A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4 Page 5

  “Have you considered that you might have heard about these things before and forgotten them?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Father, but the things I dreamt haven’t been about anything I learned in church or school. They’re gruesome and detailed. I’ve relived people’s deaths. And I’m not talking about people who died in their sleep. They were outright murders. One turned out to be different from what the authorities found.”

  “How so, my child?” His deep brown eyes drew down in concern and wrinkles appeared at their corners.

  I told him about Margaret Brogand and pulled the folded copies of the news articles from my pocket. I explained how the police had arrested Mr. Quigley for the crime, an innocent man.

  “And you found these articles after the dream, not before?”

  “Yes, Father, that’s why I went and looked it up at the historical society.”

  He pondered my answer for a long while, thumbing his Bible’s brown, leather cover. “Alex, I think you might need more help than I can give you.”

  His words shattered the fragile shell I’d created. My confidence broke, and with a trembling hand, I patted his. The unique fragrance found me again. I glanced around, wary of where it had originated, but the feel of something on his hand drew my attention. Before I could lift my fingers, gunfire echoed through the room and the high ceilings faded away.

  * * *

  A shorter, compact building materialized around me, long and narrow. Strong oak beams ran the length of the room, framing its white plaster walls and pews. Light poured in through simple stained-glass windows along each side. The wrinkled pages of a Bible and pulpit lay beneath my fingers, and vicious cries echoed outside. Hammering thuds boomed from the far door as the wood cracked and splintered. The hinges creaked under the strain before letting go. The doors burst inward, and a group of bearded men sauntered into the room––rough worn shirts, pants, and weathered skin screamed of hard times.

  “Father Delphineus, we’s gotta have a word wit’ you.”

  I glared down from the raised pulpit. “I’m here and would have answered had you simply knocked. What is so dire tha’ you dare desecrate the Lord’s house?” My words were tinged with an unfamiliar, foreign accent.

  The four men strode down the aisle like the four horsemen, and the first cocked the lever-action rifle in his hand. “You said this drought would pass. We done everthin’ you’ve asked. Hell, I ain’t got no sheep left. Had to roast the last one, and it was barely skin ‘n bones. I gave you two when you asked earlier this year. Where’s they at?” The group stopped at the edge of the first pew and the leader’s double barrel lowered to my head, its stock still grasped at the burly man’s waist.

  I stepped down and confronted the men with palms up. “I gave them to those in need. Now, Fin, what do you plan on doing with that? I know you didn’t get it in your head to steal from a church of God.”

  The three men behind Fin shuffled in place, unable to meet my gaze. “How ‘bout you, Boyd? Did you come here to betray your Lord?”

  The men behind Fin didn’t answer, but their leader squinted his eyes around a bulbous nose and stared back in condemnation. “You’s the one that’s got some answerin’ to do. We ain’t got nothin’. The crops ain’t doin’ nothing and the injuns are out rootin’ in the forest. We cain’t get nothin’. My family’s starvin’, so don’t talk to me about how the Lord is great. He’s the one who done this, so we aim to take back what we gave. That ain’t thievin’, just livin’. I’ll take what you’s got on ya.” To emphasize his point, Fin lifted the gun to my chin.

  My stern resolve softened, but the words that answered Fin held none of the fear I felt. “I can’t do that, Fin. I have nothin’ to give but myself. I’ll help you sow new crops in the fields. We’ll find a way. This is jus’ a test.”

  Panicked prayer betrayed my outer composure as it tumbled through my mind. Father Delphineus’s accented voice whispered in my head. The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not— But the prayer ended abruptly as the gun thundered from inches away.

  * * *

  The rifle thunder resounded in my ears even as the tall ceiling and arched windows greeted my homecoming. Father Gilbert was staring at me, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

  I took a shuddering breath as the faint aroma of oiled leather drifted away and the stillness of the large room returned to comfort me.

  “Are you all right, Alex?”

  I shook my head, gulping air and trying to erase the look in Fin’s onyx eyes from my thoughts, his haunting glare that promised murder. Feeling returned to my hands where he now had mine gripped in his. His silver ring felt cold on my skin, and it taunted me in the shimmering lights from the window. Stamped in its center was a shepherds crook, surrounded by the phrase ‘caelitus mihi vires.’

  “What is caelitus mihi vires?” I managed to whisper.

  “Huh… oh, you mean the ring. It means ‘My strength is from heaven.’”

  “Was it passed down to you?”

  “Yes…,” Father Gilbert answered, a questioning look still knitting his brow.

  “From Delphineus?” I continued.

  At that, his eyebrows shot up and he dropped my hand. “Wha—How? No, from my father. Delphineus was my great-grandfather.”

  I nodded, “And he wore the ring, too.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he nodded.

  “Father Gilbert, I’m sorry about what happened to Father Delphineus. He didn’t deserve to die like that. Times were just tough, and the people of his town were starving.”

  His eyes widened to large orbs. “How did you know?”

  “I just saw it.”

  “Just now?” prompted the priest.

