10. Savior
Chapter 10 of Let There Be Light Again by Monday Boy
Shemaiah woke up and thought of wendigos.
There were leaves on his arms and mud on his right calf. He squinted and wondered when he had fallen asleep. His eyes wandered quickly without focusing on anything. The forest never changed so it all looked normal. But at the same time, he had a strange feeling. He shook his head and stood up. The sun was high in the sky, condemning, almost haughty.
Shemaiah started walking again, his throat dry and his lungs singing a weird rhyme. The birds had come back and the boy felt relieved. He was limping but the pain was asleep, like it had been eaten by the wilderness. The only thing he could properly distinguish was his thirst. The hunger was gone, the reeking smell that came from a nearby swamp had dissolved, the previously unchanging area started to fill with signs of humanity. It was before sundown when he stopped walking. A white signboard, rusty, the letters bleached and almost illegible stood before his tired eyes. He could not tell what it meant. On his right, a flight of steps was spiraling towards the foggy canopy. He stayed next to the faded “New Hope Chapel, 7 mi” board, his lips cracked by the burning breath that came out of his mouth. The boys had been talking of staircases that lead to nowhere. Touch it and you’re cursed.
His joints were aching. The air was chilly, it grazed his muscles as if they had been stripped of their hypodermis. He wished he could remember his first days on earth. Because, maybe it was then that he had done bad things. Things that brought him to this hellish place. Things that fossilized inside his marrow to punish him. Maybe, when he was just a baby, he had let his fingers innocently brush such cursed steps.
He jumped as a rattlesnake started coiling around the oxidized guardrail.
“Lord, keep me with you,” Shemaiah whispered as he walked away. He kept asking for protection but the words had lost meaning after a few seconds. He had a choir in his head begging and begging. And when it stopped singing, water was filling his nose and mouth. He had fallen into a sludgy ditch. Escaping was never a promise you wouldn’t end up trapped again. But again, he was just a boy. And worse even than that, a believer.
The cold hit him like a blow. His stomach seemed to turn upside down, it felt heavy and soaked with murky liquid. When he lifted his head out of the water, he could only hear his own gasps and the deafening hammering of his heart. The world was unfurling from its natural web to merge with the boy’s body. He was alone in it.
He was the world. He could feel everything pressing on him at the same time and it was awful. His eyes remained closed, sealed by shock. It was too late to worry about the future. Night was falling. He had been lured by the blue hour’s balminess. The panting slowed, replaced by shallow breathing that hurt his lungs. He tried to move but his legs were dead weights. For a moment, the terror of the wound reopening made him sob. He needed to get out of this wet coffin. His hands clawed at the crumbling shore but the exhaustion from the previous day left him trembling. His arms shook with despair. His lips barely formed the word “please” but he was too weak to voice it aloud so he kept imagining it. Please. Please. Please.
The beam of two headlights suddenly fell on him.
“I’m here!” he shouted, “please help me, I’m stuck!”
Light was flooding from everywhere, it was almost painful. Shemaiah made one last effort, pushing on his elbows to lift himself up.
“Someone help me, please!”
The sound was muffled by the thick grasses on the bank but he could hear footsteps coming closer.
He wanted to thank the Lord, to thank the sky, to thank everything that made that stride possible but he was too immersed in relief. In accepting the outstretched hand.
Suddenly, he was propelled upward, his entire body torn from the filthy depths. A strong grip held him upright.
“You were lucky that silly sheep ran out onto the road, I wouldn’t have seen you,” the man said, his voice broken by what seemed like years of hard work and cigarettes, “what’s wrong with you? Done lost your folks or something?” A deep frown was creased on the stranger’s skin.
Shemaiah tried to regain consciousness, but he was shaking, a pale blue hue hanging over his lips and knuckles. He had been heard.
“Good Lord! You must be plum freezing! Come on, get in the truck. Them sheep’ll keep you warm. Say now, where you live? You done got yourself lost in those woods, uh? You oughta know it ain’t safe wandering around alone at your age. There’s some downright crazy folks who might do you wrong. Come on in,” the guy opened the door of the trailer, pushing the flock that were already trying to escape.
“Come on in, son, they’re real ornery today, we ain’t got all night. The missus’ waiting back home,” he laughed heartily as if he were used to fishing children out of the ditch every other night.
Shemaiah followed the man heedlessly. His overalls were sticking to his skin, making him feel heavier than ever. Like water always found a way to weigh him down.
“I’m sorry to bother, mister,” the boy whispered, his teeth chattering, “really sorry.”
“Don’t you worry about it! Just lemme know where to drop you off. I’ll be mighty glad when you’re back home,” the stranger exclaimed with a proud smile, some of his molars were missing, but you could tell a curious kind of happiness had filled their place.
