He had given ground in his mind to the idea that, if he had additional powers, he could affect Galen at a distance. He could also further manipulate circumstances at home to his liking. He mused that it was about time he effected changes that he wanted in his life.
The rubber was now hitting the road. His anger fueled a growing hostility within his soul. He was faced with another opportunity to say yes to these dark beings, and at the moment, he couldn’t think of a single good reason to say no.
Not once had he ever entertained the notion of a one-on-one conversation with the voices, save for putting up a protective front. But now…
“Brent, think about it. Power, physical gratification, influence, and…” The words were choked off as if someone had pressed a mute button on a remote.
What happened? No, not this time! Brent felt a slight panic, believing his opportunity was about to be lost. “Hey … Hey!” he said in a stiff whisper. “Not now! You can’t leave! Not this time!” But it was too late. For the first time in this hellish relationship he felt robbed.
3:26 A.M.
BRENT LOOKED DOWN and saw his feet on the dark wood of the railroad tie. The darkness consumed everything, but he could still see. How was it possible?
He stood in ‘his spot,’ and once again began looking around at outstretched blackness.
Despair enveloped him. Meaninglessness. Utter meaninglessness.
I deserve this place. I am nothing. My life is nothing.
He stood.
He stood and wept.
Did I have a chance to avoid this? How did I end up here? He let out another always-silent sigh. I belong here. I am here because this is where I belong.
How many times had he thought to call out for help? But in this place, sound did not travel, let alone exist.
It wasn’t a place of evil. It wasn’t a place of anything. It just was. It just existed. Devoid of any presence except his own, it amounted to nothing more than being able to inhale the dark, silent void of outer space.
He looked, again, down to his feet. He realized that his gaze always returned downward. It was the only way that he had any sense of depth perception.
Railroad ties. Blackened old railroad ties. The reason for their existence when nothing else did…? It didn’t matter. Just like nothing else mattered. Though he couldn’t reason out the why, he merely accepted that they were there.
Without warning, a shaft of intense light shot down from out of nowhere, causing him to gasp! It was far off in the distance, but it was staggering.
Brent could hardly breathe. His heart began to race.
He stood there and stared at it, his soul aching for it.
Without any thought to consequences, he took a single step forward, then stopped. He had been in this place for a thousand million years, and never once had it occurred to him to take even a partial stride. But there had never been a reason to do so before now, had there?
He took another step forward toward the light. He looked down. He saw that there was another railroad tie on which to step, and he did so. He looked up again at the shaft of white light.
His steps became methodic: Look down, see a tie, take a step, look at the light. Look down, see a tie, take a step, look at the light.
Over and over he repeated the actions. The stream of illumination was still far distant, and though he could not tell how far, he seemed to be making progress. One thing caught his attention now that he was a little closer to it. The light appeared to be coming down out of the blackness from a hundred, a thousand, a million miles up, and it fell straight down in a narrow beam to a single point, then stopped. It looked as though it came to an end on the same horizontal plane on which he was now walking.
He continued forward, carefully making sure that each step had a railroad tie below it. Each step was greeted with another surge of anticipation, a feeling of importance that was gathering like a storm in his mind.
What does this mean? His psyche screamed for an answer.
Forward he continued, each small step equally a torture and a hope.
He stopped.
What he now saw made no sense. The light was cast down and focused upon ... a flower; a single, long-stemmed flower.
It stood erect in a red clay pot as it rested on the surface of the railroad ties. It looked to be a white daisy. The bloom was maybe another thirty to forty steps away. The beam of light fell only upon that solitary point in the otherwise vast expanse of emptiness.
It’s beautiful! It’s … it’s … beautiful!
Tears filled his eyes. An ache filled his heart. If I can reach it … If I can hold it, I can keep it … take care of it.
A sense of purpose and hope permeated every fiber of his being.
He looked down to take a step onto another railroad tie, but something was different. He stood a moment, unmoving, to look and ponder. The next tie, on which he would need to step, was not pressed up against the one on which he stood. It was a good six inches away, with blackness filling the gap between. Curiosity waning, he took a slightly broader step onto the next tie. He looked up and saw the flower.
He was on the verge of joy!
He looked down, again, to take another step and saw that the next tie was cocked at an angle away from the one on which he now stood, creating an even greater gulf to bridge. He stepped. He stood. He looked up.
His heart was hammering; his pulse was throbbing in his neck.
He looked down.
Fear stabbed at his heart and mind.
Something’s wrong. Something’s going wrong!
He watched as a tie to the right of where he stood seemed to sink into the blackness of whatever it was that the pieces of wood rested upon. Another, this one to his left, did the same.
He felt the tie below his feet begin to shift. Survival instincts kicked in, and he stepped forward onto the next available tie. It appeared, now, that none of the ties ahead of him touched another. It was as if each one had been scattered into its current resting place by a whirlwind.
