The Chosen

by John G. Hartness

  I decided against stopping for lunch at Waffle House, figuring that between all the variations of scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked, we’d be there for a month before Michael had satisfied his need for sensory stimulation. Oddly, he was a lot less annoying since his little crisis of faith in the park. Maybe it made him seem more human, or maybe it was because he had trouble holding on to that ridiculous accent in the face of the Alabama drawls we encountered, but something about him seemed different. It was almost as though I liked the guy. I checked myself right there and tried to remember that he and his angelic ilk had been the puppet masters behind a few eons’ worth of suffering for my family. However, it was hard not to laugh at a guy who chased powdered doughnuts and pork rinds down with a two-liter bottle of Grape Nehi. Something could be said for the angel: no matter how much he ate or drank, he never asked for a bathroom stop.

  We rolled into Nashville a bit before suppertime and got a couple of rooms at a Fairfield Inn on the outskirts of town. I didn’t know how long we were going to be on our little adventure and wanted to stretch our cash as long as we could, so I decided to forego the Jacuzzi room, no matter how good a soak sounded after a day in a car with Michael and Myra. Myra was a good copilot, but driving all day was driving all day, no matter how much you liked the navigator.

  Eve and Emily had ridden together. Eve had given me some line about wanting to get to know the kid better, but I figured she just didn’t want me to suggest that Michael ride shotgun with her in her beat-up pickup, and I was pretty sure that the suspension in that thing didn’t do anyone any favors after the first five hours on the road. Cain looked fresh as a daisy after a day on his motorcycle, and I was more than a little jealous.

  I’ve always loved bikes. The feeling of power and control is like nothing else in the world, and there’s really nothing wrong with a couple of gnats in your teeth. I’ve always considered it a fair exchange.

  “All right, kiddies. We’ve got three rooms, so I figured Myra and I would share one—” I started, but Eve was smirking at me so I pulled up short. “What?”

  “Nothing, dear. Go right ahead with your little bunk assignments,” Eve replied.

  I went on. “Um… there are two beds in each room, so I thought Eve and Emily would share one room, and Michael and Cain could share the other one. Is that okay with everyone?” Hearing no objections, I went on. “Why don’t we take an hour or so to freshen up, grab a nap if you want one. We can all meet back here for dinner, then we can figure out where to start looking for whoever it is we’re supposed to find. That work?” I passed keys out to everyone, then grabbed my bag from the back of Eve’s truck. She was still smirking as I passed her on my way to the elevator.

  “What are you grinning about?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I just think it’s cute.”

  “What’s cute?”

  “You’re being so, what’s the word, solicitous of Myra. I mean, really, Adam. You left her more than two decades ago and haven’t spared a moment’s thought for her until a couple of days ago when you were steered back into her life by our friendly meddling archangel. Now all of a sudden, you’re playing Daddy of the Year to little Emily, who I assure you is more than capable of taking care of herself, and you’re being all Rock Hudson to Myra’s Doris Day. The worst part is, she might even be buying it, which is quite possibly saddest thing I’ve seen since you fell head over heels for that redhead in Ireland. You remember her? What was her name?”

  “Sorcha.” I remembered her well. She was almost stereotypically Irish, with brilliant green eyes, milk-white skin, and curly red hair. Her name meant “bright, radiant light,” and I used to joke with her that she got particularly radiant when she was angry, which with me around happened more often than she deserved.

  Chapter 27

  I’d spent the end of the sixth century around Mecca listening to the teachings of a young guy named Mohammed, but headed West when it became apparent that a fairly sensible prophet was going to talk a lot about love and peace, and one more time, the powers that be would start killing people to protect the status quo.

  I’d seen all that before with the Carpenter, and I kind of liked Mohammed, so I headed to Europe before I had to watch the people around him misinterpret and generally muck up all the good things he had to say. I’ve always wondered if by sticking around, I could have prevented some of the stupidity about women they put into his version of the Book. I know if Eve had been around, that crap would never have seen print.

  But I left, and that’s how I found myself in Ireland chasing the legends of Cuchulain. I’d heard them once long ago, and when Sechan Torpeist brought them back in the seventh century, I decided to wander through the green hills following the trail of Ulster’s Hound.

  I do that every now and then—meander a countryside to look for evidence of legends. It’s pretty entertaining to see where the tallest of tales grows from, and you get to see some pretty country that way. Not to mention, since I’m kind of legendary myself, I’m always on the lookout for other members of the fraternity.

  I wandered around the part of Ireland where Cuchulain was reputed to have killed Cullen’s watchdog and taken its place. When I came upon a little farmhouse, it was late, I was hungry, and there was a pot on the fire. The Irish had always been a hospitable people, and when I knocked on the door and showed that I had a little booze with me, I was welcomed to hearth and home.

