, you shall be a fisher of men.” Peter knows that it is only a matter of time before so much blood collects in his head that it will cause his brain to hemorrhage. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, he knows that at some point, he will not return from his dreams, but he isn’t afraid, not this time. He has the strength to pray a little, if only in his mind. And he doesn’t pray only for his fellow Christians, that they would have the courage to endure their ordeal without recanting the Way, but also for Nero, who is in the greatest need of prayer – a man who has not only persecuted the Christians but participated in so many other atrocities: the murder of his mother Agrippina, the death of his legitimate wife Claudia Octavia, the burning of all of Rome. At some point, in a moment of consciousness, Peter can see Nero arrive at the center of the Circus Maximus on a chariot and begin to recite some poems written by his own hand. Peter cannot hear what he is saying, but he well knows Nero considers himself a musician and a poet. And then Peter lapses back into unconsciousness. -- Read the second half of this story here. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. A short story by Bryant Burroughs Noise surrounds me as if the sun itself were shouting. Ahead of me, bier carriers trudge with a rhythmic crunch on the stony road. Wailing women trail a step behind me. Some are there because it is expected of them, others are mourning my pitiable life, and the honest ones are crying for fear that my fate will fall on them one day. I’ve lived fewer than thirty-five summers, yet I’m walking a fourth time to bury a piece of my heart in the graves on the hillside outside the village. There is no word for a mother who has lost her only child. No word for a woman who has lost everything. I tell myself that my suffering is no greater than the suffering of other mothers and wives for a hundred generations, but such a community brings no comfort. The entanglements of love that make life worth living have all come unthreaded. Outside the village’s south gate, the road before us is straight and gently downhill. A hundred paces ahead, the road curves around the boulder-strewn mountainside and winds toward the fishing villages of Galilee. Opposite this curve is the place of the dead, a rocky hillside pocked with graves. Nain may be a small village, but people have lived here for centuries. In time, most have been borne to this hillside and entombed, their bodies covered with sand and gravel and smaller rocks, then roofed by slabs. It is a spirit-haunted slope. But only one grave matters to me. Up near the crest of the place of the dead, in the section where lie the poorest of this poor village, lie the bones of my two little girls. The first did not survive the womb. The second I held in my arms for only a handful of days, my tears flooding her face as she breathed slowly, slowly, then was still. In that grave, too, is Joel. My Joel. How much we loved each other. With only thirty families in the village, young women have little choice in marriage. Some marry in hope. Most marry to produce sons to labor in the barley fields and the small groves of olive and fig trees. How, then, do two people find a lifetime of love in this place, where few people arrive, and none leave? My Joel proposed as we sat under a fig tree. “Life in Nain is simple,” he said, looking into my eyes. “We sow barley, dig up weeds, harvest barley, trim the trees, and pick olives and figs. What makes it endurable, what makes it worthwhile, is love.” We fit each other. His laugh and arms and strength comforted me and helped me survive when I buried my two little angels in the cold grave high on the hill. In time, I gave him a son: a son who howled from his first breath, a sign of his strong spirit, a spirit that not even a poor farming life could break. We named him Hiphil, “boisterous one.” From the time he stood only to my waist, he worked side by side with Joel in the fields, proud to become just like the man he worshipped. No more children joined us. I longed for a little girl, longed even as my hope unraveled. But we were happy. Then more than hope unraveled. A woman who has lost two little daughters should not have her husband taken away. But God does not think of these matters, and there came a dark day when Joel was carried to the hill of the dead. How long, how long must we kneel and cry to you, until our appeal is heard and you are stirred? Do the ears of God hear no sound? Are the hands of God bound? Are the eyes of God blurred? The only voice I heard in return was my son’s. The son who had smiled at me from my breast when he was seconds old. The son who had idolized and emulated his father, working side-by-side with scythe and olive basket. The son