Lady in Flames (3 page)

Melissa shivers, the open window having sapped the cabin’s heat.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I’m ready to draw my gun when headlights burst over the horizon.

Willis turns to watch them and steps back from the window.

The headlights grow larger and then decelerate. The silhouette of the vehicle betrays a light bar on the roof. It’s a Sheriff’s car.

“Oh, thank God,” Melissa says, breathing again.

The gray cruiser comes to a halt on the other side of the road while the driver side window rolls down. A weathered, mustached face leans out. “What seems to be the problem?”

Willis is taken aback, almost apologetic. He steps away from the truck and stumbles over his words. “Sheriff Hildersham, uh, nothing, sir. I mean, we was just having a conversation.”

The Sheriff, a tall, solid man, steps out from his cruiser. “Willis, what have I told you about pestering people? Do we need to have another talk?”

Willis inspects his cruddy boots. “No, sir.”

The Sheriff turns to us and signals. “You folks go on and get out of here.”

I waste no time shifting into reverse. As soon as I have enough room, I’m back into first gear and I steer between the two vehicles. Hammering the shifter into second, Melissa and I ride in silence. Neither of us looks back.

The Doubt of a Righteous Man

February 26
th
, 2002 8:42 PM

Mordecai Mothersbaugh walking home

My bones and sockets protest as they swivel in their awkward gait. The biting air works its way in and around each ligament, tendon, and spur, drawing out the dull ache I’ve known all my life.

One leg, strong as timber, strides forward and plants itself into the soft powder. The other, weak and stunted, drags behind in a struggle to keep pace. I was born with what doctors call a leg length discrepancy.

The apostle wrote about the thorn in his side. I’m sure this is my own thorn, but I’ve found strength in my weakness. Daily the Lord helps me overcome the frailty of a temporary body. I’m a tool in His hands, made perfect in His care.

I’ve relied on His strength for the twenty-some years I’ve manned the pulpit at the Shepherd Church and even longer before then; it’s what enables me to stand before the congregation and deliver His bold message with confidence. I pray those in worship won’t see a broken man, but rather the grace of God.

Every Sunday, the parishioners file into the sanctuary, their tired feet plodding heavy along the warped, wooden floorboards. They plant themselves at irregular intervals in the stiff pews, withered husks carrying an uneven but sincere tune. They’re my flock, entrusted to me by the Lord.

The church doesn’t have a parsonage. Each night after I finish my study of the Word, I read through the list of prayer requests for the week, then lock the hefty door and shove off for home.

My spartan apartment is a two-mile trek from doorstep to doorstep. Blistering sun or deadened cold, I make the trip twice a day, six days a week. On Sunday we have morning and evening services, so I commit myself to the road four times on those days.

Only the piercing cold stands guard tonight. I continue to push hard along the berm, carving a broken trail through the dirty snow as I cross into the square nestled in the center of town. A lamppost on each corner illuminates humble glass storefronts, a glimmer of a simpler time.

To the left, a handful of bars sit clustered together like they’re up to no good. Working my way past the squalid Ale House, I’m reminded that Sunday attendance is hurting, as is the offering plate. There isn’t much to go around lately, though it seems people still make time for drink—raucous music and mixed voices burble behind a fogged window.

Next door is Lady Luck, another sorry pit. Brick-red corrugated metal siding wraps the length of the popular dive. Two smokers linger near the door, swapping stories of an explicit nature. They only offer a passing glance.

That’s usually what I merit—a quick, unconcerned look. Sometimes their eyes will say, “Don’t come near me, Preacher. I’ve got no use for religion.” Most people know who I am and leave me be whatever their reasons.

I can’t force people to believe. They’re either searching or they aren’t. No matter what sense of misery grips someone, whatever depth of shame, there’s still some rebel independence coursing through their veins.

We’re all guilty of that, of course. It’s Man’s way. Trying to mend the broken relationship between God and humanity is a burden under which I often stumble. Stuck in the mire with shaky hands, I have nothing but the Cross to cling to.

