by Amy Cross
So far, I see nothing. Either nothing is there, or it's good at hiding.
“Rachel,” Donald continues as he follows me, “there's really nothing on the roof.”
Stopping, I look up at the wooden steeple. I remember when I finished repairing that part of the building, I was filled with relief that I'd managed to make it look so good, although I was also a little disappointed that I hadn't been able to stick to my original plan and make it taller. I'd envisioned a grand steeple, rising twice as high into the bare sky, but I'd eventually had to recognize the limits of my skills. I even remember that I'd ordered extra wood for the task, and sometimes I find myself wondering whether I would have succeeded if I'd just pushed on. I've only ever given up on that one thing in my life, and the thought still eats away at me. There have been many sleepless nights in the intervening years, spent thinking about how I might have made the steeple taller.
Then again, I suppose we all have regrets as our lives draw to a close. This is mine.
“It's raining,” Donald says suddenly.
As soon as the words have left his lips, I know that he's right. Tiny drops of cold rain have begun to fall once again, dotting my damaged face and hands. I reach out, turning my right hand and letting rain fall onto the palm.
“I think this is our cue to go back inside,” Donald continues, reaching out and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Rachel, you can finish inspecting the exterior of the church another time.”
I want to agree with him, to go back and rest my weary body on the bed, but at the same time I refuse to stop until I've seen the church from all four angles.
“Wait for me inside,” I tell him.
“Rachel -”
“Wait for me inside!” I shout, finally losing my temple. I push his hand away, but I quickly manage to get my anger under control. “Can I please just be alone for a few minutes?” I ask. “I know you're hiding something from me, Donald. I know you and Marnie have got something inside that you're keeping from my sight. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by asking you again, because I know you'd only lie to me, but...” I pause, hoping that he might actually admit the truth. “If you won't tell me what it is, then get back inside.”
“Fine,” he replies, taking a step back. “You're wrong, though. We're not hiding anything.”
“And maybe you should think about leaving,” I add. “The weather's only going to get worse, you and Marnie need to be gone from here when that happens.”
“We're not abandoning you.”
“I want to die alone.”
“Rachel, we can't -”
“Don't make me angry,” I continue. “I might be weak and crippled, but I can still get angry.”
He stares at me, and I can tell he knows I'm right: I should die alone.
“I want the pair of you to leave,” I tell him. “That was always the deal, remember? I needed you to bring me here, and I'm sorry I even had to rely on you for that, but now I need you to go. I want to be alone with my... with the church.” I wait for him to answer. “Don't make me force you to go,” I add.
He sighs. “I'll talk to Marnie.”
“You'll do more than talk to her,” I reply as he turns and heads back around to the main door. “You'll tell her it's time to pack your things and leave.”
Once he's gone inside, I take a deep breath and start limping around the side of the church. I make my way closer, taking care not to stumble over any of the loose gray rocks that scatter the surface of the yard. The last thing I need, having just made a show of defiance, is to trip and fall; if I have to get more medical attention from Donald, I'll just be reinforcing his belief that he and Marnie should be here for me. Still, the pain is intense, throbbing and burning in my ankle, my legs, my hips, my chest, even my head. I know full well that my body is breaking down and dying, and as I reach the side of the church I have to reach out and put my damaged left hand against the wall, leaning for a little stability.
“Hello, old friend,” I whisper, feeling the touch of the church's battered wall.
The truth is, I've always preferred being on the outside of the building, like this, rather than inside. It's not that I don't appreciate being able to shelter and rest inside, but when I'm awake and energized I prefer to be out here, on the side of the walls that faces the world. I remember painting the exterior all those years ago; I did a good job, but now the paint is cracked and peeled, and if I were in any fit state at all I would immediately get the ladder and start scraping the loose flakes away, and then I'd paint the whole building over the course of a couple of days. Still, I know my limitations, and merely being here is enough of an achievement for now. Finding a loose flake of paint, I pull it away from the wall to reveal the bare wood beneath, and I can't help but smile.
“You're like me,” I mutter. “Damaged. But unlike me, you can be repaired.”
And that's when the realization hits me.
Someone else will come and repair the church one day, just as I once repaired it many years ago. Perhaps, like me, that next person will walk alone along the causeway and then stop to admire the simple elegance of the place; perhaps, also like me, that person will then get to work in a furious burst of energy, restoring the church to its proper state. Suddenly I feel as if I'm going to be replaced, as if the church will get a new friend, someone who might even be able to do a better job. Someone who might stay with it, rather than rushing off to fight a great battle. Taking a deep breath, I can't help but feel a little resentful at the idea that someone else might do what I wanted to do, and might extend the steeple higher into the gray sky. With rain falling all around, I think I finally understand the limits of my own mortality.
I should have stayed here.
I never should have gone off to fight, even though I knew the cause was worthy. Someone else could have...
I pause for a moment.
No.
The truth is, I think it had to be me.
