In the Shadows of Freedom

by C

“I can finish the rest. Do I take all of these to the stream?”

  “Yes. But we’ll wait for Rachel to come back. It’ll take her awhile. … She usually gets distracted whenever I send her on an errand.” Bethany smiled at Amanda. “How are you doing? You must think about your family a lot.”

  Amanda gave a small nod. “Yeah, I do. And I’m sure you miss your husband.”

  “Every day.” Bethany glanced down at her skirt and smoothed out the wrinkles, spreading the material straight and even. “It’s been three months now, you know. Three long, trying months … months where I’ve gone to bed at night willing myself to believe: to believe that there is a purpose for all of this and that there is a God who will bring justice and order back. Sometimes my feelings do nothing to help me. It’s just a sheer act of the will: I believe because I must. If what I believe isn’t true, then nothing is true. But I’ve been given strength.”

  Amanda unnecessarily adjusted the pile of clothes, avoiding eye contact. “It’s hard to do that—to trust. The messages around us and the circumstances we find ourselves in seem to point to the exact opposite. Everything around us seems to say that God is dead.”

  “That’s exactly what the NCP would like us to think. I’ve been given the gift to trust that something greater is happening. Through all this, God has been my Father, and Faith has been my Mother.”

  Amanda eyed her. “Faith is our mother? I never heard it described that way before.”

  “It makes sense, though, when you think about it. Faith guides and protects us in the darkest of times … giving us rebirth into new life.”

  At that moment, Rachel came bounding into the room, arms filled with clothes. “Ta-da!”

  “Oh my!” Bethany laughed. “I think you brought down a few more things than I asked for. Come here, you!”

  Bethany reached out and grabbed Rachel, tickling her. Rachel’s giggles and shrieks filled the room. Amanda watched, chuckling. Her mom used to do the same exact thing. As a little girl, Amanda loved being held captive by her mom’s loving arms, wrestling to get free while laughing all the while and, once liberated, longing for her mom to grab and tickle her all over again. The memory didn’t make her sad or pained, though; it simply made her smile.

  Bethany stood up and kissed the top of Rachel’s head. “Alright, little miss, time to go to the creek.”

  Amanda shook her head. “No, you should stay here and relax. I’ll go to the creek. I don’t mind doing laundry.”

  A male voice chimed in: “I got it.” Joe, jumping off the staircase, came into the room and lifted the whole pile of laundry.

  “Oh,” Amanda said. “Okay, thanks. So we’ll be back.”

  She held the door for Joe and waved to Bethany and Rachel. Then she followed Joe outside. They passed Boots, who nickered a greeting. Amanda paused just a moment and jogged over to him. She pulled an apple out from her coat pocket and held it in her palm. She had saved it from her lunch, figuring Boots would appreciate it. She was right: he took the whole apple in his mouth in one bite and then chomped on it, juice dribbling from his mouth. She gave him a quick pat and then hurried on, trying to catch up with Joe’s long strides. The day felt chilly. As much as she liked to keep occupied, washing the clothes would be a brisk job. She appreciated Joe’s offer to help her.

  They worked for a while without speaking. Joe crouched down with his back to her. Scouring a pair of jeans, he broke the silence: “When did you last talk with your sister?”

  Amanda looked up, taken aback by his unexpected question. “I don’t remember exactly.” She didn’t want to admit the truth: it had been over two months. She missed so many opportunities to speak with Chiara, to hear the relatively insignificant details of her teenage life, which now couldn’t be more significant. She would give anything to hear about Chiara’s best friend’s breakup or the new shade of nail polish she experimented with.

  But Amanda had forfeited those conversations—perhaps never retrievable—for what? For a disillusioned drug experience and a man who betrayed her. How could it be so clear to her now and yet so clearly the opposite before?

  “Was Chiara happy?” Joe stared at Amanda with a serious face and it clicked: of course … they knew each other.