  Her father, Finlay if I recall, was a fisherman in County Donegal, and he had a couple of big mackerel turning on a spit. He and I sat up most of the night drinking and telling lies, as fisherman and traveling men are wont to do, and by the time the sun came up, we were fast friends. I didn’t even notice Sorcha that first night, but I later found out that she had noticed me. That wasn’t some great comment on my virility or spectacular attractiveness, although I was plenty virile and more attractive than most. It was more a comment on exactly how few men of apparently similar age had ventured near the coast of County Donegal since she had developed an eye for young men.

  The next morning, Finlay and I went out on his boat, my first efforts at fishing since people had stopped doing it by standing in the shallows and casting nets. I’d been pretty good at surf fishing and was relatively handy with a spear in a stream, but the whole business of rods was foreign to me. No reels were involved, thank Father, or I probably would have ended up more frequently punctured than I did, but I still managed to provide Finlay with a good day’s worth of amusement. At least he knew what he was doing, and I could row well enough, so the day wasn’t a complete waste.

  When we walked back up the path to their house, I got my first good look at Sorcha. She was chopping wood for the dinner fire, and the sun setting behind her made her hair look like a fiery halo. I was downright infatuated. I might even have left the fish lying along the path if Finlay hadn’t noticed my plight and helped me back into motion with a kick in the ass.

  “Put ‘em back in yer head, laddie. That’s me Sorcha you’re gapin’ at.”

  “Your?”

  “Me daughter. And I’ll thank you to be scrubbin’ yer thoughts clean as snow before ye direct ‘em her way again.” I looked over at him, but the old man was grinning at me.

  “Sorry,” I said, not meaning a letter of the word.

  “Liar.” He laughed as we continued to the house.

  Somehow, I found an excuse to stick around Finlay’s place. I became somewhat less useless as a fisherman, although I was a much better oarsman than I’d ever be an angler. I found other ways to make myself useful—splitting wood, thatching the roof, hunting rabbits and other small game. Sorcha wasn’t immediately receptive to my charms, but after a few weeks of persistence, not to mention a few weeks of being the only guy around who wasn’t her father, we came to an understanding.

  The understanding was that whenever her father wasn’t around, we’d make love like minks as often as possible while still getting all of her chores done. That went on for a couple of month
s before Finlay made mention of getting along in years and needing someone to start taking the boat out a few days a week. Finlay wasn’t an old man, but in a time when the average man lived to only his mid-thirties, it didn’t take long for someone to think he was old, especially as he was well into his third decade. That typically would have been my clue to move on before anyone caught on to the fact that I didn’t age, but I decided that Finlay already knew something was odd about me, and Sorcha was so head over heels for me that she wouldn’t care.

  So one night after dinner, I decided to tell them the truth about myself. I had stopped trying to tell people the truth after the second or third time someone stabbed me or set me on fire trying to see if I’d die, but I figured the worst thing that would happen was that I’d be thrown out into the night. We scraped the plates to the dog, washed up as well as we did in those days, and when Finlay lit a pipe for an after-dinner smoke, I broached the subject.

  “Sorcha, Finlay, there’s something about me that you should know.”

  “Aye, son, what’s that?” Fin asked.

  “Well, I’ve enjoyed my time here. A lot. And I’d like to stay on for a while longer. But if you don’t want me around after you hear what I have to say, then I understand.”

  “What is it, lad? I can’t fathom anything ye could say that we’d toss ye out on your ear for, but go ahead with yer tale.”

  “Well, it’s like this. You were talking about getting on in years…” I paused, unsure of how to continue.

  “Aye, and I am. It’s not something I’m thrilled about, but it’s happenin’ just the same. Happens to everyone, I s’pose. At least those of us that are lucky enough not to end up with a sword in the belly.”

  “Not me.”

  “Huh?”

  I love it when I can get that reaction out of someone else. Petty, I know, but that’s how I roll.

  “It won’t happen to me. I don’t age. And I don’t die. I’ve been alive a long time, a lot longer than anyone else ever has, and there’s no sign that I’m going to die any time soon.” It felt good to say it, but I wasn’t really sure what would happen next.

  “What… are ye?” Sorcha asked in a scared, small voice. The look on her face was why I so seldom told anyone about my true nature.

  “I’m a man, like any other. Except I don’t get old, and I don’t die.”

  “So yer a god?”

  In Ireland at that time, it wasn’t out of the realm of most people’s understanding for a deity to visit the Earth and consort with mortal women. And Sorcha was definitely worth some consorting.

  “No. I’m just a man,” I said.

  “But ye won’t die? Ever?” Fin asked.

  “If history serves as any indication for future performance, no, I’ll never die.”

  “And Aidan isn’t yer name, is it?” he continued.

  “No. Most places, I’m called Adam.”

  “I need a drink.” Sorcha sat down heavily in a chair by the fire, and I got a bottle from the cupboard and poured a big slug for each of us. Fin drained his in one gulp and held out his cup for another.