who took my breath away because he had Joel’s eyes and smile. It was my son who helped me step back from all-consuming grief when Joel died. It was Hiphil who worked our fields. It was Hiphil who confronted the village men who promised to help me, but whose leers made clear the price--one I would never pay. I sigh “My son!”, and my memories flee, and reality settles into place. My son has not moved from his funeral bier. All is still and silent. There is no crunching of feet in front of me and no wailing behind me. No one is moving. Could it be that God has stopped time and set things right? No, it can’t be. The crowd at my back comes alive, whispering as if fearful. “Who are these people? “Have so many walked here for this boy’s burial?” “How will we feed them?” “They’re blocking our way!” “Who do they think they are?” “Who is that? Moving a few steps, I peer around Hiphil’s bier. A huge crowd approaches us, a host of men and women and children stretching beyond the road’s curve, people panting and puffing from the uphill climb. Where are they from? Capernaum? But why? Three steps ahead of the crowd is a man whose eyes are fixed on me. His stride is purposeful, as if this is precisely the place he needs to be at this moment: in this lonely town, under this dazzling sky, interrupting this burial. I stand unmoving as he stops directly in front of me. His eyes are fixed only on mine, never looking at the bier or the procession behind me. “Child, don’t cry. Wipe your tears,” he says. The throng swells around us like a stream pushing past two fixed rocks. One of the men behind him complains, “We were in Capernaum yesterday. Climbed here a day and all night. He wouldn’t let us stop for even a moment’s sleep. And as usual, he wouldn’t say why.” Other complaining voices rise from the crowd. “Why have we stopped? Surely he knows we’re thirsty?” “Doesn’t this place have a well?” “We never should have left Capernaum just to follow this nobody from Nazareth.” “Where are we?” “What’s going on up there?” “What’s he saying to that woman?” The man in front of me waits patiently for my words, though I suspect they may not be what he wants. Looking into his eyes, I tell him, “You say ‘don’t cry,’ as if my tears and fears are foolish and will flee at your word.” I wave toward the hill of the dead, a hill I can no longer see as the crowd surges around us. “Look! Up there in cold earth lie the three people I love the most. I called God – I begged, I pleaded. But he was busy elsewhere. Too busy for a nobody.” The man doesn’t release me from his gaze. “You are never outside God’s attention,” he says softly, as if he and I are two friends talking alone under a fig tree. “We circle around God all our lives, pulled and kept close to him. He never loses us.” “I’ve heard that our days and nights are full of angels, running to bring us to the attention of God,” I say. “Love lured me to place my hope in this promise, but love has been overrun. I have no husband and no children to love. Does God know this?” The man now glances at Hiphil’s bier and returns his eyes to mine. “Those you love are not dead. They are more than bones and memories. There is no separation of life into this life followed by that life. There is only life because God is life. One day you will be reunited forever.” Ah! It’s the same trope I’ve heard in the synagogue. It brings no comfort. If they are not alive here, then what good is any talk about being alive one day? I lash out at the man: “I hope, then, that being dead with God is better than being alive with God. I hope he is caring for my husband and three children better than he takes care of me.” Despite my insult, the man’s eyes remain soft. But I feel no urge to make our conversation easy for him. Sweeping a hand behind me, I say, “Look! Here in this place, I’m nothing. Everyone I’ve held dear, God took away from me. I’m left alone. My neighbors are stealing my crops because I have neither husband nor son to defend me. I have no way to resist. I have no one who will keep me safe. I’m without help.” “Child,” he says again, “the Father of all things loves you. He protects widows and orphans and poor.” “Words come easily to you, don’t they?” I retort. “Tell me – does your father have another son he will give me?” A smile joins his kind eyes. “Yes.” I sense he had known from the start this is how it would be. “Dear one,” he continues. “You are right that words and actions should never be apart. But, for your heart’s sake, also remember that hate and hope cannot live together.” I’m empty of words. His gaze has exhausted me. With widening eyes, I watch him half-turn and indicate to the bier carriers that they should lower their load. “No!” I gasp. “Don’t do that to him! Isn’t it enough that he is dead?” Turning to face me again, the man