by C
They rode for a little while, and then Morgan slowed Boots to a walk, gradually pulling him to a halt in the middle of a large clearing. Morgan jumped down and, offering his hand, helped her out of the saddle. He walked a few paces ahead of her and then stopped in the middle of the empty space.
“Right … here.”
Amanda eyed him. “Morgan? What’s going on?”
“Just wait!”
She opened her mouth, hoping to question him further, but he turned around and placed his finger on her lips.
“Shh! Just watch.”
She looked all around, staring at nothing.
“There it is!” He pointed upward.
“What? There’s what?”
A few seconds passed. Then, like magic, she spotted it too: the first snowflakes of winter. The woods were silent as the snow began cascading from the heavens and down upon them. Slowly, before their eyes, the millions of tiny flakes, each one individually crafted, landed on the leafy carpet, transforming the browns and deep reds of dried, dead leaves into a blanket of purest white. They dotted Amanda’s upturned face, their touch like many icy kisses.
Smiling, Morgan gazed at the white expanse all around them. “All things can be transformed; even the darkest scarlet can be made snowy white.”
“Do you really believe that? Do you really believe that no matter how dark the depravity or how twisted the perversion, all people can be transformed? All people can be forgiven and deserving of love once more?”
“Of course I believe that, but regardless of what I think, it is who you are.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You are Amanda. Your name literally means: ‘She ought to be loved.’ You are always God’s beloved. Nothing you have done or ever will do can change that.”
He paused, his eyes assuming a distant look—he was praying. His focus returned to her once more, yet she couldn’t read his expression.
“Amanda, I’ve been waiting to ask you something. And I think now is finally the right time.”
She caught her breath. Whatever came next would obviously be serious. “What is it?”
“Did you buy a yearbook from Valor Academy?”
She laughed. “That’s your question? You waited to ask if I bought a yearbook?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Did I buy a yearbook? Yeah, my dad forced me to. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did you ever look me up in it?”
“No, I never thought to. Why?”
“I wasn’t in it.”
She shrugged. “Who cares? There are lots of graduates who didn’t bother to have their senior picture taken. Why are we even discussing this?”
“You don’t understand. I wouldn’t be in your yearbook because I never attended Valor Academy. I was never a student there.”
She stared at him. “But you were at graduation.”
“So were your family and many others.”
“Morgan, it doesn’t matter to me what Academy you attended. Or if you attended any at all! Why don’t you just tell me what you’re trying to say?”
“Did you ever ask me my last name?”
“Well … no.” She had never thought to ask him about that. It seemed strange, but also somehow natural.
“What about my family? Did you ever ask where they live, my parents’ occupations, anything about my siblings?”
A warm flush spread across her cheeks. “No, never. You’re right, Morgan: I’ve been self-absorbed. Most of our conversations have been entirely about me. I’m sorry … I’m working on that and—”
“I have no family here.”
“Wait. You mean your parents passed away?”
“You once said I never told you my address, right? Well, I don’t have one.”
“Hold on—what are you talking about? You’re an orphan, an Academy dropout, homeless … what, exactly, is your story?”
He put his hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. “Do you think a Father would allow His children to walk abandoned, helplessly alone while the Enemy prowls about them? Is anyone strong enough to fight these battles alone?”
At that moment, from somewhere off in the distance, came a reverberating, jarring noise almost like fireworks: a gunshot. Amanda jumped and then froze for a few seconds, processing the undeniable sound they’d just heard. She had no time to speak or question: a series of sharp CRACK! sounds filled the air. Boots snorted, the whites of his eyes showing. Amanda ducked to the ground, pulling Morgan down with her, and covered her head with her trembling hands. She had no idea where the gunshots came from or how close they might be.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, the gunfire ceased. Eerie silence filled the air.
Still crumpled in a ball on the ground, she whispered to Morgan, “Ken! He’s out there alone!”
Morgan’s face wore a grave expression. “Maybe not alone.”