I don't want to get big-headed, I don't want to think of myself as some great warrior, because I know that's not the case. Still, I also know that for some twisted reason, I was the only person who could ever have won that particular battle.
“I had to go,” I say out loud, running my hand across the chipped paintwork. “You understand, don't you? I hope you don't think I abandoned you, because that couldn't be further from the truth. I had to go.”
There are tears in my eyes now. Leaning forward, I press my forehead against the wall.
Behind me, in the distance, a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky. One of the few remaining trees creaks slightly, its bare branches shifting in the wind.
For a fraction of a second, my mind fills with images of the battle. I see flames rising all around from the muddy soil, and I feel that shock of fear that crackled through my body when I realized I was the only one left of those who'd set out from the ridge. I remember turning, coughing as foul, acrid smoke filled my lungs, and I remember seeing my enemy striding toward me, each footstep causing the ground to shudder. I was scared at that moment, filled with so much fear that I thought it would shake me apart. I had an urge to surrender, to fall on my own sword and get my death over with, and looking back I still don't know how I found the strength and courage to stand and fight. I almost feel as if it was someone else in my body, someone else who took control and someone else who ran screaming at the enemy with a sword raised high. A sword? Did I really wield a sword? How could I have done that and, even more shockingly, how could I have succeeded? So many good people died in that battle, bleeding to death or burning alive. Some of them were properly-trained warriors, some were soldiers with decades of experience, yet they fell and I stood. I still remember the sight of my enemy dropping dead at my feet; I remember not believing it, I remember thinking it had to be some kind of trick. I was so shocked, I didn't even feel the pain from my injuries, not until Donald and Marnie came to find me.
They'd expected to merely haul my corpse away. I saw the stunned expressions on
their faces when they realized I was alive.
Another rumble of thunder brings me back to the present. I keep my hand on the gray, chipped wall for a moment longer before turning and looking toward the horizon. Dark clouds are much closer now, and the wind is picking up, driving bad weather in this direction. I remember the storm that struck many years ago, on my very first night in the church, and I recall how the walls creaked so much, I thought the whole building would be blown away. At least now I know that the place is reinforced, and even if the paint is faded, the walls and the roof will stand firm, of that I have no doubt. Even as I feel the storm gathering force all around me, I know that the church will be able to withstand anything the natural world throws in its direction. There's no way that -
Suddenly I hear a loud bumping sound from above, followed by several wooden planks clattering on the roof and the sound of something sharp scrabbling for grip.
I take a step back and look up, but even though I don't immediately see anything, my heart is racing at the thought that I definitely just heard something land on the roof. I limp a little further from the wall, my eyes fixed on the roof, waiting to spot something moving about up there, but so far there's nothing. Still, I know what I heard, and I'm certain that something just collided with the building. Given the strong wind, I guess it's definitely possible that some debris or garbage was whipped up from the sea and sent hurtling this way, but I can't discount the possibility that something else is up there, something that perhaps just made a rough, poorly-timed landing.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice mostly lost on the wind.
I wait, convinced that at any moment something is going to loom down and attack me.
Taking another limping step back, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. In a way, that's a good thing; at least I know my heart is still capable of beating that fast.
“Hello?” I shout again, as loud as I can manage. “If there's someone up there, you might as well show yourself!” I wait again, before holding my arms out at my sides. “Look at me! I'm defenseless, I'm weak! You can kill me easily, so...” I pause, wondering whether I really want to say the next words, but finally I realize that there's no point delaying things. I knew this moment would come. “I'm dying,” I continue, taking another limping step back, “so if you want to get me, you need to hurry. Come on, I'm all yours! I doubt you'll even break a sweat!”
I wait.
Rain crashes down and wind batters the side of the church, but the roof remains bare. As far as I can see, anyway.
After a moment, I start to wonder if maybe I was wrong. After all, if something made the vast journey to this church and finally arrived, I doubt it would waste much time in coming down to kill me. Then again, it might be exhausted or injured, and it might need time to recover before it strikes; or another possibility, it might be cautious, thinking that perhaps I'm trying to trick it into attacking. Feeling a little breathless, I limp around the next corner, all the while keeping my eyes on the roof, waiting for something to lunge down at me.
By the time I get back around to the front of the building, I've begun to seriously doubt that there's anything up there at all.
Limping through the door, I return to the church's gloomy interior. I have to stop after a moment and lean against the back of one of the benches, but there's no sign of Donald or Marnie so I figure it's okay to let a little weakness show. After a few seconds, I start staggering forward, making for the wooden altar. Ever since I got back to the church, I've been delaying the moment when I go to the altar again, but I feel the time has come. The effort of inspecting the outside of the church has tired me far more than I expected, to the point that I feel I might collapse at any moment, but I have no time to rest. With most likely only a few more hours of life left, I have so much to get done, and as I reach the other end of the aisle I stop for a few seconds and look at the steps that lead up to the altar. Those steps, up which I bounded so freely when I was younger and in good health, now seem like an insurmountable climb, but I will get up there and I will do it without assistance.