I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been clinging as hard as I should. Toiling away at my calling, I feel as if I’m a lone beacon of light in a dismal, murky world. How long until I’m snuffed out?

The muffled clamor of the bars behind me, I shrug my overcoat closer round my neck. Halgraeve is rotting from the inside out. It suffers from a spiritual blight as old as the dirt-caked foundations on which this square is built.

Godless generations hand down their lustful inheritance, gluttonous heirlooms of greed. Borderline addicts slip into the dregs of despair. Hopelessness maintains a chokehold on those who would find solace in a well-being they may never recover.

The moral decay of this town is as varied as the pock-marked asphalt, but it all stems from love of self. Disregard for one’s fellow man and an all-consuming glorification of one’s own deeds is what has this place so steeped in sin.

I came to town with canvas duffle in hand and a few hundred dollars in my pocket. I walked as much of it as I could and tried to get a feel for what cried out for salvation. Where was the Lord leading me? Could I make an impact here? The run-down century homes, the idle farms, and the lonely shut-ins—they all spoke to me in a voice clear and true: Save us.

The quiet gloom is still here. Now past the square, cramped homes creep up onto the road on either side. Which of them houses abuse? Which reeks of alcohol? Which is a hell-hole? There’s no way to tell. The weak glow from frosty windows betrays nothing about what misery lives within.

Just yesterday I was speaking with one of the farmers who raise corn. He found his wife to be unfaithful and wasn’t sure he wanted to live anymore. They have three little ones at home…

It’s hard to console a man when something he holds dear is ripped from him. The sanctity of his family, sullied and disrupted, may never be mended. I prayed with him.

Last week it was a woman whose son stole her roll of twenties she kept saved in a shoe box. He shoved her out of the way when confronted about it. She’s more worried he might be on drugs than she is of mounting bills.

The general lack of respect characterized by today’s youth is alarming. Even more so is their lack of humanity. Around town, reports run rampant of how groups of them seem to randomly select someone for a beating. The first, several weeks ago, was an isolated incident. The second was a signal that something wasn’t right.

This sick, mindless collusion has no reason about it. What is the profit? What is gained? There is no theft, no motivation for revenge apparent in their actions. How far off-center must they be to lash out at their fellow man for nothing more than what appears to be an angst-ridden disdain for society?

“The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.” Truer words were never written, but even the psalmist asked, “How long will my enemy triumph over me?”

I don’t know whether my toils have any efficacy here. The moral fabric of man continues to disintegrate and the Lord’s people lose their foothold. There is no vivacity, no zeal for the Word, and the number of the faithful dwindles. When should I shake the dust off my feet and leave?

I feel I’ve arrived to find life so deadened as to never see the light of the sun again. The primary reason for us to exist, to fellowship with the Lord in all of our being, is lost in the hearts of nearly all. The fire of our souls needs stoking. I just don’t know if I’m the man to do it.

Again, I’m shackled by doubt, a doubt so inconsolable I feel as if it’s in the room with me when I wake up. It tails me as I tread this worn-out road. When I stand up to preach, it sits in a pew, glaring back at me.

What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t my calling? Can I leave these people to themselves, to feed and fend off each other? Is Halgraeve lost for good?

These questions plague me without answer. I’ve prayed for direction, but nothing is clear. The weight of my uncertainty is like the icy overhangs on these gutters, layer upon layer built up over time, threatening to tear down under the heaviness of their presence.

I trudge on, fits of insecurity undermining my search for hope. My feet continue to swish through the slush until I’m sure I hear rapid steps behind me, but I look over my shoulder to see nothing at all.

It must be the wind. The snow muffles much of the sound of a sleeping town, so even the slightest rustling is noticed. I remain on my path until I hear the crunching of heavy steps again. Halting, I spin around.

Nothing. I peer into the shadows cast by one-story homes, the spaces unreached by the glow of the streetlights, but there isn’t any movement. Satisfied, I turn and resume my walk.