  “Yeah, she seemed like it. … You were friends with her, right?”

  Joe took a dripping pair of jeans and began to wring them, clenching the material together, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. “I saw her right before we left. It was late August and we were hanging out together. I didn’t know my family was leaving so soon. Otherwise, I would have asked her …”

  “You wanted to tell Chiara something?”

  He raised his eyes again, and even under his flop of brown hair, Amanda recognized a maturity she had previously overlooked. “There’s just something about her. She was always so energetic and fun, even mucking out a horse’s stall. It was like being around her made everything better.” He swallowed and turned away, mumbling, “I was gonna ask her out.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I just hope she’s okay.” He left without another word, the finished laundry in his hands.

  Amanda caught the look of utter sadness on his face as he walked away. She stood there, unmoving, watching his large frame until he disappeared among the trees. Joe shouldn’t be hiding like some convict in the woods and Chiara missing, just one more among the countless others who had disappeared without a trace. Why? What is the purpose for all of this?

  She finished up the last few items of clothing and walked back to the cabin. On the way to the front door, she spotted Father Voloshin, once again sitting on the tree stump in the backyard. Over the past weeks, she had observed that he spoke little and kept to himself most of the time. She had learned from the other residents that he was a Russian Orthodox priest who had been forced into hiding like the rest of them. She walked up to him now. He had numerous books piled around him and notes scattered about, scribbled in forceful penmanship.

  He was flipping through what appeared to be a very old book, the sheets yellowed with age and the spine barely held in place. The priest seemed deeply engrossed in his work—either that or he was ignoring her—and didn’t look up.

  She stood there, debating how to initiate a conversation. Then she noticed a sheet of paper by her sneakers: a page must have fallen out of a book. She stooped down and picked it up. The writing was not in English. She couldn’t understand a word on the page, but something about the characters looked familiar.

  “Sorry … I don’t mean to interrupt, but what language is this?” She held the page up for Father Voloshin to see.

  He peered above the rim of his reading glasses. “Hmm?” He pulled the sheet from her hand, eyeing it. “Greek.”

  “Oh. … Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Without checking to see if he heard her or if he even cared, Amanda ran into the house, emptied her arms of the laundry, and hurried upstairs. With her sketchbook in hand, she rushed back outside. She had at last found the answer to a question she’d long wondered about.

  Beside Father Voloshin once again, Amanda opened the sketchbook. On one of her multiple evenings spent at Little Pete’s, she had decided to copy the writing scrawled across the doorframe of the room. What did it say? Contrary to Ethan’s claim that the writing was mere decoration, she felt convinced that words always carry some meaning and purpose.

  Amanda turned the page so that Father Voloshin could see it. “These words are Greek, right?

  Can you tell me what they say?” She had printed the letters: ἔλθε, κύριε δράκον.

  He darted a glance in her direction and then took the sketchbook into his free hand. His eyebrows furrowed. “Did you write this?”

  “Yes. Well, no. I mean, I saw it written somewhere and copied it down.”

  “It’s an invocation.”

  “What does it say?”

  He handed the sketchbook back to her and said, “‘Come, Lord Dragon.’”

  “Oh.” She sat down o
n the ground, staring at the Greek words. The only other association she could make with the word “dragon” was the powerful mural painted on the exterior of Little Pete’s. Maybe Pete had some sort of fascination with the mythical creature.

  Father Voloshin put down his book and turned to face her. “I fear Enemy is seeking you.”

  “Yeah, I know. They sent the helicopter.”

  “No, you do not understand me. You do not know your enemy. Very few know.”

  “And you do?”

  “You think this a persecution? No. It is war. And it is same war from very beginning of time.”

  Amanda shrugged. “Sure. Throughout history, evil people have persecuted others—for religion, nationality, race, for any excuse whatsoever. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have specific enemies now, in our time—people we can stop.”

