A Great Tribulation

by Marc Seraphs

  Just yet.

  And hopefully never.

  “Why don't the chickens have heads?” Alfie asked Eustace.

  “Most likely a possum invasion.”

  “Yeah, they love chicken heads.”

  “The horse, most likely from starvation. Locked up in here unlike the other two.”

  They began: sweeping, washing, tidying and digging out. Things were looking up. For a moment Eustace forgot about the loss of his beloved wife and what got him here as a smile creased his face with pride. However long it lasted. The structures needed some fixing like replacing some of the hand-split log shingles on the out-buildings; and a few hammering here and there. He would need some special tools for some of the fixes, but they could wait for now. If he didn't find the tools he needed somewhere in their new home and sheds by the next morning, he would have to go get them from one his cabins.

  After ending a tough day of work just before evening, Eustace and the boys returned to the house. The air was wafting of something tasty and mouthwatering. To their surprise, the table was set with bacon, beans, cornbread, and cheese.

  “How did youse twos come up with these?” Eustace asked.

  “They have enough rice, beans, cheese and flower to last a nuclear winter,” Keira said excitedly. “Caroline did most of the cooking, though.”

  “Of course she did,” her father said with pride. “Nice job on the cleaning too.”

  “Looks good.”

  “Smells better.”

  Eustace said, "Grace." He prayed for their health, survival, and blessed the food on the table—asking for continuance. Also that their hearts remained free of grievances and sorrow for their lost, loved ones—for their souls to rest in peace—until they were reunited again. All these he asked, “in Christ name. Amen!”

  A resounding, “amen!” came from the others.

  They ate.

  The following morning winter opened its icy palm with a fallout of snow, frigid temperatures, icy winds, endless swaths of gray mists and clouds. Making the day before's hard work of fixing and cleaning up well worth it, except it seemed they were lacking. They all awoke feeling stiff as a Popsicle. It was frigging cold in the house.

  “The heat's out,” Eustace told the anxious faces that gathered behind him wrapped in blankets.

  “Great! Just when we need it.”

  Eustace sighed. He was hoping he'd push back going to get some of the tools he needed. The tools were not in the cabin across the lake, but several miles away, east of here at the cabin that marked the end of his fifty-mile trap-line. He'd shanghaied most of his tools there because he was going to expand his trap-line further north in springtime. There was some serious game out there it seemed. Besides they were still on the run from their pursuers who would never find them here. Turtle Island was well hidden. Years of trolling this area he never found it, until now. He was sure the cloudy veneer from the falling snow would help forestall it so from Jud and his lot.

  “I'll look around the house once more for what I can find,” Eustace said walking away.

  He foraged the entire house and supporting structures for what he could find from dawn until noon. Of all the wonderful discoveries and things, he found, what he found most useful were two snowmobiles and a gallery of hammers, but that wasn't going to do it. When he was done, he returned to find the others snuggled-up on the porch. They had made a fire out of a drum. It was brilliant. He picked a rocking chair and joined them. The warmth was just right as the wind had ebbed out.

  “Find anything?”

  “Nope. We'll have to get the tools, Michael.”

  “Sure, from the cabin across the lake right?”

  “No, not that cabin. Caroline, you are coming too.”

  “How long will that take?” Keira asked.

  “If everything goes smoothly, we should be back by tomorrow or the morning after. The snowmobiles I found should help.”

  “Sweet,” Caroline said.

  “Ready yourselves. We leave in two hours.”

  They took a moment to enjoy the view: the trees crowning with gray-headedness from the falling snow. In the distance beyond the hedge, a doe-eyed animal, perhaps a doe was staring back at them before disappearing into the white.

  It was seasonally beautiful.

  CHAPTER IX

  Aziz clasped Rafel and held on for longer than usual, after disclosing to him the date and nature of their plot to come. “God’s speed," Aziz said in Arabic to Rafel, and with that, both men parted ways.

  This was the plot of plots. The mission he'd been anticipating for a good part of his life; avenging his royal family and the countless families dispersed and reduced to refugees by the Arab Spring. However, there was something else—something calling to his rather noble bearing. His time in the United States seemed to be refining something in him.

  The country that was once the lab of the great experiment called, “Democracy”, nicknaming her the “Great Idea,” but was somehow losing her way. Now it was a vessel of high-stake debauchery, corruption motored by greed in a tempestuous sea of global conflicts. A vessel manned by bigoted sailors whose creed was nationalism—clutched deep in their knuckled fist—ready to kiss with a punch if dared otherwise. It was his opinion that those who tend to clutch on to things for too long tend to crush what they'd been clutching. The State didn't need the help of foreign treats and powers to bring her to her knees. In time, like ancient Rome, he saw the corrosive force coming from within. Rafel wondered if the catalyst of nationalism would leave any remnant to pick up after the spoil.

  The United States was never a great nation, but a great idea! —that wants to be a great nation so badly she was destroying the idea that made her great with far-right ideas.

  As he returned home to wrap his head around the carnage that was to come, he saw a group of young girls skipping with neon-lit ropes. Under the night skies, they played without a care in the world as kids were supposed to.