“We need to help him!”
“We should check in at the cabin first: the others will be wondering. Not to mention we have no firearms …”
Her mouth dry, she nodded and followed his lead. In minutes, Boots had galloped back through the woods, Morgan guiding him with precision. Amanda clung to Morgan, expecting at any moment to run into danger.
To her immense relief, the cabin came into view.
Mark flung the door open. “What happened out there?”
“I don’t know.” Amanda dismounted and walked toward him. “We heard the gunfire, but we don’t know where it came from. Ken isn’t with us—he wanted to go off on his own.”
Joe stuck his head out the door. “There were lots of shots. Is someone else out there?”
“Seems like it,” Amanda said.
Morgan stepped forward. “We need to go find Ken—immediately.”
“I’m coming too.” Mark pulled on his coat and cocked his gun. “Joe, stay here with your mother and the others. Keep the door locked.”
The last thing Amanda saw inside the cabin was Joe’s pale face, pinched with fear. She walked Boots to the side of the cabin and secured the reins. She turned around and caught a glimpse of Morgan’s back, entering the woods nearby. Without stopping to think, she ran across the yard and followed him into the dense forest.
She was careful not to get too close, just in case Mark should spot her and send her back. Thankfully, their fresh footprints gave her a clear path to follow. She had to do this. It was her fault that the JPD was here. She couldn’t let the others get hurt on her behalf. She swallowed uneasily. But maybe Ken was already hurt. Or even worse.
Amanda kept walking through the swirling snow. It was hard to tell now how far behind she might be from Mark and Morgan. She started moving faster. The snow came down harder, the flakes thick and the wind picking up. What if she got lost out here? She stopped, peering at the ground to locate the footprint trail. They must have switched directions. She spun around, her head turning left to right, panic building. Maybe if she just retraced her steps? But the falling snow was quickly erasing even those footprints. Despite the cold temperature, sweat trickled down her back. Then, a few feet away, her eye caught it: a trail of crimson, splattered all over the snow. Blood.
She found footprints amidst the blood and followed both, until she came to a small stream where the trail seemed to stop. Just ahead stood a small landmass that rose above her head and formed a natural bridge over the stream. She walked to the overhang, and looking through its dark corridor, she exhaled in relief. Morgan and Mark were just ahead, studying the ground.
Standing there, Amanda watched them and wondered when to tell them that she was there. Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. A drop of warm liquid fell onto the back of her exposed neck. That wasn’t a snowflake; it was heavy … more like a raindrop. Then another … and another. She wiped her neck and raised her hand, wanting to pull the collar of her coat closer. She glanced down at her hand and screamed: bright red blood stained her fin
gers.
Jumping back from her spot, Amanda stared with horror at the earth bridge above her. Almost indistinguishable, hidden among prickly bushes and accumulated leaves, a hand protruded forth, draining itself with a steady stream of blood.
Mark and Morgan arrived at her side, and Mark grabbed her arm as he said, “Amanda, what are you doing here?”
She pointed a shaky finger at the bloody hand. Together, the three of them scrambled up the landmass. She recognized the worn yet sturdy leather boots lying under some brush. They belonged to Ken.
Amanda could see his chest rising and falling. He was alive at least, half-hidden under the shrubs and dead foliage. He must have sought this cover. Why else had he dragged his failing body so far? His attacker, though, still loomed large—perhaps even closer now. She glanced over her shoulder but saw no one.
“Ken! Ken, it’s me.” Mark spoke near Ken’s ear.
Ken breathed heavily and lay in an awkward position. His feet writhed in pain, and his eyes, open to see his comrades, screamed for help. A large, damp spot stained his coat where the blood seeped through. He had been shot.
Mark tried again: “Can you talk? What happened?”
“Bastard … shot me … JPD …” Ken gasped, clenching his jaw in torment.
“It’s his shoulder.” Morgan examined Ken. “He’s losing a great deal of blood.”