Another tie ahead of him, and to his left, began to sink into the blackness below. And another did the same a little further ahead. And, then another. It was beginning to happen all over!
He looked forward into the distance and saw his flower, his hope, his purpose, still sitting securely upon its own railroad tie. He shuddered. It cannot go away!
He looked down again and realized an even greater terror. He’d been mistaken. The ties were not sinking. They were falling!
As more ties disappeared, creating greater gaps between the remaining ones, he could see, through those breaches, blackened pieces of lumber falling, spiraling, and tumbling downward.
The railroad ties, they’re resting on … nothing!
His breath caught in his chest. Time was running out. He knew—he just knew—that it was just a matter of time before two things happened: gaps too large to jump over would be created, and eventually—God, no!—the flower would tumble out of his existence forever.
There was no other option but to run, leaping over newly created fissures to gain purchase on other wooden surfaces. He jumped. He landed. He felt the tie falter below his feet and he jumped again.
God, please! Don’t let me lose it! It’s the only thing I have left! It’s my only hope!
Again he jumped, reaching another tie. The ties around him were beginning to fall three and four at a time, tumbling out of sight. He made to jump for another, when it began to fall from view.
Where?! Where?! He kept the shaft of light as his directional goal as he continued to jump, waver, and pitch. The gaps were becoming too big to manage. They’re too far! He leapt for the next closest one, barely making it, and fell to a knee to regain his balance.
He was only a couple of leaps away! He saw that the flower pot rested upon a tie pressed on either side by more of the same. It almost looked like a wood deck made up of maybe ten or twelve giant slats of the thick, dark wood. Good, it’s safe, he thought, and leapt for anoth
er hopefully-secure surface. He’d made it again.
Brent knew that he shouldn’t, but he looked behind him anyway. Black railroad ties were falling, dozens at a time, as he scanned the distance. He shifted his focus back to his goal. The tie on which he stood lay in a straight line, jutting toward the next closest tie. He took a running leap and made it safely.
He was going to make it! Just one more jump and he’d be there. He’d be able to touch and hold his precious, precious treasure! He took a deep breath. There would be no running leap this time, just a single, precarious bound across six feet of emptiness.
He jumped.
He was there! He’d made it!
His heart swelled with emotion and his eyes filled with tears as he took a single step toward the brightly-lighted flower. He crouched down. He willed his hand forward to caress the flower’s delicate petals. Then, without warning, the tie on which it rested fell from sight. The flower tumbled downward, quickly enveloped by darkness; its beauty—and his hope—gone forever.
He screamed, with all that was in him, a completely silent Nooooooooooo!
Sorry I’m late,” announced Coach Chamberlin as he walked into the small, windowless in-school suspension room. He stopped and stared at the lone occupant. “Brent?” His eyebrows pinched together in a disappointed wince. “Tell me what you did.”
“I don’t suppose starting with ‘it wasn’t totally my fault’ is going to make much difference.”
“I’d say that’s a pretty good assumption.”
As if it were a part of his story, Brent sighed for the hundredth time before speaking. He looked down at his notebook, unwilling to look into the eyes of yet another displeased person. “I punched Galen Todd.”
“I see. And I’m assuming that he did or said something that made you feel like he deserved it. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you the only one sitting in this room with me?”
“Galen was totally suspended.”
“Totally, huh?” The coach shook his head. “Okay, Brent. It looks like it will probably be just you and me for the next two days. Next week, though, I’m sure it will be a different story. You’re not the only one in this school who lands in a seat before Mr. McClaren.
“Brent, just because you’re one of my key players doesn’t mean you’re going to get any special privileges. You understand that, don’t you?”
Brent gave a slow nod.
Coach Chamberlin sat down in a chair behind a small table at the head of the room that served as a workstation. “You’d better get started on any homework that you have. There’s no sleeping, so fight the urge to lay your head on your arms. Believe it or not, in-school suspension is a form of punishment, and the days are going to feel long even with homework to do.”
“It already feels long,” replied Brent.
The coach looked at Brent, obviously searching for the right words. Finding them, he said, “I’m going to invade your personal space a little bit with a question. You’ve resisted telling me before, and I think that had something to do with your teammates always being in proximity. But the basketball season is over. It’s just you and me, now.”
Tension developed throughout Brent’s neck and back, knowing where his coach’s words were heading.
“Something’s wrong. And, while you may think of me as just another authority figure doing his job, I want you to know that I really do care. If I can, I want to help.” He paused to allow his last statement to have a little impact. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Does it have something to do with life at home? Here at school?”
Brent looked up at his coach, a wary look touching his eyes. Would it hurt to trust this man? Could he just lay things out and expect someone like him to understand? He looked down at his notebook again. He’d risk it. His pride was pretty much demolished anyway.
“Coach, it has to do with a lot of things. Home, school, you name it. But I don’t think you’ll understand. God sure doesn’t seem to.” He shook his head. “I’m into something that even I don’t understand; something that I can’t get out of.”
