It seemed to be gentle enough.
Arthur continued up the hill behind the men, lamb over the younger one’s shoulders, ironically heralding its arrival into the crowd before them. And just as suddenly, the lamb was taken from his shoulders into the arms of the other guard, and pieces of wood were being tied onto him, and he struggled not.
Don’ sheep run from stra’gers, he thought as he continued watching in horror.
In his mind’s eye, he watched himself plead for the lamb to be spared, but nobody seemed to hear him. He tried to move into the crowd and yank the lamb away, but couldn’t get close.
The sound of a speeding car startled him for a moment, and he stood to move back toward the slide to sit once more. The images continued to flood in on him as he helplessly watched the lamb being corralled through the street until, finally, it reached the top of the hill.
Before him stood two men on crosses, their hands and feet bleeding. One, a sneer on his face; the other, a sense of unrest. And then, the guards took the wood from the lamb and pulled its hind legs together, binding them to one of the rough poles.
It was then that Arthur began to shake; this had happened; he had been part of why this innocent had come to the hill. This wasn’t a mere dream or vision; this was as real as the fingers at the end of his own hands. Tears streamed down his face, both in his vision and in the natural, and suddenly, he was aware of nothing else but the lamb being hoisted up, bleating not.
And looking into Arthur’s eyes.
He saw no malice, no hatred, no judgment. Instead, he saw what could only be described to his heart as raw love.
But how?
How was it that the lamb loved him so? Him, Arthur Reynolds the Third, a sinner; a murderer; a rapist; a good-for-nothing hold-out who had denied for so long he’d done a single wrong thing in his life?
Arthur couldn’t fathom it, but accepted it anyway, falling before the cross with tears in his eyes, not caring who might see him. In the natural, he felt his body falling but did nothing to stop it. He felt the ground meet his face; felt dirt – that which he loathed more than anything – mixing with the tears on his cheek, turning into mud against his skin. And yet he couldn’t move.
His limbs were as lead, and his heart beat quickly within him as the tears continued to flow.
“I be sorry, God. Know dat, man? An’ iffen it be time to assept Jesus, I be willin’ to,” he whispered even as a sense of peace overwhelmed him. “Can’t nothin’ be worse dan alla da junk I done got from but not bein’ fo’giv’n an’ all dat stuff, ya know, God?”
And suddenly, he realized God did know. He’d known all along.
As, in his mind’s eye, he saw the lamb transform into a man and the cross on which He hung lengthen into something more fitting a man, he heard the men on the crosses begin to speak: one reviling, and one seeking forgiveness; seeking solace; seeking not to be forgotten.
And the Man on the middle cross; the one Who had been the lamb, now clearly wearing a crown made of thorns, a sign over His head, unreadable through Arthur’s tears.
“Hey, you alright, man,” he suddenly heard someone say, as if from far away. “I could see you fall from my bus window and grabbed the next stop.”
The voice, once more, was familiar, and Arthur wondered at who it could be.
Did he even know anyone that rode the bus in Portland anymore? He certainly hadn’t run into anyone he’d known in the past.
The images in his mind faded, only to be replaced by music.
That, at least, he was used to.
The lead in his limbs seemed to dissipate, though slowly. He turned his head toward the voice and opened the eye that had not been against the ground, worried he might get dirt into his other eye.
Justin.
The man who had been so cordial to him the day he’d gone to the interview stood a few feet from him, his hair swept back with gel and a neon blue tuxedo replacing the Goth garb he’d previously worn.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled, trying to figure out how best to get up without making a bigger fool of himself. “Sho be me, awright.”
Justin offered him a hand, and, sensing he had no other choice, Arthur accepted it and within moments of awkward struggle, was on his feet again. He glanced down at his once perfectly-pressed black jeans and Magic jersey to find them mucked with the dirt he’d been laying in. “Tanks, man.”
He tried to dust himself off, starting with his face, and realized he had nowhere to wash; no handkerchief; nothing would help until he got to fresh running water, which meant getting onto a bus like this, or calling for a ride and hoping someone in the family would take some pity on him.
And he doubted the second would happen.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, man, I jus’ be… well,” he thought over whether or not it was wise to tell the whole truth.
What did he have to lose? And what didn’t he?
“I been thinkin’ an’ I guess ma mine got away from me, an’ then I was prayin,’ I guess. Well, kinda,” he told the younger man.
Justin nodded at him, tilting his head sideways a moment later. “Understood.” He paused a few moments; long enough for Arthur’s chest to tighten. “I’m sorry, I guess I hadn’t pegged you for being a follower of Christ, like me,” he continued, startling Arthur.
“I know, I know. Who am I to judge, right? I don’t exactly look the part, either; not according to what a lot of people think I should look like, though, but this is Portland. We’re weird,” he said, smiling. “Now, how can I be weird as a Christian and as a Portlandia kinda guy and not have someone looking at me all funny, either way? Actually,” he paused again, glancing at his watch. “My church is just a couple more blocks away and we’re having a small men’s get-together if you wanna come clean up, then hang out with us for a couple hours.”