  I poured him another drink, then sat down. After a long time, I broke the silence. “Do you want me to leave? I’m sorry I deceived you both, but I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

  “Nay, son, ye don’t need ta leave. I’ve grown a bit attached to ye, and I know Sorcha’s taken a right shine to ye as well. I don’t mind keeping ye around if ye’ll learn to be a bit of a better fisherman, so ye can take care of our girl here once I’m gone.” Fin sipped his second drink and settled into his chair.

  “I… I don’t want ye to leave.” Sorcha spoke very quietly, not looking at me. “But what will ye do when I get old?”

  “I’ll love you,” I said very quietly, surprising myself a little because it was true. I hadn’t talked of love to anyone since Eve, but the fire-haired maid of Erin had captivated me completely.

  “Do ye mean it?” She looked up at me then, and the moisture in those jade eyes tore my heart apart.

  I knew it was a bad idea, and I knew that it was going to hurt like hell when it ended, but Father help me, I was in love with the girl. “Aye, I mean it.” I went over to her and took her hands in mine. “Sorcha, will ye be mine and no other’s?” I didn’t often affect the accent of the times, but it seemed appropriate at the moment.

  “Aye. Will ye be mine and no other’s?” Then she added, “As long as we both draw breath?”

  “Aye. As long as we both draw breath, I am yours and no other’s.” I pulled her to her feet and kissed her for a long time in front of the fire.

  After what might have been an uncomfortable moment for a father, Finlay coughed. “Then it’s done. Now that ye be me son, ye must learn to fish for real. I’ll not be havin’ ye stay here and do woman’s work just so ye can sneak off to the woodshed with me daughter every afternoon.”

  I had the courtesy to blush, and we all laughed and drank well into the night. It was with a throbbing head and a delicate stomach that I went out with Fin the next morning to begin my true education as a fisherman, but I managed.

  I lived there for another thirty years, one of the longest stretches I had ever spent in one place. There were a few skirmishes around, but nothing touched our remote little fishing shack. On the off chance that someone did wander by with ill intent, it was useful to be immortal when people started waving swords.

  Fin died about ten years after I arrived, a very old man for the time. The last couple of years, he would go out in the boat with me, but he’d just sit in the stern and tell stories while I hauled in fish. Then for the last few weeks, he sat in the house by the fire and told Sorcha stories of her mother, and how much like her she was. I dug the old man’s grave with my own hands and built his cairn out of stones that Sorcha helped me carry down from the hills.

  I wept for the passing of that old man as I hadn’t cried since Abel died, and I wasn’t ashamed of a single tear. I let that man and his daughter touch something inside of me that I had walled up when Eve and I split. I didn’t even know it was still in there, it had been so long since I’d seen it.

  Eventually, Sorcha grew old, and she died one night in my arms. We had no children, so I was the only one with her at the end, or at least I thought I was. It was a spring evening, and the first fireflies had just appeared. She had been fading for weeks, and I knew it was coming.

  “Aidan, love, carry me out to the rock in the front yard. I want to see the fireflies one last time.” She never called me Adam in all the years we were together. I was always Aidan to her. I did as she asked, and lay her down on the grass in front of our cottage. I piled blankets around her for warmth, and I sat behind her so she could lean on my chest and look across the hills at the fireflies flickering in the dusk.

  “The little people are lovely tonight, aren’t they, Aidan?” Her voice was a papery whisper, and I had to lean close to hear her. Just as I got close enough to almost feel her breath on my earlobe, she reached up behind my head and pulled me down further, kissing me passionately. Sorcha was nothing if not a creature of passion, and no number of years could steal that from her.

  I turned her frail body around and kissed her with everything I had. I held her tight, but gently. She was so thin, but I could feel passion in her grip and in her kiss that had all but burnt out months before. I didn’t know if we kissed for seconds or minutes, but when the kiss was over, she leaned back, let out a contented sigh, and closed her eyes.

  When her chest rose for the last time, I laid her down in our yard with fireflies dancing in the spring evening, and kissed her one last time. I lay there on the grass with her all night, and when the sun came up the next morning, I wasn’t nearly as alone as I expected to be.

  Eve sat on the front steps of the house, watching me. I hadn’t seen her in several hundred years, and like most of our meetings, that one hadn’t ended well. I wasn’t in the mood for a fight, but she just stood up, walked over to me, and without a word, put her a
rms around me. I fell to my knees on the lawn, and Eve knelt beside me and held me as I cried.

  After I’d cried myself dry, we got up and buried Sorcha next to her father. We never spoke a word that day, and when we finished, Eve walked back out of my life.

  Sometimes nothing needs to be said. But now, standing beside an elevator at a Fairfield Inn in East Nashville, Tennessee, Eve had brought all that rushing back to me.

  “Why bring that up now?” I wasn’t happy with the comparisons between Myra and Sorcha. I had loved Sorcha as I had loved few women in my life, and it still hurt to remember losing her. But I also still smiled a lot when I remembered her, so in a lot of ways, it was worth it.