Sacrifices

by Alan D Jones

  Chapter Epilogue - Eternal Prayers

  We are an echo, resounding through the darkness, lest any of us think we are our own creation.

  Every day, they come. Every day they come looking for healing. Every day they come here looking for some kind of miracle. Although my ability to transmute matter does aid me in caring for the sick and dying, I am no healer. I am certainly no healer of a war-torn and crumbling world. The hospital wards of alien worlds are much like those on my beloved Earth, full of hope and suffering. The smoke-filled-skies blot out their sun. Their land has not yielded a harvest in years. Their failing food factories designed to recycle waste into sustenance lie in ruins as do all of their institutions beyond armies and hospitals. Through my gift, I am able to turn much of the debris here into a sort of manna. I spend my days tending to the injured and feeding the hungry. There are so many now that they lay in the streets surrounding the hospital waiting for me to come outside and bless them with something to eat regardless how crude it might be.

  Now this day, one of the few remaining, is done and I am alone again in my quarters save my memories scattered around me. A picture of my mother brings back so many pleasant memories. Though she lived into her three hundred and thirty-second year, I still mourn that she was taken so soon. Like me, she appeared to be thirty-two until the day she died. Factually, she was undone by treachery. But in truth, she was undone by a weariness of life, her life. After Deborah died, Sarah’s role of keeping her safe died, too. My mother’s other role was that of an avenging angel. It was a mantle she never wanted. Yet, she wore that heavy crown with as much grace as anyone could hope. Still, when I was alone with her, I saw the growing despair behind her beautiful eyes. With each battle and every life she took, her spirit diminished. She had sacrificed her humanity for the rest of us. She died physically two years after Aunt Deborah, but her spirit died a little with every drop of blood she shed.

  Uncle Joe and some of the men from the community, including the one who discovered my mother, found the guys who attacked my mother and exacted some small measure of justice. I’m just fine with that.

  Deborah battled the demons of mental illness all her life, like her mother. On more than one occasion, her sisters pulled her back from the abyss of self-destruction, even when she fell into witchcraft. Still, she lived a life of grace. She should have been dead at fourteen as all the stars in heaven would attest. Each day that she lived was a new mercy for those who loved her. While Deborah walked the Earth, she performed many miracles. Strangely, Deborah was oblivious to the fact that many of her illusions were reality. But with the assistance of her sisters, Deborah did a number of good things, most of which the world will never know. She died the death she always wanted – a good death, on the battlefield defending the living, without regret. I will always remember the stories Aunt Deborah told. Her sisters had been hesitant to share the details of their exploits. Deborah relished sharing the tales. My favorite story was the one about how they toppled Olympus and walked upon the dust. When Aunt Deborah neared the end of telling the story, she’d pull a small vial from around her neck. It contained a thimbleful of Olympic dust. In the darkness, it glowed and twinkled like a star.

  Aunt Deborah never mentioned her dealings with the Nightwalkers. Seeing her dreams clearly like I do, I know many of those events well. Their members were sworn to secrecy. Now that they are all gone, perhaps I will share some of Deborah’s adventures with that clan.

  At this writing Auntie Ruth is still alive and living on Earth. She still defends mortals from external threats. The Elders have asked her to join them multiple times. She has refused each time. Ruth has no interest in status, managing others, or meting out punishment. Her only desire is to protect and serve. Oh, how I love my Auntie Ruth. Ruth lives on an island encased by one of her bubbles. She and the few who reside there with her are the failsafe of human existence. My remaining cousins and I visit when we can. When we get weary in this battle against the darkness, we go see Auntie Ruth.

  Elisa fought the good fight, but as she said, “It’s hard to walk through Hell without developing a stench.”

  Rob, after many years serving the very Elders who imprisoned his secret wife, became a Gatekeeper so that he might free her. I can hardly imagine how it pained him to serve them, to earn their trust, to endure so for hundreds of years, just for his beloved’s freedom. And in the end, he forsook his immortality and gained the ire of the Elders to rescue Elisa.

  Elisa was so damaged by her time in The Pit that she lost her will to live. Throughout their years back on this side of existence, Elisa would visit her husband secretly at night. She did this for his happiness, not her own. Often Elisa saw happiness as a delusionary state between harsh realities. Rob tried to help her work through her experiences in The Pit. At most, he helped her develop a sense of purpose: to protect their grandbabies.

  Many days in The Pit, Elisa prayed for death. For nearly three hundred years, her prayers went unanswered. While there she saw friends and loved ones suffer and perish. She was so hopeless that even after she was delivered from The Pit, a bit of it stayed with her all of her remaining days. She inflicted pain upon herself to quell the voices in her head. She hid the scars of her self-mutilation until her last day in the world. In the end, she witnessed one last unbearable act, one last sacrifice she must push down and hide, before leaving this world. She nearly lost control of herself when she saw Chase drive his blade into Cil.

  Aunt Cil hid her dreams from me, or so it seems. The glimpses of her dream life that I have seen have been of her praying. In her prayers she asks for nothing, she’s simply content to sit and be with God. She was like a feather caught up in the current of the Spirit. Certainly, that tells me a great deal about who she was, but little of her story, as she saw it. Thus, I know her better by her deeds and by how those around her loved her. I know that she knew the future and understood time in a way that I shall never know. She knew a truth well that only a select few know only in part. She knew that Deborah would not have survived without her intervention. She knew the price would be her own life. That was Aunt Cil. The replacement Cil only died when Deborah was ready to let go of Cil. On a subconscious level, Deborah knew that Cil died. She just couldn’t accept it until some twenty years later. Yes, Aunt Cil was a fanatic. She was a fanatic about love. At every turn, she denied herself for the sake of others. Her hidden sacrifice still rings loudly through the ages to those of us who knew her and through those whom we love. I know, given that her dreams were of things of heaven, that it was for my own good that she took measures to largely hide them from me. I’m sure that even that act, had a price.

  One thing Aunt Cil said stayed with me all of these centuries later: “Often times when we say God did it. We mean that God did it through us or, through another, for it is God’s Spirit in us which crosses the sea, climbs the mountain, frees the captives, and conquers all – even death.

  In the end, it's not about your creation story, your political affiliation, your gender, or your race. It's about how authentic your love is. It's about whether or not you will place someone else’s needs before your own. It's about sacrifice. I came to this war-torn world knowing that it might well be my last mission. In saying that, I did not come here to preach or to proselytize. I'll leave that to others. I came here simply to serve those in need and to share with them the love that has been given to me. With my gifts or through my teleporting cousin, Akina, I could have left this world long ago. Even now, if I really wanted to leave, I could. I chose to stay here and walk with them as they enter the valley of death. They see me as this alien of questionable sanity for remaining with them when I could leave. A few dare to ask me why. That is when I share what I believe. Within that moment, this love is truly shared with them and placed upon their hearts.

  “What good does it do to share such a love with those doomed to die so soon?” you ask.

  “What better time?” I reply.

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nbsp; This love that empowers them to help each other in this darkest of days, this love that pushes away the night, this love that death cannot hold is not bound by the hands of time. This is eternal love.

  There is much more to tell. The third act of this particular tale weighs heavy on my heart, but time is short. I may not be the one to tell it. Let me close with this. It is unwise to compare one sacrifice with another. Each gift is weighed on a scale none of us can balance. Public sacrifices are intended to correct the path of another, rather than to set our own. However, it is the silent sacrifice that echoes within our souls and denotes the true path of our hearts. At the end of day, this life is about what we were willing to give for the benefit of others. The measure of our love is found in the weight of our sacrifices.