Ken went on, “Said there’s … more coming … not him, though … I took care of him … he’s not going anywhere …”
“We’re taking you back to the house. We can treat you there.” Mark stood up.
“Don’t … freakin’ pretend!” Ken’s face looked gray and clammy with sweat. “I’m … dying. You can’t … treat me.”
“We won’t give up until we’ve done everything possible to save you.” Mark turned to Amanda and Morgan. “Let’s get ready to move him.”
Mark and Morgan carefully lifted Ken’s upper body, but Ken still cried out in pain. Amanda carried his legs. They started through the snow, Morgan calling out which direction to go. She had no idea how he could remember the way. Ken seemed to waver on the verge of unconsciousness. She glanced down at his ashen face and found his eyes—once so piercing—now vaguely glancing at her … and beyond her.
“If I don’t make it … tell the priest … put a good word in …”
“Open your heart.” Amanda’s quiet petition came from somewhere within her she didn’t even know.
No response came.
They trudged onward, Ken’s eyes now closed and his head bobbing from side to side with the movement. Amanda stopped worrying about the possible threat lurking around them; her sole concern now was to keep Ken alive.
It seemed like an eternity, struggling through the endless world of swirling snow, but at last, the cabin came into view. The others ran out, faces creased with worry and terror.
Huffing, Mark barked out, “Clear a space on the floor! Put down a blanket!”
With a flurry of motion, they scrambled to get Ken indoors. At once, the door was locked, a blanket set down, a fire kindled. Amanda rested Ken’s legs on the floor, her arm muscles groaning and cramped from the long-held position. She crouched in place, gazing at Ken’s still body, the bloodstain ever growing.
“Dad, can … can you help him?” Joe whispered.
“I straighten teeth. I’ve never worked on a bullet wound.” Mark rubbed his tense face.
“Nasir is a doctor and he’s coming in the morning. He can help us then.” Morgan’s steady words and calm demeanor seemed to quiet the whole room.
“And for now, we’ll do what we can.” Bethany walked over to Mark. “I worked as an RN before Rachel was born. We can do it together. We have to try at least. He’ll die if we don’t.”
Mark took a deep breath and nodded. “I’ll grab my equipment. Linda, start boiling some water. Bethany, you better have a look at the wound. Everyone else, go upstairs and don’t come down until we tell you.”
They filed up the stairs. In the loft, Rachel crawled into Amanda’s lap. Chiara used to sit with her that same way, so many years ago. Morgan sat beside them, while Joe and Father Voloshin settled themselves by the other wall. The storm raged outside, the snowfall blocking any view out the window. Boots was out there, left alone and exposed to the storm. He saved her life and this was how she repaid him?
“Let us pray.” Father Voloshin made the Sign of the Cross, swinging his hand from east to west, and held his hands in prayer. “Yea, though I walk through valley of shadow of death, I will fear no evil …”
Amanda tried to focus on the prayer, but Ken’s words haunted her: the JPD officer said there were more coming. How much longer did any of them have? Was this whole venture just one long, drawn-out torture that would end in violent death? This was the severest of sentences: to be ripped from the possibility of being reunited with her family when the goal was so close, so obtainable at last.
Alongside fear came burning fury, all aimed at the one person who must have orchestrated this horror. For Amanda, that one individual epitomized all of the perverted philosophies and corrupted beliefs that had set this bloody persecution in motion.
How much more would be demanded of her? Ken didn’t deserve to die. And yet, even now, he might have breathed his final breath. Hatred pounded in her heart and coursed through her veins.
Her vitriol stewed until she could finally whisper to Morgan, with the prayer now ended and Rachel asleep on her lap: “I hate Ethan … I hate him with every part of me. He’s taken everything from me, ruined me. And now he’s damned us all to an inescapable death!”
Morgan laid his hand on top of hers. “Hatred has become your prison, Amanda. You must forgive him.”
She drew back. “What! … That’s impossible.”