Hang out? With a skinny Goth white guy who didn’t know a good tux from a bad one?
Then again, what did he have to lose?
At least if he walked with Justin to the church, people might not notice all the dirt; not as much. And he could clean his face up before he began to get the heebie-jeebies all over again thinking about what could be lingering in that dirt.
“I be pretty new ta dis whole God ting,” he said “But sho, I be game fo dat.”
Justin smiled at him again, extending a web-tattooed hand, and they shook on it. “Even better,” the man said. “Nothing like helping someone grow into who they were called to become,” he continued. “No matter where and what you’ve been through, there’s nothing like resting in the arms of Jesus.”
Arthur nodded, a flash of Jesus on the cross before him crossing his mind once more, melding with the song that still ran at intervals within him.
“Now, dis mi’ soun’ crazy, but…”
He hesitated.
Why did he even consider bringing the topic up. Surely it couldn’t do anything positive for him; maybe Justin would even change his mind.
Arthur took a few steps forward, toward the sidewalk. “Which way we goin’?”
Justin pointed up Stark to the left as he moved to walk with him. “Just a block this way, and then turn left,” he answered. “What might sound crazy?”
“Well, dere’s dis music, see…,” he began. “An’ it come an’ go as it please, seem like, up here,” he said, pointing to his head.
“Aw, that’s nothing. I get that all the time; always have. But I don’t see how that would be considered crazy; I’ve met two, three other people with the same thing, myself not included,” the man said, raking a hand through his hair as they went. “Though I guess I can see how someone might think…. No worries. We’re a safe bunch. And one of the other guys who’s supposed to show tonight – our speaker, actually – he’s got that same gift.”
Arthur’s heart galloped within him.
Had Justin just said he wasn’t crazy after all? That other people had similar experiences, and it wasn’t just his imagination?
/> He was beginning to get the inkling that God sent Justin into his life for this very reason.
Was that even possible?
With a sigh of relief, he laid his clean hand – the left, on the side where Justin was walking – on the other man’s shoulder a moment. “Thanks. I ‘preciate it.”
“Any time. Once you know if you like my church or not, you’re always welcome to come to any of the services you like,” Justin reciprocated, clapping him back again, then quickly removing his hand. “Only one to maybe watch out for is Torino – and, yes, that’s his real name. He can be just a little…,” Justin paused a moment as they waited for the light. “Well… a bit self-righteous sometimes. Pay him no mind when he says stupid stuff, and you’ll be good.”
“Aight,” he said as they crossed the street. “Good ta know.”
Thirty Six
Boston, Massachusetts… May 31, 1942
“Dead? What do you mean, he’s dead,” Steven asked as Peter tried to explain again what had happened.
There was no way that their Warren was dead! It wasn’t possible!
Then again, had Rose and Miss Roisin disappearing seemed possible, he thought. Did Father losing his crew seem possible? Finding Miss Moira frozen to death? Nearly losing his family over a few too many games, and losing the respect of his boss, who, by some miracle, had kept him on?
None of that had seemed possible, either.
“How can Warren have…?”
Jerusha’s words hung in the air, and nobody in their tightly formed semicircle dared to answer her. Steven looked at her; at the tears in her eyes, matching his own; matching those of nearly all twenty three people in the room.
There had to be some explanation; there had to be.
What wasn’t Peter telling them?
“Well,” his brother finally said, keeping his face angled toward the floor. “I went to the house, and someone else answered the door. A woman. A reverend’s widow, who now rents the place. And the money-”
“What,” Steven heard Shiloh protest, incredulity lacing his tone. “How can someone else possibly be living in your house? And just who does own it now, anyway?”
“The four of us,” Peter said softly. “The four of us remaining couples in the family, like Warren wanted. And for five years, the house is to be rented out; we don’t see the money until that time is up. If we want to sell if after that, then….”
Peter clutched his hands together, and Steven saw his body visibly stiffen in his hardback chair. “If we want to sell after five years to the day that Warren died – and yes, it was at sea – then the bank will allow it, per the will he left.”
“But… so, wait? The money just goes where? Sits in a bank account doing nothing, and then we can see the house in five years, but… does anyone see the rent,” Michael asked, leaning in toward the center of the room where Peter’s chair was perched. “Or does it get split, or go to a charity of some sort, or…?”
“Twenty percent off the top goes to the church each month, like clockwork, according to Mr. Hilliard over at the bank. And you’d never guess that the house gets so much, even from a widow woman: nearly seventy dollars, and he said it goes up a few dollars each year. I haven’t calculated it, but… even split four ways between our families, in the end, we’ll have a fair chunk of change. Possibly enough to finally get into houses of our own,” his youngest brother said, to his amazement.
Steven would never have thought of that. As much as he’d dreamed once of owning a home, he’d done away with what little savings that he and Shannen had more than once in order to get into some game or another.
Silently, he prayed he wouldn’t do the same with this inheritance. “And what if – God forbid it happen, but…” Dare he ask? “What if one or more of us is gone, too, by then?”
“Well,” Peter said, standing and moving toward him; placing a strong hand on his shoulder. “Then its split between whoever’s left; if that were to happen, and I surely hope it won’t.”