reaches out and touches me, holding my clasped hands in his hand. I feel weak and sink to my knees. He follows me down, keeping my hands in his, kneeling with me on the stony road. My tears rain on his hand as the bier carriers place their burden on the ground and step back. With one hand on mine and the other stretching to the edge of the bier, the man calls over his shoulder, “Hiphil, young man of such tears, I say to you, rise!” Time and sound stop. No one in the crowd moves. All eyes are fixed on the bier. I half-hear a soft rustle, so whispery that it seems to come from the far back of my soul. Despite its softness, it demands attention. I sense that something is being knit together on the bier, as if unraveled threads are weaving together for reuse. Then my son moves. He is moving! He sits up and looks around, as if the part of him that had been unraveled is now whole. The eyes that were Joel’s pinpoint me, and the smile that was Joel’s flashes into my heart. Hiphil is alive! Hundreds of shocked people inhale simultaneously. Those standing nearest the bier fall back in wondrous fear, clutching their hearts or faces or someone’s arm. Then everyone begins shouting or crying, some jumping and others kneeling. This little village, a day’s walk from anywhere, has never seen such a wonder. Even as their cries swirl all around me, I am too weak to rise from the stony road. I watch as the man who had been holding my hands rises, takes my son’s hand, and helps him stand. And into my arms, my son runs! Into my arms! Just as he had run as a child when he and his father returned at dusk from working in the fields. My tears and joy and arms envelop him. “Mother,” he whispers, “I’m here. I’m home.” “Hiphil, my son, my son!” I cry, rocking with him in my arms. It’s not a dream! My son is back! And my heart whispers, “Thank you, God.” The crowd’s celebration resounds off the sky and hills and village gate and hill of the dead. “Surely God has visited us!” they cry. “Surely God has come near!” “Yes, he has,” I cry as the man walks away through the jubilant crowd. “Yes, he has.” Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online sites such as Faith, Hope and Fiction and his blog Guide for the Mostly Perplexed.
Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. Fiction by Lev Raphael A writer finds his story struggling to make sense of a spiritual experience. Josh Rosenberg had never been alone in a European church. There were always crowds when he was abroad that often included embarrassing and loud Ugly Americans. But armed with heavy, colorful Dorling Kindersley guidebooks, fluent French and passable German and Italian, Josh had never felt like one of them on any of his travels to Europe. Everyone from cab drivers to waiters, hotel clerks, tour guides, and even strangers he asked directions from had always complimented his language skills. Many refused to believe he could be from the U.S. "But Americans don't speak other languages!" was the insistent judgment, sometimes offered with a shrug, sometimes with a frown. Early on, Josh had figured out that speaking a foreign language wasn't just about learning grammar and vocabulary; it was about intonation, listening intently, and being unafraid to make mistakes. With a bit of feeling yourself on stage: it was a performance. Now, before this past summer, he'd only been away for a week at a time, and the brevity of those trips wasn't satisfying. After graduating from the University of Michigan, though, his parents had rewarded him for getting straight 4.0s in French, History, and English with a two-month trip to Europe. He didn't stay in youth hostels; his hotels were all three-star at the very least. "I want you to be comfortable" was his father's wish, and that was a man who relished his after-dinner glass of 18-year-old Glengoyne, his Porsche SUV, and a closetful of hand-made shoes. And why not? His father's own parents had lost everything in the Holocaust—family, home, country—had come to America as paupers, and he himself was an American success story, an award-winning journalist-turned-editor. He looked the part, too: tall and Scandinavian, slim with dense gray-streaked black hair, and a long, thoughtful face with intense sky-blue eyes. So Josh traveled those two gift months without being rushed, enjoying a museum or church with important art in the morning, then a long lunch, and finally a bus or boat tour—unless he rented a bike instead and rode through an embracing park to experience the city in a less touristy way. Josh wanted to be a writer and wanted to see as much as he could without feeling overwhelmed, so he took notes at the end of every day for a possible travel memoir he imagined writing. But whether he was in Belgium, Italy, Germany, France, or England, every famous