Earth Sentinels Collection

by Elizabeth M Herrera

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “God. Religion. The meaning of life. You choose. I always love a great…”

  As the priest rambled, Haruto saw a golden light infiltrate the atrium, encompassing everything, including Father Chong. Strings of sparkling light, pulsing with life, were connected to the glass walls and plants. Even the jar of honey shimmered. All were imbued with this glorious energy that filled her with a joy more intense and pure than anything she had ever experienced before.

  Father Chong noticed his guest was staring off into space. “Haruto?”

  The golden light vanished, but the sense of peace it had brought remained with Haruto. She wondered if the golden light was an indication that her DNA was mutating as her spirit guides had mentioned earlier. Or was it a sign of a spiritual awakening? Either way, she now trusted a grander plan was at work.

  “Haruto, are you okay?”

  She looked at the priest, but couldn’t find the words to explain what had just happened, so she excused her behavior by saying, “I’m sorry…I’m…just a little tired, I guess.”

  “Maybe you’re still recovering from your long journey.”

  “Possibly. I’m not quite myself.”

  “Well, no more long journeys for you until you’re well rested.” He raised his cup of tea in a toast to her health.

  Smiling, Haruto clinked her cup with his.

  Darkest Before the Dawn

  THE BLACK CAIMAN calmly reserved its strength, letting the current carry its massive body, and the passengers it held, down the Amazon River. Zachary drowsily lay on his side using his arm for a pillow to protect his head from the uncomfortable ridges on the reptile’s back. Delirium was setting in. His leg throbbed in pain. The young man suppressed his moans, not wanting to scare Eva who happily sat near the beast’s head, her small bare feet resting between its eyes. The last thing Zachary remembered before falling asleep was the sound of rippling water.

  “He’s awake,” a woman said.

  A handful of Caucasian men and women stood over Zachary, who was sprawled on the shore. He tried to open his eyelids, but they were too heavy.

  “He doesn’t look well. Does he? See his leg?”

  The missionaries examined the young man’s swollen and infected wound. Purple streaks flared under his skin.

  “That looks septic. Don’t you think?”

  “Let’s take him back. Clean him up.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  Zachary managed a nod.

  “We’re going to take care of you. Okay?”

  He whispered, “Eva…”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The people picked up the young man by his arms and legs, careful to avoid the infected area, carrying him to their campsite, which was comprised of a half-dozen tents and a small bamboo hut. Zachary was placed in the more permanent structure on top of palm-leaf mats where he shivered with fever.

  A young prim woman, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, leaned down to feel his forehead. She frowned. “Reverend, would you say a prayer for him?”

  The thirty-five-year-old man of God, dressed in khaki shorts and a t-shirt, nodded. The humidity had curled his sun-bleached hair. His beard was scruffy. He didn’t look like a clergyman, but the jungle had a way of conforming a man to its wild ways. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Lord, we ask that you heal this man, if not in body, then in spirit. Please guide us to do what is right for him. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  Healing mode. The group did their best to tend to Zachary’s wound. They bathed his leg, lightly pressing rags around the edges of the snakebite, coaxing the pus out, and applying antibiotic cream taken from their first-aid kit. If they had possessed oral antibiotics, they would have given him some, but the supply was long gone—used up during the outbreak—not that it had done any good. Now all they could do was wait, and pray some more.

  By the next day, Zachary’s condition had worsened. His breathing was shallow, and, because of his weakened state, the telltale signs of the virus reemerged, casting blotches over his skin.

  Alone in the hut, he reached the final stages of life.

  His pain disappeared as his bodily functions shut down.

  His beating heart slowed until it finally stopped.

  Dead, Zachary’s spirit rose out of his body, heading toward the bright light at the end of the tunnel. But, before he could travel to the other side, his mom and dad appeared in front of him, their bodies glowing. Larry wore his favorite plaid shirt and blue jeans, and held his arm around Marilyn who smiled radiantly as she comforted her son, “Zach, it’s going to be all right.”

  “Mom? Dad? It’s so good to see you!”

  His father said, “Same here. We’ve missed you, too. But we’ve been watching you.”

  “I don’t understand. How could you see…” His voice trailed off. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, we caught the virus just like everyone else, and well…we didn’t make it as you can see.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had hoped to come home one day. Bring the kids. Bring the wife. Except me and Conchita—”

  His mother interrupted, “We know. And we’re sorry you two have been torn apart.”

  “I guess you were right. I had a death wish going into the jungle.”

  “No, you were right. You’ve been living your life to the fullest, and we’re proud of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but there’s just one catch. You need to go back.”

  “No, Mom, I can’t. I just don’t have the strength to do that. Not anymore.”

  “We know. But a friend of yours showed up. He said he was enlisting help from shamans around the world, and they’d start working on you.” Marilyn looked at her husband. “What did he say? Something about ‘healing energy,’ right?”

  Larry nodded. “Uh-hum. He said they were going to heal you so you could save the world.” He chuckled. “Bechard’s a bit dramatic. Isn’t he?”

  Suddenly, rays of golden light streamed from every direction, encompassing Zachary.