  “Yes, but there is one Enemy. There always been one Enemy. Granted, he is cunning, works stealthily through lots of people, under mask of varied philosophies and ideologies. But he is one, and he we now face.”

  “And who is that?”

  “He is father of lies, who convinces people of greatest lie: that we can be greater than God. That is what our persecutors believe, no? They are convinced they alone direct their own lives, that they alone are master builders of their own free world. If only they see the truth. They are not liberated from anything; they are captive. They are slaves to prince of this world. You know him too. We all know him because, at some point, he whispers his lies to all. He is accuser, evil one, adversary, ancient serpent, great dragon.”

  “So the members of the NCP doing these heinous deeds … you’re saying that the devil made them do it, so to speak?”

  “Each person is always free to choose their actions. But we do not do so in vacuum. God acts upon heart and so do cunning promptings of seducer. Many forces act upon human soul—not all good. And so here am I, praying for protection from deceit of our greatest Enemy.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew into the small clearing. They both looked up: Father Voloshin’s pages of scribbled notes took to the air. Amanda set down her sketchbook, then jumped to her feet and hurried to collect the blowing sheets of paper before they escaped. She grabbed and chased the pages, only becoming aware moments later that Father Voloshin wasn’t moving at all. Didn’t he care that the wind was scattering his research about the mountain?

  She paused and glanced back at him. Father Voloshin sat transfixed, his eyes locked on her sketchbook. Unbeknownst to her, the gust of wind had also advanced its pages. Now Amanda saw that the horrific image of her Portrait of a Mother lay exposed in front of him.

  The priest never stopped looking at the face. He reached forward, picking up the pad. “Who drew this? Do you know what it is?”

  Her cheeks burning, she snatched the sketchbook from him, her hands shaking. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hastened away from him, closing the sketchbook as she went. She rushed back into the house and to the isolation of the loft. Her heart racing, she sat down on the floor, trying to calm herself.

  Was her perspective entirely wrong?

  Perhaps she was seeing everything from an erroneous point of view. A persecution was unfolding all around them, but how encompassing was the struggle? Maybe, like her paintings, there was something beyond, another level of existence and reality. She had always perceived something of the sort when she painted, but maybe she had been too nearsighted and failed to see that this other reality extended beyond the canvas, into her own life.

  Now she began to see that there might be something more—more than the here and the now.

  Despite all her previous misgivings, she had somehow come to believe once again in the existence of God. Yet it couldn’t stop at that. A necessary corollary of believing in His existence was a recognition that things exist beyond this sensory world of sight and touch: a supernatural world.

  Amanda sat still, her mind whirling. So then is God the only One who inhabits this supernatural world? And if there are other spiritual beings, do they have a hand in influencing what transpires in our visible world—for good or for evil?

  Sick to her stomach, she remembered the moment in Ethan’s apartment when she realized that she had completed the demonic face on Portrait of a Mother. She had sketched that terrifying mockery by her own hand. But while acknowledging that truth, she also knew another force had been at work—an insinuating, luring nudge from something beyond. She felt it then; she felt it even now. It was a kind of persuasion. She had been under an influence, but not exclusively of drugs.

  Maybe the greatest danger wasn’t from something like a bomb or concentration camp; maybe the gravest harm was from someone—mysteriously beyond the human realm—planting rebellious, destructive ideas in the soul or keeping the soul chained through its own continued folly.

  Could it be that the ultimate Enemy of freedom wasn’t acting from without, but from within?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Person of Light

  Amanda finished the remains of her lunch: cold tomato soup. Everything was cold now. Though she wore multiple layers, warmth escaped her and she shivered, looking longingly at the fireplace, barren save for a pile of ashes. She couldn’t wait until night came and they could again light the fire. In the meantime, she helped Linda collect the empty bowls. Above the clatter of dishes, the wind howled outside. November had folded into December, and the temperatures had dropped below freezing. An icy glaze covered the glass windowpanes.

