The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Matthew did not reply, just smiled into the face of the doctor. Bill Burke showed his ID to the physician and said, “None of us are Agent Reynolds’ family. I’m the Director of the FBI.”

  “I know. I recognize you from television. You were the gentleman brought back from death by Elohim. It is an honor to meet you.” He extended his hand. Sincere reverence and awe were visible on the young doctor’s face. “You must tell me, what is it like to be touched by Him?”

  As Bill Burke reached out to shake his hand, Matthew said, “Look. He has the mark.”

  Everyone suddenly looked down to see the distinctive image on the doctor’s palm. The Pakistani, clearly embarrassed, was frozen with his hand extended. Burke finally reached forward and grasped the offered hand, shaking it firmly, as Claire said, “So, you’ll be going with us tomorrow…” – she glanced at the wall clock – “actually today.”

  Looking around, he noticed the entire group before him also bore the mark. “Yes,” he answered, “I believe I am. It was something of a surprise.”

  “It was a surprise for most of us, I think,” said Reese.

  “I am Hindi. It is…was my belief that there was no Heaven. I did not expect to be called there. I was also surprised that He, Elohim, would call someone of the Hindu path. I had the impression that He was the…this is so awkward…I apologize…a Christian God.”

  Reese started to explain, “The criteria for selection are based upon your character, not your affil….”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “Since the mark appeared, I have read the transcripts on the Internet. You must be Doctor Johnson.”

  “I am, and it’s Reese,” he replied, extending his hand. “A Hindu in Pakistan is rather rare.”

  “Reese. My name is…well, my American friends call me Magi. And yes, it is rare. It is quite astute of you to recognize that I am Pakistani.”

  “My pleasure, Magi.”

  “Can we please see Nicholas?” asked Melissa, obviously having reached the end of her patience for the chatter.

  “Yes. You may. I am sorry we became sidetracked. Normally, we impose a two-person limit, but I will make an exception for your group. Please, follow me.” He turned and walked back through the double doors, with the group in tow. As it was after midnight, the hospital hallway was dimly lit and quiet. Conversations between staff were whispered.

  After two turns, they all arrived at the room. As soon as their destination was obvious, Melissa ran ahead, seeing Reynolds half propped up in the bed, smiling. She continued running, bumping the side of the bed a bit too hard as she threw her arms around him. “Nicholas! I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Reynolds grimaced from the embrace, and not wanting to make her feel bad, he fought down a groan. Seeing his face, Matthew said, “Melissa, you’re hurting him.”

  She immediately let go, backing away from the bed a step. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Melissa,” said Reynolds, smiling.

  Claire, tears running down her cheeks, stepped between her children and leaned over, kissing Reynolds gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Nicholas. Thank you for saving our babies.”

  “I never know what to say,” he answered, grinning broadly. “It was nothing? It’s my job? My pleasure?”

  From behind Claire, Bill Burke said, “How about ‘you’re welcome’?”

  Shaking his head, Nicholas said, “Okay, boss. You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  “How are you feeling?” Burke asked.

  “Actually, darn good. I’m serious. I feel as if I could get out of bed right now.” Looking back at Magi, who was hovering at the doorway, Reynolds continued, “Thanks to the doc. He didn’t even open me up. Just used one of those scopes.”

  From behind them, the doctor commented, “You are a lucky man. There could not have been less damage to you if a surgeon had been the attacker.”

  Reynolds, still smiling, said, “Luck had nothing to do with it. I have friends in high places.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On this which is for some the final day on Earth, a gray, woolen blanket of clouds, which began as small, scattered tufts growing as the night circumnavigated the orb, swaddles the planet. Looking back from a vantage point in space, mankind’s home appears to be a sphere dipped in a white batter. No meteorologists predicted the phenomenon, and not a single location on sea or land is touched by the rays of the sun. The transition from night to morning was from blackness into a murky, shadowy dimness.

  The news and weather broadcasters calmly and matter-of-factly report the details of this unusual event, not bothering to speculate as to its cause. No climatologists are invited to sit in front of a microphone to discuss it. In lieu of what, in the recent past, would have been their normal method of coverage, some stations interview historians and theologians, looking for a connection between the beginnings of this day and other days in the distant past, relying upon the myths and lore passed down through the ages by word-of-mouth. As serious reporters listen while Mayan legends, Etruscan tales, Chinese descriptions, and Babylonian stories of a dark day are told, no modern expert is consulted for an opinion. The nebulous and vague versions of a morning long departed are allowed to stand. Each viewer, each person who watches and listens, is allowed to make his or her own determination.

  Rarely in a lifetime, indeed rarely over the ages, do people rise from their sleep knowing with certainty their lives will change that day. Even more seldom do they wake up aware of an impending event which will change the state of civilization, of all human life on Earth. For many of those chosen, the small percentage of the population who bear the mark, the morning has been filled with ambivalence. Beginning their day, they have found that each sight, sound, smell, taste, or sensation has triggered an ennui – the same bittersweet sadness which washes over those who take a final tour of their newly sold home, after the furniture is packed and loaded, after the pictures are down from the walls, after all has been removed and prepared for transport. All has been removed except the memories, the feelings imbued within the very walls, floor, and ceiling of what is to become their former home.