  “Yeah, I touched your ring. He must have been wearing it when he died.”

  Father Gilbert nodded once more. He slumped in his seat, lowered his elbows to his knees, and stared at the tile floor in thought. Without looking up, he mumbled, “If this is true, you have been given a gift.”

  “A gift! What I see is bloody. It’s horrible. How can this be a gift? Frankly, I think it’s a curse.”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. “Alex, you’ve done nothing to deserves such a thing.” He turned back to me before continuing. “I believe it is a blessing. You might even call it a gift because the people you see can no longer speak for themselves. The true curse would be to have this ability and ignore it.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Our Savior asked the same question in Luke chapter three. Decide for yourself what to do. But remember, you’re their only hope. Think it over. I’m sure you will do what’s right. You have already answered a large question for me.” With a comforting pat on my knee, he rose and vanished into the stone corridors of the old church, twisting the ring on his finger. I left the building still shrouded in questions, but with a better idea of what needed to be done. How was another question entirely.

  Why me? I wondered. I’m just a kid with no father and no real future, at least nothing I can foresee.

  It occurred to me, maybe I was supposed to find out what really happened to my father. I thought back to both dreams and how they came about. I touched something they came into contact with when they died: the gate and the bathtub. The only thing my father had touched was the car, and it was long gone.

  Or was it?

  Monday - 8

  October 3, 1995

  The next day was a normal Monday, but determination stirred in the pit of my stomach. Paige didn’t even mention what happened on Saturday. After school, I skipped my regular visit to the cemetery and rushed home. I dug through our old files and found the insurance claims from the accident. Then I grabbed the phonebook and called the company to find out what they did with cars after a wreck. They left me on hold for an eternity, listening to the same redundant elevator music. But eventually someone picked up. It turned out that they sold the wrecked cars to salvage yards. The woman on the other line even told me which one catered to my area. It was just outs
ide of town, “Tranquil Heights Auto Salvage.” By the time I found them they had closed for the day.

  * * *

  Tuesday

  October 4, 1995

  After school the following afternoon, I caught a city bus. It took forty-five minutes to make its way across town. I was unfamiliar with the area and watched the roads and farms pass by. As we entered the inner business district, the scenery became littered with office buildings. My thoughts wandered as I watched the buildings fly by, and my stomach grew queasy.

  What will happen when I touch the car? My mind ran through the different possibilities. By the time I reached my stop, my imagination had delved into the darkest recesses of my mind, leaving me somewhat unnerved. Most of my visions had been graphic and bloody, scenes of my father’s car wreck based on the warning videos I’d seen in school. A shudder ran through me as the bus slowed to a halt. The display above the driver’s mirror changed to Prior Street. I stood up and walked to the door as it folded before me. Just as my feet left the last step, the driver closed the door and charged down the road.

  The salvage yard stood against the rolling, brown hills and trees like a Wild West town. The only thing missing was a tumbleweed. The yard wasn’t far from the bus stop. There were only a few shops in the area, and even those were separated from the salvage yard by a great distance. It was as though the building were a testing facility for highly contagious biological bombs. It had been placed far enough away to keep any outbreaks from reaching the rest of the population. The building was rundown and its white walls had rusted over the years, but people still bustled about outside of it and in the open garage. Sunlight gleamed off a variety of wrecked vehicles. Crushed cars and trucks were stacked higher than the chain-link fence surrounding the building.

  Once I’d reached the dilapidated building, I stilled myself and pushed open the rickety wooden door. Inside, an unshaven man in his mid-forties stood behind the counter surrounded by wood-paneled walls. He had a scraggly beard, and his trucker’s cap advertised Route 69. He was cleaning a corroded automotive joint with a ripped towel. The rag was covered in grease, and I wondered if my initial assumption might have been wrong. Was he using the joint to clean the rag? I couldn’t see a clean spot on it. When I walked in, his weary blue eyes found me from under the dirt-caked cap like a predator’s peering out of a shadowy jungle.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Uhhh…,” I stuttered, attempting to regain my composure. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yeah, I’m looking for a blue sedan that, um, came in a long time ago. You mind if I have a look around your yard?”

  “Nah,” said the man, returning his gaze to the object in his hands. “Go ahead. How long ago did it come in?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “Whew,” he answered with a shake of his head. “That’s quite a while. I ain’t sure you’ll find it, but feel free to give it a shot.”

  With a nod, I stepped past him to the open doorway leading into the yard. There were hundreds of cars lying about the dirt covered lot. Some were recent additions, still possessing most of their parts, while others were gutted and only skeletons of what they once were. I meandered through the leaning towers of stacked cars and trucks, my gaze gliding up each one in search of my father’s blue sedan. I could only hope it wasn’t one of the crushed ones above.