“I’m listening,” said Coach Chamberlin. He stood and pulled his chair out from behind the table. Placing it a couple of feet away from Brent, he straddled it and sat down, the back of the chair providing an arm rest.
“Coach, I really don’t want to talk about this.” Brent began to choke up, tears pooling in his eyes.
“Brent, it’s okay. You may not believe it, but you’re with a friend.”
Brent rubbed away the tears before they fell. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” How he wanted to get up and run. The heel of his left foot began tapping the floor nervously.
“Try me.”
“Coach, I’m lost. I’m lost, and I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid … and …” Brent stopped. His tongue seized. He had actually believed he could follow through. He fought in his mind for clarity. I can’t, he thought to himself. I’ve still got too much to lose. This could get me cut from the team.
Brent looked up, his red eyes showing the stress behind the tears. “I’m sorry, Coach. I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t tell you.” His eyes trailed downward again.
“Okay, Brent. Relax. I’m not going to force it.” He began to get up to move back to his work area, but paused and sat back down.
“Brent? You said something a minute ago. I’m going to ask about it because you brought it up. You mentioned God.”
“Oh … yeah … him. What about it?”
“Do you believe in him?”
“I’m forced to believe in him. I don’t really have the luxury of not believing.”
“What do you mean? Are your parents forcing their beliefs on you?”
Brent released a cynical laugh. “My parents? Nuh-uh. They could use some religion, if you ask me. Coach, the reason that I can’t explain what I’m going through is the same reason I can’t tell you how I know there’s a God.”
“Okay,” Coach Chamberlin continued, “Let me ask you this, then.” Again he paused, obviously making sure that he had Brent’s full attention. Brent’s eyes met his again. “If you were to die tonight, would you go to Heaven?”
Brent looked up into his coach’s eyes, stunned. “What?”
“Would you?”
“I … uhh …” How was he supposed to respond to this? He panicked, searching within himself for some way out. This was cutting too close. “Yeah … I mean … I don’t…” Brent looked down again, knowing the next words out of his mouth were going to be a lie. “Yes,” he said firmly. And seemingly without the ability to keep his mouth closed, he followed it up with, “I hope.”
“Let me ask it another way. If you were to die tonight and found yourself standing before the throne of God … If he were to look you in the eyes and ask, ‘Why should I let you into my Heaven?’ what would you say?”
What the… Brent was at a total loss. If he were standing on a log in the middle of a lake he couldn’t have been more off balance than he was now. “Coach, I …” He stopped. He took a deep breath and spoke the only truthful answer that he could manage. “I’ve … I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t mean to hurt people. I …” He couldn’t find any more words. I what? I … what? He was staggered by his inability to produce another sentence. That was his best argument? That was the single statement that he could give to God as his defense against Hell?
Brent looked up again into the eyes of his coach, his own registering fear. He could see that Coach Chamberlin recognized it.
“Brent, listen to me…”
“Coach … Coach, I…” Brent’s thoughts were a torrent of emotions, of horrified realization.
“Brent. Shhh…It’s okay.”
Brent looked back and forth in his coach’s eyes, looking for something—anything—that would steal his panic away. He wasn’t seeing it.
“Brent,” Coach Chamberlin said more insistently. “It’s okay. Focus on what I’m saying.”
Th
e fog in Brent’s mind seemed to clear a little bit.
“Brent, what are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, Brent. Tonight. What are you doing this evening?”
“I, uhh, I’m grounded. I’m grounded for two weeks. I’m not doing anything.”
“Brent, my wife and I are going to an event called Freedom Rings. I’d like for you to come with us.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to. What is it?”
“It’s kind of a get-together of people from all sorts of different backgrounds and life challenges. There will be music, someone will talk about the Bible…”
Brent cut him off. “Church?”
“Not exactly. It started off as something small, about a dozen guys and gals. They wanted to get together as a group, where no one would criticize them for their lack of Bible knowledge or the way they wore their hair or their clothes. They especially didn’t want to be looked down upon because of the situations that most of them had in their lives.
“The man who pulled the group together wanted to let these people know that God wasn’t concerned with what they looked like or where they came from, just that God cared about each of them as individuals, that he cared about them in spite of the messes that they’d landed themselves in.
“This little group grew. It now has more than 700 attendees.”
“When did you start going?” asked Brent, obviously captured by what he’d just been told.
“Brent, I was part of that original small group.” Coach Chamberlin let that register before he continued. “You’re not the only one who knows what desperation is.”
4:55 P.M.
SHARON LAWTON STOOD in her kitchen making preparations for dinner. Crisp, green vegetables, strewn about the counter space, were washed and ready to be chopped up for a salad. She was just opening a cabinet to pull out a large serving bowl when the phone rang. She grabbed the bowl, set it down in the midst of the scattered greens, then reached for the phone.
“Lawton residence.”
Deliver Us From Darkness Page 5