must-see church he visited was almost always as crammed as a train station, with tourists talking loudly about what they were seeing or hoped to see—crowding around celebrated art like Michelangelo's Mary and Child in Bruges and taking selfies to prove that they'd been there. Before, any church he'd spent time in was filled with either mourners for somebody's funeral mass or celebrants for a wedding. He was there to support a friend or friends and felt present but very much out of place. What happened during a Mass was an alien language, and sometimes, he felt as removed as an explorer noting the unique ways of a people long hidden from a Western microscope. Words like "the body and blood of Christ" stumped him—what could that possibly mean? Yet in spite of growing up Jewish, he sometimes admitted to himself that he felt intrigued by this mystery. ### Fifteen years later, he was still unpublished and working on his PhD in case he couldn’t find a teaching job to support himself while he attempted to make a career of writing. On the way back from a session with his therapist, he'd made some wrong turns and found himself passing St. Jerome's Cathedral, a twin-towered Gothic Revival cousin of the many churches he'd seen on his latest trip abroad. This latest therapy session was another dead-end—another fifty minutes lost. All he ever did was talk about how he could never finish anything he tried to write. Though he wasn't remotely ADHD, he could never get himself focused and organized enough, despite taking writing workshops and going to writers' conferences. Whenever he had a deadline, he missed it, asked for more time, and then drifted away. Was he deluding himself about becoming a writer? Nothing he worked on seemed important. . . He pulled into a parking space near the cathedral, as compelled to stop as if he'd seen the flashing red and blue lights of a police car behind him. Looking over at the church, it was as if every rusticated sandstone block of the facade held some kind of message, a secret or rune. He crossed the street that was unrelieved by traffic or pedestrians mid-afternoon, climbed the wide and shallow steps, pulled open the surprisingly heavy door, and found himself suddenly inside, immediately struck by how old this place looked. The quiet space smelled of sandalwood, and even though the interior of the church at first glance lacked any sense of being venerable, historic, his skin was tingling as if he'd just taken a brisk hot shower. What was that about? Wandering down an aisle on the left, touching the oaken pews that seemed to pull him further and further from the doors and closer to the altar, he might have been on a slow-moving airport walkway. It was so quiet, so calm and inviting. How, why? Josh wasn't religious, but he was nominally Jewish, or at least Jewish enough to have had a bar mitzvah. At the time, he had griped about it because reading Hebrew was unaccountably as difficult for him as algebra or balancing chemical equations. And like most of his friends, that was his exit visa from Judaism. He didn't miss it, had never experienced any kind of need that wasn't being met. He felt completely unaffiliated, disconnected from Judaism, and thankfully, his secular parents never nagged him. "You'll come back when you're ready," his mother had predicted, pushing her auburn curls back off her neck with both hands the way she did when she believed what she was saying was indisputable. A brisk, bright-eyed, woman, his mother was given to wearing black to show off her colorful statement jewelry. She was on various committees at "their" synagogue, acting out of a sense of connection to her people but with no trace of belief or spiritual longing. "God?" she sometimes said. "You don't need God to go to shul. You just need to belong somewhere. Hey, maybe you could write about that!" "Oh, mom . . ." ### Now, here in this hushed and empty space, the enormous crucifix hanging from the high ceiling over the huge, elaborate altar, the paintings whose subjects he could only guess, the bright red carpet leading up to the altar, the dazzling light pouring down from chandeliers—all made him feel he was on a stage waiting to perform . . . something. Back behind him was some sort of shrine with dozens of candles burning in a tiered black metal stand. It wasn't possible, but he could almost sense their heat, even standing so many feet away. Halfway down the aisle, he heard a voice: "Follow me." He whirled around. "Who's there?" he called out, trying to make out if there was someone else present, perhaps in hiding. But the voice had been close, so very close, almost in his ear, yet he was obviously completely alone in the cathedral. Unless someone was tricking him with a hidden speaker—but why would anyone do that? Facing front, he