  After twenty minutes, sunlight glinted off a deep blue fender. The faded paint peeked through a forest of other cars. It was hidden behind them and sat unmolested by the large crane. I inched past a few vehicles, careful not to touch them. This automotive graveyard had to contain memories of many violent deaths. As I approached, the entire car came into view. It was as though the search had been surreal compared to this moment. The front had been crushed in and the hood stood open, revealing the remains of a demolished engine. I rounded it and found a large scratch I knew. My bike had hit its rear fender when Dad was teaching me to ride. I hesitated before glancing inside, afraid I might see the gruesome aftermath of the wreck, but its seats and interior had been removed. The windows and lights were gone. Even the tires and rear axle had been taken. All that was left was the shell of a car from a happier time in my life.

  I stepped up to the driver side door and stretched out my hand, but halted an inch away. Time stopped as memories of my smiling parents flooded through me: Dad teaching me how to build a campfire, and all of us laughing and roasting marshmallows after hours of trying to coax it to life. Other trips flew through my head, a host of memories I cherished. I often thought about them while sitting at his side in the cemetery, discussing the day’s events. The thought of what I might see became clear. My hand trembled as it hovered over the door, awaiting the command to move closer. After a lifetime of memories, I stepped away and my hand found its way to my side. I couldn’t do it; I didn’t want to.

  I remembered him alive, energetic, and smiling. I didn’t want to tarnish that, to change it as the old sedan had. My father left me with a treasure-trove of memories and I didn’t want to lose them. They might become remnants of what they once were, altered by reliving my father’s death. That’s a memory I would never forget, and one I didn’t want. Stepping back, I turned from the car and sidled past the echoes of other people’s pasts. As I walked out of the salvage yard, I nodded to the bearded man at the counter and left before he could speak. A weight lifted from my shoulders as I made peace with his absence. It was time to speak for those that needed me. My father had said enough.

  Wednesday - 9

  October 5, 1995

  The next morning, I awoke feeling better than I had in years. I was even up before Vivian could barge into the room, armed with a cup of ice water. After a shower and a bowl of cereal, I slipped out of the house with the girls on my heels. Gloria mumbled a protest as I outdistanced them, but Abigail shushed her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. At school I went through the motions, but was distracted. Random objects posed questions about their previous owners. A girl in gym dropped her purse. I went after the runaway pencils and eyeliner in the hopes of seeing something, but nothing came to mind. Father Gilbert had said that I should use the ability to help others, no matter how gruesome. If it was a gift and not a curse, as he suggested, maybe I was meant for greater things than living in fear of my abusive stepfather. I once overheard someone say, “If you want opportunities in this life, you have to make them.”

  In math, the guy next to me dropped his pen. I grabbed it off the floor. It felt normal, so I handed it back. I walked from class to class running my fingers along the walls and lockers, but with no success. The rest of the day was filled with more disappointment. Everything I touched seemed to have no past, at least nothing dreadful enough to bring about a vision. By the end of the day, I even stopped by the principal’s office to thank him for his help and leaned on the desk for support. How many principals had it survived? Evidently, not enough to encounter anything tragic.

  Giving up on the school, I trudged through the streets in search of anything that might disclose its secrets. Nothing looked out of order on Main Street until I saw a familiar lawnmower sitting alone on the sidewalk. Homeless Bob was never without it, but he was nowhere in sight. The road was vacant, so I ran to the other side. As I approached the antique yard tool, I overheard voices echoing down the alley between the local storefronts. Grant Brogand and a few of his teammates were fanned around someone, enraged and screaming.

  “Come on, you hobo, ain’t you got nothin’ good?” yelled Grant. When the older man didn’t answer, the football star shoved him into the wall. He clutched his pack to his chest and mumbled incoherently, but the pleas sounded more like prayers. One of Grant’s cronies stepped up and knocked the bearded man to the ground. He scuttled back toward the wall and pulled his knees to his chest, cradling his worn backpack. Seeing an open target unwilling to fight back, the other boys leapt in and beat the man with curled fists and well-aimed feet. Some of their screams turned from angry and hate-filled, to energetic
and joyous at having such entertainment.

  My first thought was to run, to leave before they saw me, but that only lasted a second. Father Gilbert’s words echoed through my mind, “You are their only hope.” The butterflies in my stomach stilled. Stepping out from behind the rock wall, I strode toward the athletes with fists clenched.

  “Leave him alone! He didn’t do anything to you.” The man sat huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth as they tortured him with relish. Only a mumbled complaint escaped his lips.

  Grant, the leader of the band, turned from Homeless Bob and assessed the pitiful sight before him. Under his gaze, I became conscious of my bruises, my thin arms and legs. His eyes were full of contempt and his brows furrowed at the interruption. The look planted my feet in the cement. “And what do you think you’re gonna do about it, huh, Drummond? You want another beating like your daddy gave you? Come on over, join your homeless buddy here.” He turned his attention from me to the huddled shape below and continued his patronizing speech. “Hey, Bobby Boy, you want company?” A malevolent grin split the athlete’s lips at the rhetorical question. “Nah, he won’t mind at all.”

  Setting aside my fragile insecurities, I shouted, “Stop!” With a confidence only skin deep, I took a few steps forward. “Grant, you better watch what you do from now on. Otherwise, that little family secret of yours ain’t gonna be so secret anymore.”