  For those chosen, the day ahead will be filled with moments promising to be joyous and heartrending, as good-byes are spoken to those who have been close, to those who have been kind yet are destined to remain behind. Very few will speak of the “whys,” the reasons for Elohim’s choices, for neither those about to depart nor those remaining wish to dwell upon the mistakes which have been made in the past by those without the mark. This day some of the Chosen will find lifelong friends less than receptive, less than kind, less than pleasant, and less than happy for their good fortune. For these friends, the moment to embrace, to share memories, and to wish the other well will be lost to both, soon becoming a source of melancholy after the day has passed and the opportunity is forever gone.

  Of those who are to be left behind, a few – far too few – will see this day as an opportunity to heed Elohim’s admonition to blame none but themselves, to turn their attention toward lessons unlearned. They will be happy with the confirmation they have received, glad they possess the proof that their efforts toward becoming a better person are acknowledged. No longer will they suffer from doubt and uncertainty…the nagging suspicion that this fragile and tenuous life on Earth is all that exists and, once snuffed out, becomes no more than a memory in the minds and hearts of the living. For them, the parting of the curtain, the partial yet convincing evidence of a higher power and a potential for eternal life, will provide the added impetus needed to fulfill their positive potential.

  For most of the others, they have bifurcated the bittersweet, embracing only the former, shunning the latter. The very mechanism within them which caused the domino-like cascade of decisions and choices throughout their entire lives, leaving them now standing at the station rather than boarding the train, is the same mechanism which will cause them to blame. No cogent or rational criteria will be employed as they choose whom or what to blame for
their plight, save one, an exemption of self.

  During the minutes and hours that pass on this gray day, they will remain consistent; they will continue to make the wrong choices. Instead of believing that the opportunity to have been one of the Chosen was within their grasp, they will still prefer to believe that this particular brass ring has always been denied to them – denied to them by the social status into which they were born, by the color of their skin, by the preference their parents showed for a sibling, by their lack of attractiveness, by their inadequate height, by the color of their hair, or by a myriad of other superficial concerns, all of which have been granted far too much weight on the balancing scales of their minds. This list will continue endlessly, as these unfortunates, rather than looking within, spend the rest of their lifetimes honing the skill of finding the imagined culprits who have always denied them their due.

  Among this group is also where a dark and turbulent pool of hatred and resentment is to be found. Although this anger is directed toward their perceived enemies – all of those who, they believe, have held them back and prevented them from reaping that which they believe they are owed – no respite from it is ever forthcoming. The objects of their hatred might beg them for forgiveness, might even die, ceasing to be a threat, yet the negative emotion will continue unabated. It must. Those who are blamed, those external objects, are nothing other than the innocent victims of transference. The angry ones have never allowed the true explanation to surface upon the sea of their consciousness. The true causes, the worthy targets for all of their hatred, anger, and resentment are those whom they can never accuse: themselves. And those are the enemy who will never repent, will never leave, and will never die, until do they.

  In each corner of the world, as humankind begins this day, the former group awakes and sees the sky filled with clouds, and as they discover it is a phenomenon shrouding their entire Earth, they will gaze at it with wonder and anticipation. Those of the latter segment, seeing the same sky and learning of its pervasiveness, will look away with fear, feeling the ever-present anger begin to simmer yet again within their hearts.

  א

  Buck Langley unlashed the tarp fastened to the bow cleats of his fishing boat as he eyed the early morning sky, studying the belly of the dense clouds which stretched to the horizon, wondering if this would be a good day to be out. Squinting, he stared east over the Pacific, trying to discern even the slightest hint of the rising sun through the grayness. Buck was a native Australian and third-generation fisherman. It was a matter of pride with him to unravel the subtle clues nature provided, making his own decisions about the coming weather for the day rather than relying upon the weather forecast available from the radio. Some of his friends had not heeded Buck’s warnings in the past, deferring instead to the nameless, droning voice from the weather bureau. Their decisions cost them dearly in repairs to their boats or even, he recalled, cost them their lives.

  Although the clouds were heavy and solid, the seas were quiet, nearly too calm. Pausing in his labor, Buck perched on the railing and pulled out his grandfather’s pipe, biting down on the stem of it, not bothering to fill the bowl, and thought back to his childhood. It was the time of his life when each day seemed to last an eternity as he, his father, and his grandfather readied this same boat for the day’s work. It was on one of those days that Buck acquired his name.