felt as if he'd been slapped: his face was now flushed and stinging. Along the wall to the left of the stage and altar, and not many feet away, was a deep, arched niche with a statue of Jesus, and Josh approached the larger-than-life figure, inexplicably pulled toward it. The lighting around the statue made it glow, and the marble eyes that should have seemed lifeless and cold instead filled him with warmth. In a blinding instant, he knew it was the statue—the statue had spoken to him. That was as solid a fact as the quickened beating of his heart. He felt this strange truth coursing through his body. "Whoa . . ." he muttered, stumbling from the aisle into the nearest row of pews, suddenly feeling sweaty and afraid. And then, as if guided by an unseen hand, slowly he crossed himself. What was happening to him? Though he'd seen this gesture performed countless times both in person and in film, he'd never ever imagined doing anything like it, anywhere, and yet as his arm dropped to his side, all the tension in his body drained out of him and he felt as tired as if he'd been hiking for miles. But strangely still inside, and satisfied. He sat there, waiting for something—perhaps another message, if that's what it was—but nothing came for many long minutes. Perhaps he had been hallucinating. You can't sit here forever, he told himself, yet still he was unable to leave, his gaze held fast by the statue of Jesus, whose arms seemed open for an embrace. "Can I help you, young man? Are you feeling all right?" Surprised, Josh turned and saw that there was an actual person standing there, a smiling, soft-spoken, bearded Friar Tuck of a priest, looking to be in his fifties. "Thank you, but I'm fine. Really." "The name's Joe Thorndyke, and I'm one of the priests here. People call me Joe or Father Joe, whichever they're most comfortable with." He held out a beefy hand, and when Josh rose to take that hand, suddenly he gasped and wobbled. Father Joe held on tight. "Hey, are you sure you're okay, do I need to call the EMTs?" "Please don't. I need to talk, just talk." Father Joe ushered him out around the pews to a side office filled with icons and framed religious posters, one of which was of a golden sunset with a line of text: "Be still and know that I am God." Josh squinted and made out a smaller line of text that read Psalm 46:10. Father Joe pointed to two brown leather club chairs opposite what looked like a rosewood desk and asked if he would like coffee or water. Josh shook his head, sat down, flushed with what he was about to say, but he couldn't hold back when the priest sat opposite him and cocked his head to listen. The moment was so much like a therapy session that Josh started to breathe more normally. I can do this, he thought. "My name's Josh, and something happened to me out there." "Yes?" "Well, I should tell you that I'm Jewish, but haven't been to a synagogue in a very long time." The priest shrugged and waited. "And I'm not stoned or drunk or anything like that." Father Joe smiled. "I didn't think you were, son." "Okay. . . ." Josh took a deep breath and told him as clearly and calmly what he had just heard and felt and done, waiting to be kicked out of the office like a lunatic. But the priest simply nodded at each turn of the story. When he didn't say anything, Josh asked, "What do you think it means?" "What do you think it means?" "Jeez— Oh, sorry—" Father Joe waved that away. Josh hesitated, and then words came from him that sounded both heavy and light: "I'm not sure. Do you think it was like some kind of visitation, or, I don’t know, a door opening to another life? Another way to see?" He tried to remember if he'd ever read of any experience exactly like his before, but he drew a big, fat blank. "Well, Josh, nothing like that's happened to me, and I have to tell you, I'm a little envious. But some of our parishioners have had experiences of spiritual connection that are, well, unusual." "Connection? You mean this was, uh, like, what?" He struggled for words and then heard himself asking "The Holy Spirit?" "It's not for me to say." Father Joe smiled. Moved to tears by the compassion in those words—and that smile—Josh wondered aloud, "I don't know what I can believe. I mean, I've never thought of being anything but one hundred percent Jewish." Father Joe sighed. "Faith is a journey. That might sound corny, but it's true. If you're on a new path, for whatever reason, it'll be uniquely yours." Imagining how his parents, his relatives, and all his Jewish friends might react if they knew what he was discussing now, Josh shook his head and then apologized. "I was just worrying—" "—what people might say?" "Yes!" "Maybe it's a bit early for you to worry about them. Why not come to Mass some Sunday and see how you feel, see if it