  Gradually he began to realize the reason for the "change" surfacing within him. It was the people...

  Like Addison Heims.

  Like innocent children skipping about gleefully.

  Rafel pulled up some distance to enjoy the sight. He must have been there for about half-an-hour. At the end of the show, he felt something snap within him and he made a detour.

  After half-an-hour of driving, Rafel found himself at the residence of Professor Mohammad Khan. He parked in the driveway and remained there, contemplating between continuing on or backing away. That decision was made for him when a figure emerged from the house.

  “Can I help you,” the professor's baritone voice called from the porch.

  There was no backing off now as Rafel stepped out his car. “Evening professor.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No—no, I am Rafel, I attended one of your lectures at the mosque—”

  “Let me guess, you've come to throw your two cents at me, about my teachings, yes?” the professor interjected with a hint of hostility.

  Not at all,” he said wanting to plead to his better side. “I've been having conflicting thoughts lately...about a lot of things. I need help.”

  The professor gave him a long look, and without another word, he invited him in. He bade him, “seat, I'll go get some drinks, you look like you need one.”

  He did need a drink at the moment, but he'd been sober for religious reasons for a while now. Before he could object, the professor was gone and soon returning with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.

  As if the professor could read his mind, he professed, “when drinking, be modest, even when it comes to the pursuit of righteousness, modesty is key.” He poured him a glass, “it will ease the tension and you will flow like a fountain full of words as you express yourself.”

  Rafel accepted the glass, taking a sip. The savory taste hit him with a mastery nuance of nutmeg. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome, now tell me...”

  “Like I said, I've be
en having conflicting thoughts lately about who I am and who I want to be, my future.” Rafel inhaled sharply, “do you really believe your teachings of being a noble Muslim, despite the purge of what we believe in?”

  “And what is that you 'believe', Rafel?”

  “Allah is my God. His messenger is Mohammad. His sacred message is the Quran. My creed is Islam.”

  “Have you read this message page-for-page?”

  Rafel shrugged. “Not concretely.”

  “I have read the sacred message...all One-hundred-and-fourteen chapters, six-thousand-six-hundred-and-sixty-six words of the Quran and do you know what I find fascinating?”

  Rafel shook his head.

  “The name of Prophet Muhammad appears in four places, but the name Isa the al-Masih," (or Jesus as the Christians call him). He continued, "that name appears, directly and indirectly, over 180 times, and I wonder why?”

  Rafel shrugged.

  “I was curious as well. It seems the Quran obviously gives more preference to this Isa. Some of the wonderful things the Quran says about Isa, is that he is the Word of God, the Spirit of God, a miracle worker, he gives life to dead people—I say 'gives' in that tense because the Quran says this Isa is still alive and will come again. As for Mohammad, he died, and he's not coming back.

  We call Isa just a prophet, but he seems pretty great to me. A greater prophet. Beings like him are known to me as gods. After all, he's the Word of God, says the Quran. I asked one of my teachers from Arabic College once: 'how God created the Universe?” He said, 'he created the Universe through the Word.' It reminds me of Proverbs: 'I was the architect (master-worker) at His side...'”

  Rafel stood in a fit of restrained outrage, heading for the door, when he said, “I suppose you are referring to the Heathen's Proverbs?”

  The professor shook his head. “'We are more alike than we are unlike'... Maya Angelou.”

  CHAPTER X

  “Sorry I wasn't able to please you...”

  “You are not feeling well, rest up,” Addi told Rafel.

  “Where did you say you were going again?”

  “Fred didn't say...you know, CLASSIFIED. There are supposed to be political dignitaries present at the event.” She kissed him, 'I'll be thinking of you.”

  “Same here,” he smiled.

  “Sad. Your first day at work for me is tomorrow, and you are sick,” Addi said poignantly. She slid out of bed after hours of cuddling. They hadn't done much, but relish the warmth of each other's company and arms. She felt his hardness against her several times during their closeness, sparking her excitement, but they both restrained themselves on account of his health. Addi offered to help him “rub one off,” but he turned her down—something about his chi.

  She chuckled at the thought.

  Rub one off.

  He'd made a (very) naughty girl out of her yet.

  For the first time, she was seeing his form entirely—undeterred by the heat of intimacy—his contours, his birthmark, his ribbed torso. In his perfection were some unnatural imperfections—scars she'd never noticed were there before. She touched one of the dagger-like scars, wanting to ask him about it. They looked painful. She imagined recollecting how he got them would be too, so she resisted the urged. As she carefully ran her fingers through a series of them, his eyes fluttered open as if pained by her touches. Their eyes meet wordlessly as she drew closer, kissing every single scar until something else caught her attention...

  A tattoo.

  A very tiny tattoo on his arm—just below his shoulder—that made her cringe.

  It brought back old memories from her time in Syria she desperately wanted to forget.

  It was the crowned crescent moon with the cross insignia. Calling it an insignia was an understatement—it was the brand of POLK (Princes of the Lost Kingdoms)—formed by the princes whose fathers lost their regimes during the outbreak of the Arab Spring. Their purpose was to establish a Caliphate in order to make a prophecy come true: the coming of a kingdom on earth that would re-establish the Islamic empire and empower Sunni Muslims.