“It is possible. And it’s essential, in fact. An unwillingness to forgive is an unwillingness to be forgiven. Nothing is more like God than mercy: to forgive one’s enemies.”
“Well … I guess I’m not God then.”
“And you can’t be, but you can be like Him. But aren’t you now just another devil? This is the real battle. It’s not out there, against the JPD officers or NCP leaders. The greatest struggle is within the human heart. Who will win? Who will claim it? Has your hatred locked the door to your heart?”
“What are you implying, exactly?”
“Don’t you yourself want to be forgiven? Haven’t you rejoiced in forgiveness freely given? Then forgive. Love … love your enemy. Love Ethan.”
“How can I? He doesn’t deserve it! I can never get back what he’s robbed me of. He’s taken everything from me. I will never forgive him!”
“Somehow you’ve been rescued, delivered from your perdition. Can’t you ask the same for another lost soul? Who among us deserves God’s love? Shouldn’t we all receive it, poured out for us?”
“Okay, God loves him. But Ethan is already halfway to hell, so why shouldn’t I wish he finally gets there?”
“Because wishing his destruction will destroy you too. Forgiveness banishes the power of evil. It makes what is broken whole. It sets you free.”
A creak arose from the darkness below: someone was coming up the stairs. All eyes turned in that direction, waiting. Mark appeared, the wrinkles on his face more prominent than ever and his silver hair disheveled. He sat down on the floor.
“How’s Ken?” Joe looked at his father.
Mark sighed. “I don’t know. He’s alive … for now. He lost a lot of blood, though, and we obviously can’t give him a transfusion. Like Morgan said earlier, Ken just needs to get through the night. Nasir can help us tomorrow. Tonight will decide everything.”
Amanda swallowed. “Is Ken awake?”
“Yes. And he’s asking for you, Father.”
Father Voloshin raised his eyebrows. “I come now.” With that, he hurried downstairs.
“We’ll stay up here, to give Ken space,” Mark said. “Might as well grab a bite to eat and head to bed. … Tomorrow’s departure w
ill begin early.” He rubbed his chin, thinking aloud.
Joe glanced out the window. “Unless we’re all dead before tomorrow comes. The gunmen can’t be far from us.”
Standing up, Mark ignored Joe’s ominous statement and said, “Joe, come downstairs with me and help me get some dinner together. Morgan and Amanda, keep an eye on Rachel and try to pack up the final things remaining in here.”
Stirred awake by the recent movement, Rachel helped organize the few cherished possessions that the fugitives had brought with them. Amanda reached for a small box that lay in the back corner of the loft and found it half-full of cigars. Padróns—Ken’s favorites. She placed them in his bag.
“You should pack this too.”
She turned around. Morgan, smiling at her, held out a package wrapped in plain white paper. She stared at him, mystified.
“It’s for you.” He thrust the present into her hands. “Consider it an early Christmas gift.”
“You bought me a Christmas present? Here, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, you found a gift for me? Morgan, sometimes I can’t understand you. And you know, we never finished our conversation from earlier. I didn’t forget about it.”
“We’ll finish that conversation soon, but not now. Come on, open your gift!”
She gave him another searching look and then obliged him, ripping open the wrapping. It took three small tears to confirm her mounting suspicions.
“You buried it, didn’t you?” Morgan clasped his hands together behind his back. “I thought it was time to be resurrected.”
She looked upon her painting, open-mouthed in amazement. “But how … how did you know where to find it?”
Bewilderment and awe at Morgan’s kindness filled her. She gazed upon the painting as though she were seeing it for the first time. She eagerly took in the falling raindrops and the three interlocking hands that served as an umbrella to shelter her. Yet tears blurred her vision: Ethan had butchered the canvas. … He had permanently destroyed the lady’s face.
Amanda wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s ruined. No one could ever fix this. It’s beyond repair. That’s why I got rid of it.”
Morgan shook his head. “No. Behold, God makes all things new.”