Around the room, Steven heard murmurs before anyone said aloud what they were thinking.
And why had he even asked such a question? Of course, they’d all be alive in five more years… wouldn’t they?
Arkadiusz cleared his throat, stroking his beard as he began to speak. “We should do right by the man,” he began. “We should pray for all who mourn, and not only those represented here in this room. For if Warren Wishart-Laurent died at sea, and he was one who grew up in her arms, then how many more have perished these past months? And in how many places around the world?”
Complete silence, save for the sound of a horse outside whinnying, filled the room. Tears came to Steven’s eyes once more as he thought, not only of his beloved brother but all he had lost; all who had died in Europe and were at this moment, possibly, still dying.
He thought of those in the three different congregations he and his family had once attended – the people who had gone before them, and those they left behind. And then, in the silence of the room, as always, his thoughts turned to Rose, to Miss Roisin, and deeper still, to Mother and little Sarah Jene, who they barely got to know at all. And still deeper, to the passing of their grandparents; to aunts and uncles; to Miss Moira. And something inside of him screamed, Enough! No more death; no more disappearing. Rose and Roisin have got to be alive, and I have got to find them, come what may.
And Peter, Michael, Shiloh, and the women? They can help me do so. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Warren intended for that money to be used for.
Peter waited until the last of the guests he and Lily had over for church – and to discuss Warren’s death – left the apartment before breaking down yet again. He moved each chair back to its place, slowly, with effort, as bits and pieces of conversations from the past day put themselves together inside his head like a jigsaw puzzle.
But there were still missing pieces.
“I know that had to be hard,” Lily said to him, startling him as she came back into the living room from tucking Jeanette into bed.
He set down the chair he was still holding harder than he wanted to, and winced, hoping the downstairs neighbors wouldn’t get upset over it. They’d tried so hard not to make noise after eight in the evening, knowing that the family below them had several children, but occasionally, it couldn’t be helped.
He sat down in a heap on their faded red couch, and Lily moved to sit beside him, leaning into his shoulder. For the life of him, he still couldn’t wrap his heart and mind around the conversations he’d had with either Mrs. Carmichael or Mr. Hilliard. And that Warren had drowned? That made it even more difficult to fathom, considering he’d been taught about the ocean since he was three years old; and before that, probably learned some simply by being in Father’s household.
Whatever had happened, it wasn’t something he could change, and as much as he would miss his brother….
Peter cleared his throat, which felt as if something were lodged in it and turned toward Lily, which forced her head back up. He took her face between his hands and kissed her; with all his pent-up emotion, he kissed her, tears streaming down his face.
“Harder than I ever thought it’d be,” he finally said. “But with support, we can all get through this.”
The truth was, though, Lily and Warren hadn’t known each other too well at all… and that realization made it all the more difficult as he tried to decide how he and the others would approach some sort of service.
Pushing the thought aside for the moment, he reached for Lily’s hand and just rested in the comfort he found there, at her side. He was thankful that she was there for him, no matter what.
Even if that meant he fell apart again for a few hours when they finally said some semblance of goodbyes to the tatters that had been Warren’s clothing, washed ashore without him.
Thirty Seven
Vancouver, Washington… June 9, 2025
“Isn’t he the most darling thing you ever did see,” Justice whispered to Midge as they lo
oked down at Nathaniel, whose miniature bottom lip stuck out as he whiffled in his sleep. “So tiny, and so precious. It’s hard to believe sometimes that babies can be that small.”
“Sometimes smaller than that,” she whispered back at him as the bald little child stirred. She tugged at the navy-colored dress-sleeve of her husband’s shirt and gestured with a nod that they should leave the room. With reluctance, he followed, wishing he could sit and watch him sleep, but of course, he knew better than that; he had work to attend to soon, and Midge and Rose could take care of him just fine on their own today.
He was thankful that S. Gillam and Angelique had allowed Rose and Nathaniel to stay with them, still, after the baby had been born.
“Was Izzie ever that tiny,” he asked. “I know she was small, but…” He thought back to when their only child was born and smiled.
He’d been the first to ever hold her; to ever touch the downy curls on her head, still damp; the one to help the separating of her umbilical cord.
It had been an amazing day.
And now, another child’s journey had begun.
What would be in store for this new little being in the world around them, shifting faster than the earth could spin? What challenges, what loves, what losses, what victories would he experience in his time here? What heartaches, what thrills? What miracles would come about simply because he had been born?
For his life itself was a miracle.
Justice moved to run a hand over Midge’s long braids and pulled her close as they stood in the hallway a few moments more. He really hated to have to go to work, but there was research to be done, a new client to create identifications for, and then, the moving – yet again – of the Fergusons because of the storm that had swept through Mississippi.
But to which of the other three mainland U.S. HUVA locales could he safely send them? Or would he have to get creative and send them to one of their three outlying hideaways: Greece, or Japan, or Jamaica?
And what of Calico’s brother and sister-in-law? Someone still had to track them down; make sure they were alright, even if they had caused much pain and money on the part of the HUVA teams in California and Mississippi.
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