  If she remembered correctly, the Crown in the tattoo represented a “kingdom”. The Crescent Moon meant “bring forth, create”. As for the Cross, she wasn't quite sure or forgotten what she was told it meant. She got a whiff of the information while on assignment in Syria—from a translator—who was hit by a sniper's bullet to the head a day after—before she could ever learn more about the group. This was only a few days before her capture. At first, she thought it was a romanticized rumor of the fallen monarchs of the Arab Spring until she caught wind of the name “POLK” in the compound of her captors. She once saw a man with the symbol branded to his neck and to another: tattooed, just like Rafel's.

  That day came clear to her as crystal. The last day of her capture before she escaped—not without help. It was the fellow who had intervened for her not to be beheaded on a live broadcast. She knew it was him. His eyes were unmistakable, despite the headdress that always veiled his face. That morning her cell door was opened with him standing at the entrance—after she'd had the best meal by the standards of what she'd been having since her capture. A sack was placed over her head and she was gagged before being lead outside—she knew from the whipping fresh air—as though he was being evasive from any possible onlookers. Not a word passed between them as they walked for some distance before they entered what she suspected was a truck. The truck moved very slowly—confirming her thoughts that he was being evasive. Her heart skipped with fear, wondering if this was a man on a mischievous mission to do her harm, but this was a man who had saved her from being beheaded once.

  Addi remembered asking after what she considered forever of driving if she was “in trouble,” but the only reply was that of the engine stopping. Her heart sank then, wondering if she'd provoked him with her question.

  To Addi's surprise, he helped her out the car with care and freed from the sack over her head—the gag followed—and for the first time in two months, she saw the moon.

  From behind her came a clipped tone, commanding her to “go north. American army base ahead!” she was further presented with a water bottle and a white cloth— “wave this” so she doesn't get shot by her own countrymen. She shook her head.

  A wave of exhilaration shot through her—she was free—momentarily loosening her waist and making her knees wobble, Addi lost her footing. As she sunk to the ground, she tugged on his arm for support, ripping his sleeve and exposing the arm. That was when for the second time she saw the crowned crescent moon with the cross POLK symbol—so peculiar she would never forget because of the red ink and scars about it—it was a facsimile of the one on Rafel's arm.

  His eyes blinked open again as they lay on the bed.

  Then she could never pin down his face in her memory because of the headdress that always veiled his entire head and muffled his voice, but the eyes—caramel eyes flecked with gold.

  Heavens! It was him!

  “It is you...”

  “Who?”

  “From the desert...” she divulged, taking him by surprise.

  His steady gaze of mutual recollection told all before he could deny it. Addi drew back in dismay rushing for her clothes. She was barely dressed when she scurried out the room.

  The cat was out the bag, Rafel thought as he sat alone in the room. For some reason that moment—he knew would one day come—played differently in his head. He sincerely thought the moment would be more endearing. Maybe it was just the initial shock. Realization and acceptance were soon to come, but there would be no time for that. His lifelong mission was at hand. The chances of him returning wasn't clear.

  Rafel had been playing sick for hours, an act he passed convincingly, but not easily. As much as he wanted Addi, he had to keep his mental clarity and spiritual chi. Tomorrow was the day he'd been preparing for. His process to execute, however, starts tonight.

  He went to a secret compartment in his wardrobe to reveal his armaments: disassembl
ed sniper rifle parts, a scope, a silencer pistol, Bluetooth earpiece and a special phone with coordinates.”

  It was time.

  Jud had a nostalgic countenance as he brooded under a tree heaving with the pouring snow. He had to find the family. Their last confirmed trail was at the cabin about an hour from the Yaak river. That was days ago.

  “No signs of them,” he heard one of his men say.

  “What now?”

  “We went past the lake. It's all white. We should start back.”

  This is why he had to find them: command breakdown.

  A nobody making a fool of him wasn't a good stripe for his command and esteem. Since the Eustace family incident, there has been questioning of his orders, suggestions of alternatives for his orders, not forgetting the slight grumbling, and murmuring.

  What could possibly come next?

  Jud pulled out his pistol and shot purposefully past a hairbreadth from his man's ear. “What did you say? I couldn't hear you!”

  The poor fellow was unnerved with a “what?” as he was temporarily deafened by the gunshot.

  “Don't come back until you find something good!” Jud yelled, and the man scurried away.

  He heard the radio crackle in the distance as his subordinate Obi was starting back for him. If not for Obi those who were with him at the fur shop would probably still be tied up—including himself. From the looks of it, it wasn't good.

  “I think the government forces have somehow found us,” Obi said.

  Jud was going to say something when Obi turned aloud the walkie-talkie to a barrage of gun fires, shrills of last breaths and light explosions.

  “I think Jake's being shot.”

  Jud sighed. “We heading out.”

  Eustace Grimes, you lucky son of ... every cursed word, less of a blessed one he reproached the man mentally.