fits? Every religion is a language, and they mean the most when they match our inner experience." "Well. . ." "Don't expect to have a repeat of what happened today." He grinned. "You know, the first time I had acupuncture, I felt as if I was riding on golden waves of light that rolled ever so slowly under and through my body. It was amazing. And the next time? Nothing. Nothing like that at all. I was so disappointed. I asked the acupuncturist what the difference was, and she said, 'Last week you were really blocked, and the energy was being released.'" "Have I been blocked?" Asking the question made him feel both dizzy and clear at the same time—it was truly bizarre. "Do you know the Bible story of Jacob and the ladder to heaven?" "Sure. That's the one where he dreams about angels going up and down and the next morning builds some kind of shrine and says that God was in that place and he didn't know it. I love that story." "Maybe you're Jacob, and you've found your place." I can give myself to this, Josh thought, and he wondered if he had somehow found something to write about, wherever that might lead. Or had something found him? Lev Raphael's essays and fiction have most recently been published or accepted by Earth and Altar, Faith Hope & Fiction, Agape Review, Braided Way and a dozen other journals.
By Stephen D. Edwards Peter weeps as the rooster crows a second time, and the morning chill overtakes him with a fire reduced to embers. The high priest leaves the courtyard of his home after delivering his command to take Jesus to Pontius Pilate, saying that He claimed to be the Son of God. This must be the end of my days as a fisher of men, Peter thinks, because the Master is now a convict, and I’ve denied Him, as He said I would. Peter leaves the courtyard heading to the upper room, as he considers last night’s events. Jesus washed everyone’s feet, which is so odd, because we should have washed His. Yet, now I can see how I should be last in order to be great in God’s kingdom. New leaves on the fig tree just outside the gate remind Peter that the Master had said, “If you have faith with no doubt, you will not only wither the fig tree, but tell that mountain to fall into the sea, and it will happen.” With renewed faith, Peter prays, God, show me the ways that I may serve others in acts of washing feet for Your sake. Help me in my decisions from this day forward, and help my faith to never falter again. §§§ Walking along the street toward the Sheep Gate, as the skies begin to darken from the hidden sun, Jesus falls three times while carrying the cross, unable to carry it further. A centurion orders Simon of Cyrene to carry the cross ahead of Jesus. Simon remembers that Jesus had said that if someone demands that he go a mile, he should go two. Pleased to obey Jesus, he lifts the cross to his shoulder, holding it securely with his arm, and he walks, willing to go any distance. Peter sees Jesus nearing the top of Golgotha, tattered with blood oozing from His many wounds, which reminds Peter of the Scripture he learned as a child: “By His wounds we are healed.” As Jesus cries out from the pain of the spikes ramming through his wrists and feet, John remembers a line from the psalmist: “They have pierced My hands and feet.” The sight of that violence turns John away. He comforts himself with the memory that tomorrow is the Sabbath of the Passover, which celebrates the covering of the lamb’s blood on the lintels and doorposts, which protected the Israelites as the Lord struck down all the firstborn in Egypt. This reminds John of Jesus’ teaching about the grape vine, its branches, and its vinedresser. I know He wanted me to bear fruit as His branch, but He also said to live in Him and that He would live in me. How can I, now that the Vine has been cut down? Turning back to the cross, he continues: Jesus, how will You be glorified in this? Yet even so, I will honor our time together by striving to bear fruit. When he turns away again, he sees Jesus’ mother Mary standing close by, streams of tears flooding her cheeks and chin. He walks to her to embrace her, as he hopes to comfort her in her weeping, remembering Jesus’ example of service to others. She remains silent as her arms surround him. With the scribes and Pharisees mocking Jesus on the cross and the soldiers casting lots for his clothes, Jesus says, “Forgive them, Father. They don’t know the things they do.” §§§ Storm clouds fill the daylight sky with rain threatening to soak the streets; the air becomes heavy. In the upper room, the walls slightly crack after an earthquake. The disciples’ eyelids droop as though weighted with lead; they fall asleep as they did when Jesus prayed the night before. Mary Magdalene enters the sleepy room announcing that she needs help burying Jesus. Peter