  At his birth his mother had chosen the name Thomas for him. Yet once, during a sudden gale at sea, as all three generations of Langleys scrambled to tie down everything on deck that could move, Buck’s grandfather yelled to him to lash the tiller which was swinging wildly in the tossing storm. Buck, only twelve at the time and unsure of his own strength, yelled back at his grandfather through the screeching winds to do it himself. His grandfather answered with a devilish grin, “I’m an old man. You’re the young buck. You do it.”

  Through the blasting sea spray and gale-like wind, Buck laboriously made his way to the stern. With the heavy hemp rope under his arm, he grabbed the tiller and fought it, slipping wildly on the wet deck until he was able to hook the loop of the rope over the end, hitching it tightly. With everything secure, Buck joined his father and grandfather in the pilothouse to ride out the storm. Toweling the salt water from his face and weary of waiting for the compliment he thought he deserved, Buck said, “Not bad for a buck, huh?”

  Buck loved the sea, the creaking of the boat. Even the smell that most people find so odious was a comfort to him. His father had retired two years ago, giving Buck the boat. It was the same boat inherited by his dad after the sea took his grandfather just two months after Buck’s informal christening. Still feeling the pain, Buck recalled another squall…another scramble to batten down the boat…when a wave, mountainous by normal standards and small when compared to the almost mythical rogue waves, washed completely over the deck, nearly capsizing the boat. Buck and his father were huddled together against the pilothouse, shielded from the main force. Buck’s grandfather was not so lucky. Exposed at the stern, performing the same deed which had resulted in Buck’s name, Thaddeus Langley was swept instantly into the sea as he was attempting to secure the tiller.

  There was nothing Buck and his father could do at the time but wait until the storm subsided. When the sea finally calmed, they searched for two days to no avail. For years, Buck felt the crushing weight of guilt over the loss. It was his father who, on another day at sea, looked at him and asked, “Would you rather it had been you?”

  Without hesitation, Buck answered, “Yes.”

  Expecting his father to talk him off his position, anticipating all the clichés about how his grandfather had lived his life and Buck had his before him, the father surprised him by saying, “Me, too.” There was nothing more comforting which could have been said, for Buck felt some of the loneliness lift from his shoulders.

  Buck Langley continued to stare out at the dark and murky sea from his perch on the railing. Thirty years had passed since that day – tonnes of fish caught, tens of thousands of kilometers steamed. Along the way, Buck had acquired a loving wife who had given him two beautiful daughters whose noses wrinkled with disdain whenever they got within a hundred meters of the boat. For years Buck had dwelled sadly upon the fact that he would be the last Langley to sail this sturdy boat. Now, things had changed in a way he never expected.

  “People need to eat,” Buck said aloud, shaking himself out of his reverie and standing up. Since no one else was around, and so no ego was at stake, he decided to check the radio for a weather update. Lightly traversing the gangway, he swung into the pilothouse, set his pipe on the table, and switched on the old tube radio, waiting for it to warm up. As he waited, Buck remembered his thermos of coffee still on the edge of the dock where he had placed it before wrestling with the tarp.

  Back on deck he went, turning toward the bow. He espied the thermos, as well as the lunch packed by Penny, safely back from the edge of the dock where he had put them. Instead of climbing the rail and crossing back to the dock, Buck went to the port bow, shimmied himself halfway up the side and, holding the railing with one hand, swung the top of his body out away from the side of the boat, reaching for the edge of the dock.

  As his fingers closed upon the paper bag, Buck heard a gruff voice from behind. “You’re gonna be dunked doin’ a darn fool thing like that.”

  Momentarily startled, Buck realized his father must have come down to the boat this morning, perhaps for old times sake. Snatching the lunch and thermos with one sweep of his hand, he pulled himself upright and slid down, his shoes slapping on the wooden deck. Immediately, the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco filled his nostrils as he turned. He was confused, knowing his father had never taken up the habit.

  There on the deck, standing by the door to the pilothouse, was his grandfather, Thaddeus, smiling at him and puffing on the old briar that Buck had set down just minutes ago. He looked younger than he had been when Buck last saw him. In fact, he looked close to Buck’s age. His mind whirled as B
uck struggled to grasp what his senses were telling him, when Thaddeus interrupted his mental battle. “Are we ever going to get out on the water today and do some work, or have you turned this into a pleasure craft since I left?”

  “Granddad?” was all Buck could ask, his voice breaking.

  “It sure is, Buck,” was all he said, taking a step forward. The movement released Buck from his self-induced paralysis, and he ran forward, throwing his arms around his grandfather, somehow returned.

  “How…why?” Buck, still bewildered, sputtered.

  “Haven’t you been payin’ attention, boy? Today’s the day I get to go to Heaven.”

  “But you’re here. You’re on the boat. You’re real.”

  “We get our bodies back. We’re gonna need ’em up there.”

  Thaddeus let go of his grandson and took a step back, saying, “Speakin’ of which…what do you think?” He held out his arms as if he were modeling a new sweater. “The sea took pretty good care of it, don’t you think?”

  Buck stood back, staring. “You’re younger,” was all he could say.