  Rachel now stood on a chair, drawing with her finger on the frosty window and breathing on the ice to make it melt. She stopped, peered closer outside, and began to wave her arms. “Somebody’s here!”

  Mark darted to the front window, ushering Rachel out of sight. They all waited in complete silence for a few tense moments, no one moving. Could this be the end? Had the JPD discovered them?

  “It’s Nasir, thank God.” Mark relaxed his shoulders.

  Amanda stood close enough to Linda to hear her mutter under her breath, “About time. Now we can finally get out of here.”

  Bethany put her hand over her heart. “Maybe he has news.”

  Amanda bit her lip, her breath catching in her chest. What would Nasir say? Was her family safe? Or would she hear the unthinkable?

  Standing beside his father, Joe looked out the window. “Nasir brought another guy with him! I don’t recognize him, though. … Wait. It seems like they’re friends with each other: they’re talking … and Nasir’s smiling.”

  Mark opened the door, and everyone else crowded near the entry, blocking Amanda’s sight. Mark greeted Nasir and then introduced himself to the newcomer, whom she still couldn’t see.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mark. I appreciate your kind welcome.”

  Eyes wide, Amanda swallowed. She knew that voice. With words caught in her throat, the sting of tears behind her eyes, she craned her neck, trying to verify what she already knew. Nasir walked into the middle of the room.

  “Greetings.” Nasir bowed his head. “I have much to tell you, but first I would like you to meet a friend of our cause. His name is Morgan.”

  Amanda dropped the glass bowls she held in her hands. They shattered into countless pieces all over the floor. Time stood still, and she saw that nothing had changed: the khaki pants, the crisp white dress shirt, the neatly combed chestnut hair. … She stared, flabbergasted. He looked at no one else but her, his penetrating, sky-blue eyes locked with hers.

  “You’re … You’re here?” she said. “How? Why?”

  He smiled back at her. “I’m here, Amanda. Would you like to go for a walk?” He gestured toward the door.

  She stepped around the shards of broken glass. Ignoring her bewildered fellow residents, she left the cabin with Morgan, feeling unprepared for this. There was so much to say … so much to understand.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.” She led him toward Boots, who stood tied to the side of the cabin. “I still can’t believe yo
u’re here.”

  “Nasir asked for some extra assistance up north, and I volunteered to help. Remember? I mentioned to you that my work in the city was temporary.”

  His serene demeanor and unhurried speech contained no element of surprise. Their unexpected meeting was apparently only unexpected on her end.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Did you know I was here?”

  “I did.”

  “B-But I thought you never wanted to see me again.” A lump rose in her throat, and she looked down at her sneakers. “You gave me no phone number, no address, no last name. I figured that you wanted nothing to do with me anymore—that it was easy to dispose of me and our friendship.” She swallowed back the tears. She reflected a moment on her words, a heavy reality hitting her: “Yet … I suppose that’s what I did to you, isn’t it? In Central Park. I wanted nothing else to do with you, all because of …”

  “I know why.” He spoke gently. “Let me explain myself, if you will. I didn’t prefer the way we said goodbye, but the peril was too grave for pleasantries and reassurances. If you had stayed a moment longer in the city, the JPD would have found you. They were actively looking for you.”

  Her head shot up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your roommate suspected you of infiltration and espionage. Nikki started having you tracked by the JPD early on.”

  “I was being followed?” Well, that would explain how Nikki knew her whereabouts. “Wait, you had that information all along? Why didn’t you tell me about Nikki?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed me at the time.”

  She stared into the distance, considering his declaration. He was probably right.

  Morgan continued, “Even as you and I talked there by St. Patrick’s, Ethan discovered that you had left his apartment.”

  She startled at that: the sound of Ethan’s name spoken aloud knotted her stomach.

  “I assure you,” Morgan went on, “it wouldn’t have been long until he—or any officer of the JPD—found you. You were too involved, too much a part of them. You could only free yourself by leaving the city. Immediately.”