wakes up trying to shake off his sorrow and says, “I’ll go with you.” §§§ None of the disciples leave the upper room until after the Sabbath, not even to buy food or go to the Temple. At dawn on the Third Day, Mary Magdalene and the other women return to the tomb to apply the spices to the body of Jesus. They become distressed because they find that Jesus is not there, even though the tomb had been well-sealed two days before. Mary returns to the upper room out of breath, saying, “Our Rabboni has been taken away. We don’t know where they have put Him.” Peter and John look at each other, stunned. Peter puts his shoes and garment on. John follows Peter out the door, as Mary moves out of their way with a gasp. Their walk to the tomb turns into a run and a race that John wins, but he stands outside of the tomb in wonder, looking in from the outside. Peter arrives and doesn’t stop until he is inside the tomb, where he finds the burial cloths cast aside on Jesus’ ledge, but his eyes widen when he sees the face cloth folded, and he allows himself a titter of surprise. John finally follows Peter into the tomb to see the cloth and asks, “Did you fold the cloth?” “No, John! Jesus did, and you know that means He isn’t done with us yet! He truly has made me a fisher of men!” John looks at the sunlight entering the tomb, saying, “It is confirmed by death’s defeat: eternal life belongs to all who believe in Christ. Because He lives, we too will live.” Stephen D. Edwards is a regular contributor to AllAboutChrist.net and the author of The Branch and the Vine, a memoir of long-term depression and hope. He also writes novels and short stories with Christian themes. Edwards’ most recent work has been published in Agape Review, Faith on Every Corner, Calla Press and OpenDoor Poetry.
By Nicholas Kotar  Cover art, The Song of the Sirin by Nicholas Kotar (Waystone Press, 2017) It took Voran a maddening hour to get through the city's reaches and out the gates. Another half hour away from the paths as he tried to get his bearings in the forests beyond the city. He was intent on his path like a pointer on the scent. But when the howling started, his blood turned to ice in his veins. He had heard wolves before. This was no mere wolf. The sound was deeper and darker, like the buzz of a hornet compared to a fly. He tried to recall the details of the many stories of the white stag. Was there a legendary predator to accompany the legendary quarry? Not that he could remember. A blur of white raced before his eyes, so close he could spit at it. In an instant, it was gone. The sun showered the foliage with dappled light. Something that was not the sun – a strange golden mist-light – flickered through the trunks, as though the stag had left a trail of light behind it. The mist beckoned him deeper into the forest. Voran plunged headlong into the deepwood. The strange light continued before him for a mile or so, then blinked out. Voran looked around and realized he had never been in this place before. He stood on the edge of a clearing awash in the morning sun, so bright compared to the gloom of the woods that he could see nothing in it but white light. He stepped forward. The light overwhelmed him, forcing him to crouch over and shield his eyes. Fuzzy at first, then resolving as Voran's eyes grew accustomed to the light, the white stag towered in the middle of the clearing, almost man-high at the shoulder. Its antlers gleamed gold, so bright that they competed with the sun. Voran froze in place and adopted the deep, silent breathing pattern that an old woodsman taught him in childhood. Inch by inch, he reached for his bow. His quiver hung at his side in the Karilan manner, so taking the arrow would be the work of half a second, but extricating the bow strapped to his back was another matter. A single bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and slid down the side of his nose, tickling him. The deer turned its head to Voran, showing no inclination to flee. As though Voran were nothing more than a fly, it flicked both ears and continued to graze. The howl repeated, just to Voran's right. Out of the trees crept a black wolf the size of a bear, its fur glistening in the light of the antlers. It paid no heed to Voran, leading with bristling head toward the grazing deer. It lunged, blurring in Voran's vision like a war-spear, but the stag leaped over it and merely moved farther off to continue grazing. The wolf howled again and lunged again. Back and forth they danced, but the stag knew the steps of this death-dance better than the wolf. His nonchalance seemed to infuriate the hunter. The wolf charged so fast that Voran missed its attack. The deer flew higher than Voran thought possible, and its golden antlers slammed the wolf's flank like a barbed mace. The