Crunching again, this time multiple sets of feet in rapid succession, pounding down the crisp snow. Those wayward children—the ones responsible for those attacks—they are at once very real to me. I’m certain I can hear their panting and whispered threats.

I lean into my stride even harder than normal, shoving the earth behind me in a strained gallop. The creases in my pocket-shrouded palms gush sweat. Juvenile fears of being chased home after school come streaking back.

“Cripple boy! Cripple boy!” those far-off taunts ring out in my memory. This silly return to childhood wanes with the understanding that I might be in danger of bodily harm. Can I fend off several teenagers? Four or five of them? I have no means to defend myself.

I strain over my shoulder once more to see movement behind a tree—a black, darting figure. I can’t outrun them, however many there are. My joints are already burning and ragged under the stress with which I command them.

A stinging rasp wheezes inside my chest. My eyes water in their own response to anxiety and the bitter air. There’s not much left in me now, and I still have so far to go.

A few houses ahead, a single bulb burns over a side door. Its glow trickles into the driveway; a red truck sits just beyond. This is the most inviting thing I can make out in my hurried scramble. Surely someone is home.

I peg my way toward the driveway, praying to the Lord that somebody will answer my knock.

Bound by Duty, Bound by Souls

February 26
th
, 2002 8:51 PM

Inside the Driver’s Camaro

The beauty of a super-physical body is that I can splice myself into the physical world with varying degrees of substance. Someone might see me saunter past—just another motorist on a darkened road. Or I might blend in and out of someone’s conscious thought, sidestepping the triggers that signal they’re not alone.

The mechanics of how it works isn’t important, and the car might as well be an appendage. I’m a mirror reflecting the surface of something that runs deeper than sheet metal and flesh, but the physical world is a concrete place. It’s traversed by the simple and familiar.

The driven wind picks up now and then, sending freight train gusts between narrow passages whether they be of bark or brick. Winter rests heavy upon the earth, immovable, though I can’t feel it.

An hour ago I gave up the chase for Grimley—a mischievous child who stole a soul from me—but just for now. He hides somewhere in the Upper Territory with his new plaything, oblivious to any sense of order or direction.

There’s no use in holding this against him; he’s only a wanderling. Most have some whimsical way about them seeing as they are an aborted, half-formed semblance of what they would have been had they been born.

Tonight the center of Halgraeve, come to life with a call to urgency, draws me in as a casual observer. The squeal of tires and slamming doors rings throughout the square in the center of town, breaking the muted calm.

Peace now ousted, a rotund man in a parka stomps away from his van, belligerent. He vows his intent in an obscenity-laced tirade, kicking over a garbage receptacle to keep onlookers at their distance.

Following behind is a stick figure in a dusky overcoat. A cap covers his bobbing skull, sloppy feet kicking up slush. He tips his head at a few smokers on the sidewalk with a knowing grin.

They both enter a low-slung bar called Lady Luck.

Parked in a secluded corner of the square, I don’t forget I’m bound by an obligation nearly as old as humanity. The methods first used by Abel, passed down to each member of the Fold, stand as my code of ethics.

I abide by these with an understanding that the world isn’t black and white. Murder is not always a simple act, nor is it often deserved. So I stray at times. I veer from the path laid before me when it seems appropriate. Sometimes it seems necessary to…interfere.

No one is set to die tonight, but the groundwork will be laid. I open and shut the driver-side door with as solid a clunk as you’d expect from the real thing, but that’s the end of my physical presence. No one can see me as I make my way across the square, slicing between the visible spectrum of light.

There is a conversation in which I’m interested—a guilty admission that I have to hear. I draw close to Lady Luck and peer into the neon-lit window.

The rotund man stands behind the bar, ranting at the barkeep tending to customers. He also turns to a few men sitting on stools, trying to get a reaction from them.

One of the drunks doesn’t respond; his head remains buried in folded arms.

The other nods a slow yes or no, too inebriated to form much of a reply.

The barkeep, a solid man wearing a black trucker cap, throws his towel onto the bar and nods to a coworker to cover for him.