I just need to get my breath back first.
“Rachel?”
“Not now,” I reply, not even turning when I hear Donald behind me. “I'm busy.”
“It's important.”
“Rachel,” Marnie adds, “please...”
“What do you want?” I ask, struggling to turn and look at them. “Don't you realize that I -”
Stopping suddenly, I try to make sense of what I'm seeing. Donald and Marnie are standing a few feet away, in the aisle, and between them there's a little girl, a child no more than eight or nine years old.
“I'm sorry,” Donald continues, with a hint of tension in his voice. “You were right earlier. We were hiding something from you.”
Five
“A child!” I hiss as I stumble into the back room, filled with so much anger that I feel I might explode. “You brought a -”
Before I can get the rest of the words out, I feel an eruption of pain and grit in my lungs. Starting to cough, I double over and reach out for something, anything against which I can steady myself. After a moment I feel Donald take hold of my hand, and although I hate to accept his help, I have no choice. Still coughing, and with the taste of blood and ragged flesh in my mouth now, I limp to the side of my bed and lean against the wall.
“I'm sorry,” Donald says as I continue to cough. “I know it was wrong, that's why we tried to hide her from you, but... I should have known it would never work.”
I try to reply, but my throat feels as if all the flesh has been stripped away.
“After the battle,” he continues, “you were so badly hurt that Tammy was able to walk with us on the journey here, and you never noticed. Then when you were recovering here in bed, I suppose you began to become more aware of your surroundings. We tried to hide her better, but it was too late.” He pauses. “I'm sorry we lied to you, but we were both... Well, we were worried about how you'd react. Maybe even a little scared.”
“You were worried about how I'd react?” I ask, determined to speak even though every word is agony. “Really? And why is that? Could it be -” I pause, trying to find the strength. “Could it be because I expressly ordered you not to let anyone else come with us to the church?”
“Rachel -”
“Or could it be,” I continue, turning to him, unable to hide the anger from my eyes, “because I expressly told you that children mustn't be let anywhere near us after the battle? Do you remember me telling you that, Donald?”
“I remember.”
“But you disobeyed me anyway?”
“I had no choice,” he replies. “Marnie and I, we had to bring Tammy.” He pauses. “She's our daughter.”
I stare at him, unable to believe what I'm hearing. “Your... You and Tammy have a daughter?”
He nods.
I frown. “Together?”
He nods again.
“She's your daughter?”
“Yes, she -”
“How?”
He pauses. “Well... The obvious way.”
“I don't mean that,” I reply, “I mean... Since when do you and Tammy have a daughter? Why didn't I know about this before?”
“Do you remember when we first met you?” he asks. “It was shortly after you left this church, I think. You'd traveled a vast distance to the edge of the battlefield, and you arrived all alone in our town. When we agreed to help you, one of the things you made us promise was that we wouldn't fill your thoughts with talk of our private lives. You said you wanted to know as little about us as possible.”
I stare at him, rendered incredulous by what he's saying.
“You said you didn't want to know anything,” he continues, “and we agreed to that. From that day on, we dedicated ourselves to serving you and we never once mentioned anything about our own lives, about our real lives away from you. That was how you wanted it, Rachel -”
“But a child!” I hiss. “How could you n
ot mention a child?”
“Marnie and I are married,” he continues, “we -”
“What?”
“We're married.” He pauses. “I kind of assumed you'd figured out that much, at least.”
“No,” I reply, shocked by the idea. “I thought you...”
My voice trails off as I realize that he's right: I should have guessed that part.
“We left Tammy with my mother while we went with you to the battlefield,” he says after a moment. “After the battle, we managed to get your damaged body back to our town. By that point, my mother was too sick to look after Tammy, but we knew we had to bring you here to the church, we'd made that promise to you, so...” He pauses again. “So we had no choice, we had to bring Tammy. We told her she'd have to keep out of sight, we told her the journey would be long and arduous, and she understood. To be honest, we hoped that you'd never have to find out, especially since you were always so adamant that children had to be kept away from you in case they got hurt. I understand why you wanted that, Rachel, really I do, but... We felt that since the battle was over, I mean... What harm could it do?”
Feeling a jolt of pain in my abdomen, I take a deep breath.
“So you brought a child here,” I say finally. “You hid her from me.”
“And for that I can only apologize,” he replies, “but what else should we have done? Left her to fend for herself?”
“Of course not.”
“Abandoned our oath to you?”
“Maybe the...” I pause for a moment. “You didn't have to bring me to the church, you know. You could have just let me die on the battlefield.”
He shakes his head.
“You could have done that,” I continue. “Coming back here was just an act of vanity on my part. I wanted to see the church one more time, but it wasn't essential. In the grand scheme of things, in the story of the universe, it wouldn't really have mattered. Not to anyone else.”