  His mother exclaimed, “Wow! It looks like they started. Well, we’ll get out of the way. Good luck, Zach. We love you, son.”

  A funeral. The missionaries placed Zachary’s lifeless body in a sheet, wrapping it around him. Then, holding each end, they carried him from the campsite to the river where they planned to dump his body. The caimans and pirañas would take care of the rest.

  “We don’t even know his name.”

  “Let’s call him John.”

  “John…that’s nice.”

  When they reached the shoreline, the reverend said, “I’d like to say a prayer first.” Everyone bowed his or her head. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven…”

  While the reverend prayed, Zachary felt his spirit return to his stiff body. His cells woke up. His heart pumped. The blood flowed. Now that he was fully encased within the flesh, he tried to speak, but his muscles had a mild case of rigor mortis. With great effort, he willed his eyes to open.

  Solid white.

  Zachary panicked until he realized there was a sheet covering his head. But his momentary relief evaporated when he heard the Lord’s Prayer being recited. Oh, my God, they’re going to bury me! He earnestly attempted to move his arms and legs, feeling a spark of mobility.

  “Amen.”

  Zachary struggled to move. Nothing.

  The people stepped into the shallows.

  The young man heard the rush of the river. Scared, the adrenaline kicked in, and he gave it all he had, managing to wiggle his extremities. The maneuver caused his weight to shift, and the sheet slipped from the missionaries’ hands.

  Zachary’s linen-encased body fell onto the riverbank, his lower half jutting into the water, which careened around his cloth-covered legs. He struggled within the sheet, flinging it off.

  The women screame
d.

  The men jumped back, shocked and confused.

  The reverend exclaimed, “It’s a miracle!”

  All of the pain that had died within Zachary’s body came back to life with a vengeance as the people dragged him out of the water and over the rocky shore.

  “I can’t believe we almost threw this man into the water alive!”

  “I’m telling you, he was dead!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Give him a minute.”

  The bright sun stung the young man’s eyes.

  A half-dozen blurry faces stared down at him.

  “What’s your name?” one asked.

  “Za…” His voice gave out. He cleared his throat, then tried again, “Zachary.”

  “Nice to meet you, Zachary.”

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  “Who?”

  “Eva. My daughter.”

  “Sorry, but you were all alone.”

  A fear welled up in Zachary greater than anything he had ever felt before. He struggled to sit up, but became dizzy. The reverend knelt beside him, propping him up by the shoulders. Zachary scanned the jungle along the riverbank, weakly calling out, “Eva…”

  The others sympathized with his situation.

  The prim woman gently told him, “We haven’t seen anyone else. I’m sorry.”

  Tears rolled down Zachary’s cheeks as he anguished internally, Why was I brought back for this?

  It was morning, but the sun had yet to peek over the treetops. Zachary lay awake in the semi-dark hut. Although his body was healing at a rapid pace, his heart hurt as he anguished over Eva’s disappearance. Is she alive? Is she calling for me? Is she scared? He needed to find her. He thought of all the possible places Eva could be. Did she wander ashore? Or fall in the river? What if she and the caiman continued on without me? Or circled back to the tribe? Or worse. He didn’t want to think about her possible death. The only thing he knew for certain was a child wandering through the jungle, stumbling into aggressive territories, would not last long.

  The prim woman approached the hut, standing in the doorway. The pale-blue light, which blanketed the campsite behind her, silhouetted her form. She said to him, “Good morning. Are you doing okay?”

  Zachary shook his head.

  The reverend stepped beside the woman. He peered inside the hut, asking with forced cheerfulness, “How are you feeling this morning, Zachary?”

  The woman knew the young man wasn’t in the mood to talk, so she answered on his behalf, “Reverend, he’s still recovering. Why don’t we make some breakfast?”

  The reverend became concerned, furrowing his brow, creating creases in his sunburned forehead. “How much food do we have left?”

  “Not much. And I don’t think the delivery’s coming. Not in time, anyway.”

  “Hmmm…did you try the satellite phone?”

  “The line’s still dead.”

  “We need those supplies.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe Zachary can tell us what’s going on out there?” The reverend had tossed out the question a little louder than normal, hoping to coax him into the conversation.

  The woman tilted her head, indicating she would like to speak to the reverend away from the hut. Standing near the fire pit, she said in a hushed tone, “He’s grief-stricken. Let’s just give him some time. Get some food in him, then maybe he’ll open up.”

  Stress caused the reverend to respond harsher than he normally would have, “We’ve all lost someone lately. Grief’s a luxury right now.”

  “But it’s a fresh wound for him.”

  He sighed, conceding, “All right, I’ll make the fire.”

  The Desolate Reservation

  THE SURVIVORS AT the Bear Claw’s reservation had divvied up the workload and their efforts were paying off. The well-tended garden promised to grow more than enough produce to last them throughout the winter. The men’s hunting expeditions were providing an ample meat supply. The women had become adept at frying and roasting over an open fire, and, when the time came, they would use Grandma Hausis’s wood-burning stove for canning.