wolf screamed. The sound ripped through Voran, an almost physical pain. The stag trotted to the other end of the clearing. Looking back once more, it waited. Gooseflesh tickled Voran's neck. The stag called to him, teasing him to continue the hunt. Voran ran, and the deer launched off its back legs and flew into the waiting embrace of the trees. Voran stopped. His body strained forward, intent on the hunt, but his heart pulled back. The wolf. He could not leave a suffering creature to die, even if it was the size of a bear, even if it would probably try to kill him if he approached. With a groan for his lost quarry, Voran turned back. The wolf dragged itself forward with its forepaws. Each black claw was the size of a dagger. As Voran approached, its ears went flat against its head, and it growled deep in its throat. Voran's hands shook. Gritting his teeth, he balled his hands into fists and willed himself to look the wolf in the eye. Its ears went up like an inquisitive dog's. It whined. In the eyes of the wolf, Voran saw recognition. This was a reasoning creature, not a wild animal. "I can help you," he found himself saying to the wolf as to a human being. "If you let me." The wolf stared at him, then nodded twice. Voran pulled a homemade salve – one of Lebía's own making – from a pouch on his quiver. Tearing a strip from his linen shirt, he soaked it with the oils and cleaned the wound of tiny fragments of bone. The wolf tensed in pain, then exhaled and relaxed. Its eyes drooped as the pungent odor suffused the air, mingling with pine-scent. Soon the wolf was snoring. As Voran watched the sleeping wolf, something stirred in his chest – a sense of familiarity and comfort he had only felt on rainy evenings by the hearth. For a brief moment, the wolf was a brother, closer even than any human. Perhaps it was better that he had given up the chance to hunt the stag. This stillness was enough. A rustle of leaves distracted Voran. He turned around to see the white stag returning into the clearing with head bowed. Voran could not believe his good fortune. He would be the successful hunter. His family's dishonored name would be raised up again on Vasyllia's lips. Trembling, he reached for his bow. The stag stopped for a moment, as if considering. More boldly, he walked to Voran. Voran's heart raced at how easy this kill would be, but the excitement died when the stag didn't stop. He stared right at Voran as he strode. Voran pulled out an arrow and nocked it. The stag walked closer. No. He couldn't do it. This beast was too noble, his eyes too knowing. Killing him would be like killing a man in cold blood. The stag stopped close enough that Voran could touch him. To Voran's shock, he bowed his two forelegs and dipped his antlered crown to the earth, a king of beasts making obeisance to a youth of a mere twenty-four summers. Gathering courage, Voran approached the stag. His hands shook as he reached out to touch the antlers. Something shook the branches in the trees ahead. Voran looked up, shoulders tensed. Something, some sort of huge bird, much bigger than a mountain eagle, perched in the crown of an orange-leaved aspen. No, not a bird, something else. Then Voran understood, and terror and excitement fought inside him, leaving him open-mouthed and rooted to the ground. The creature had a woman's face and torso, seamlessly blending with the wings and eagle body. Her head was adorned in golden-brown curls, and each feather shone like a living gem. A Sirin. She opened her mouth and sang. It was his song, but he had never heard it like this. Voran no longer felt his body. It soared above the clouds; it plumbed the depths of the sea; it hovered on the wings of a kestrel. The song pinioned him like a spear to the earth, but raised him on a spring breeze above the world's confusion. He was once again in the arms of his mother as she nursed him, her breath a soft tickle. He was inside the sun, and its music weaved him into existence. The earth shuddered, and he knew that he could turn it inside out. The song of the Sirin stopped, and life lost all meaning. It was all grey, ugly, useless without her song. When he came back to himself, the stag, the wolf, the Sirin were all gone, though her song lingered on the air. It seemed he would never rest, never sleep until he found her again. Nicholas Kotar is an epic fantasy author and an Orthodox deacon. You can learn more about his writing, teaching and other work on his website.
The above excerpt comes from The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son: Book One), which is available for free as an ebook, as well as in audio and print formats (not free). The excerpt was published with permission from the author, who holds the copyright. |
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