  Since survival seemed assured without any help from the outside world, and it was the middle of summer, a beautiful season in Canada, Tom and Cecile had taken a handful of young people on a retreat into the surrounding forest to teach them about the old ways, hoping to prevent the tribe’s customs and knowledge from following the elders to their graves. During this time, the couple had taught the kids how to set up a traditional teepee; find herbs, mushrooms and medicinal plants; and shamanic journey—the traditional practice of communicating with spirit guides, totem animals and ancestors who resided in the spirit realm.

  The girls who had signed up for the adventure were Adeelah, 17, the terrific nurse during the virus outbreak; the shy Eyota, 15; and the tomboy Taima, 19. The two boys were Rowtag and Manuel, both 18, aimless and angry. Their hair was cut to shoulder-length—a compromise between their tribe’s traditions and Western civilization’s expectations.

  The group had been away for four days and was returning to the village. Two American Paint horses carried the supplies and equipment through the trees while the adults and teens hiked on foot.

  “So…what was the favorite thing you learned?” Cecile asked the teenagers.

  Adeelah answered, “I liked listening to the stories by the fire.”

  “But what did you learn?”

  “Um…that I could talk with our ancestors and my grandmother. That was cool.”

  “Rowtag? Manuel? How about you?”

  Rowtag shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to admit he had enjoyed himself.

  Manuel replied, “Fishing was fun. And Tom is a good storyteller.”

  They reached the outskirts of the village. Tom peered through the trees, viewing the rutted dirt road that meandered between the run-down houses and unkempt yards. The whole place was oddly quiet. No one was in sight, except for a pair of listless dogs. Something was wrong. Tom motioned for Cecile and the teenagers to remain where they stood. They obeyed, but glanced at each other wondering what was going on. The horses took advantage of the standstill and nibbled on low-hanging leaves.

  Without saying a word, Tom cautiously snuck out of the forest, using an old shed as cover. From here, he surveyed the surroundings, still not seeing anyone. He hustled to an old two-toned Ford truck, one end of its rusted bumper hanging on the ground. His breathing quickened as he studied the vacant reservation. The two dogs ran up to him, wagging their tails and whimpering with excitement. Normally, Tom would have given them a quick pat on the head, but, right now, he was too distracted by his concerns.

  He went to the nearest shack, stepping onto the warped boards that acted as the porch, pushing open the wooden door, which was already ajar. The place was empty. On the dining table, flies gathered over a plate of decaying sliced tomatoes and the desiccated remains of a spilled drink. A chair had fallen to the floor. What’s happened? Where is everyone?

  Tom rushed outside, his heart pounding in his chest. The dogs followed him to the middle of the road where the man desperately spun in all directions, shouting, “Hello! Anyone!?” The dogs, scared by his outburst, slunk away. Grief overcame Tom. He fell to his knees in the dirt. It was only then he noticed the heavy-duty tire marks intermixed with the scuffled footprints of thick-tread boots and smooth-bottomed moccasins.

  Tom raised his head to the heavens in supplication. The spirits responded immediately in the form of a vision. In his mind’s eye, he saw military trucks and a bus entering the reservation just before the sun lit up the sky. The armed Canadian troop, which was commanded by a UN leader, quickly disembarked, then stealthily disseminated throughout the village. His people were pulled from their beds at gunpoint, then made to stand in the middle of the road surrounded by the soldiers.

  Lost in the trance, Tom did not hear Cecile approaching. She stopped beside him. The teenagers and horses were close behind her.

 
She gently called his name.

  He lifted his head, looking up at his wife through tear-filled eyes.

  “Tom, what is it!?”

  Stuck between the two realities, he was unable to find the words.

  “Tom, tell me!”

  He finally uttered, “They’re gone.”

  Haruto’s Transformation

  THE SUMMER SUN warmed the atrium where Haruto and Father Chong sat at the bistro table having a lively discussion.

  Haruto set her teacup on the saucer, saying, “This is hypothetical, of course, but let’s say that a fallen angel regrets his decision of rebelling against God, and decides to, well, repent. Would he be forgiven and what would one call this fallen angel? An un-fallen angel?”

  Father Chong laughed, nearly choking on his tea. “Oh, Haruto, where do you come up with this stuff?” He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  She asked slyly, “Well…can you answer it?”

  The priest was stumped for a moment. “Okay…let’s say this fallen angel truly asks for forgiveness, and, keep in mind, there is no scripture for this, but the church’s stance is ‘the fall from grace is irrevocable, comparable to a man’s death.’”

  Haruto countered, “But this fallen angel isn’t dead, and still has the ability to choose. So I’m asking you for your personal opinion. What do you think?”

  “Well…I suspect God would forgive him, just as he is willing to forgive us.”

  “Do you think if the fallen angel were forgiven, he would return to heaven at that moment?”

  He sipped his tea, savoring the flavor, then set his cup down. “Maybe not immediately. I’d assume he’d have to go through the same process we do: believing in Christ, asking for forgiveness, redemption, then finally acceptance into heaven when he dies…hmmm…except he wouldn’t die. That’s a bit tricky.”