“Uh, I don’t…” Shemaiah inhaled deeply, feeling a weird gurgling sound in his chest. His eyebrows furrowed in pain.
The man put a rough hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You’re gonna be alright. Tell your daddy you fell into some cold water, and you need to see a doctor. Do y’all live in town? Oh, name’s Boone by the way. I got myself a farm at Hickory Ridge.”
Shemaiah had trouble lifting his head to look him in the eye. His neck was stiff and he was still very much impressed by such tall men.
“Do you know Pastor Asbury?” He asked bluntly, finally managing to make eye contact. His heart began to beat very fast and a modest smile appeared on his muck-covered face. The man had broad shoulders, his flannel shirt dusted with wood chips, his nails an almost orange shade. Shemaiah could not help but trust him. Such a golden-hearted boy he was.
“Asbury? Sounds familiar, yeah. He had himself some trouble with that black girl, ain’t that right?”
The stranger looked up to think about it. Shemaiah did not know what he was talking about, so he just shrugged and added:
“I don’t know but he’s the local preacher, I think. You go to church?”
“Used to. I’m a busy man these days, and the Lord’s been mighty quiet ever since I left the church. Ain’t got no trouble in the world. Is your preacher near New Hope?”
“I think yes!” Shemaiah beamed, all unpleasant sensations replaced by a strong feeling of gratitude.
“Good, go on now, climb into the trailer.”
The man scooped the boy up by the armpits and set him down with the bleating sheep. He handed him a leather canteen with fresh water. Shemaiah gulped down three long sips and thanked the farmer.
The smell was strong but the boy liked it. He made his way to the back to feel the heat of the exhaust pipe, but he stopped halfway through. A small lamb was suckling its mother, its curly coat as white as the vehicle’s headlights. Shemaiah crouched down to look and was thrown forward when the engine started. It made him laugh a bit.
“Hey there,” he said to the little animal which had also stumbled a few clumsy steps, “my name’s Shemaiah. I ain’t got no dad, you know, I kinda lied.”
He held a shy hand toward the lamb once it was done feeding off his mother, and the softness surprised him. His tired eyes opened widely.
“Wow,” he chuckled, his fingers gently stroking the pale curls, his mind adopting a similar shade. Blank, peaceful. He turned his head toward the truck, saw the bald back of the man’s head and smiled. He was heading home, for good.
Boone turned up the volume on the radio, sending a soft country tune to the back. Shemaiah closed his eyes, the warmth around him made him sleepy. He felt so relieved his stomach was growling. How happy he was to see the preacher again. The only one that would help him survive in this scary world.
He tried to imagine his reactions but the lack of certainty sent a spike of restlessness up his spine. He would have to be patient and so he dozed off, folk guitars and innocent animals filling his dreams.
When the car slowed down and the jolts became more pronounced, he woke up. His eyes were red but he could clearly make out the outline of a small chapel.
“Here’s good?” Boone shouted from the driver’s seat.
Shemaiah could not tell, but at least, he would be sheltered from the wind so he nodded. The man helped him down and waited a bit.
“You sure that Asbury fella’s gonna fetch you?” he insisted.
“Yes, I am sure of it, thank you for the drive, you got nice sheep by the way,” the kid smiled, two teeth missing.
“Yeah, I raised them well. Uh, reckon I oughta just leave you now? You’re gonna be good? I’ll come back tomorrow morning, just in case.”
“Thanks, I’m gonna be okay! May the Lord watch over you and your family. And your house, of course. And the sheep,” Shemaiah stammered, his cheeks turning pink.
“I’m sure he’ll do just that, may he protect you too, you’re a good one,” the man said while putting a hand on the boy’s head to mess up his hair. They smiled at each other. Shemaiah stood in front of the derelict remnants of a door and the kind stranger went back behind the wheel. He waved goodbye and the sheep seemed to be singing the same farewell song as the truck disappeared down the road.
The small place of reflection was not far from a thoroughfare and several cars drove by at a steady pace, probably to leave town and reach the nearest major city. The boy waited and stayed inside for a while, his hands slaloming between altar candles. There was a wooden bench at the entrance so he sat there and looked at the cracked floor. The concrete fracture went up to the wall, and stopped in the middle of the ceiling. Shemaiah could not help but wonder how the chapel could still stand. He realized there was some kind of magic in the slow disintegration of things. Despite everything, the flames were still swaying peacefully, the cross was still straight, the frankincense wafted through the air. Despite the evident decay, there was life. The boy looked at his leg, hidden under the wet jeans, he had been scared the scar would make him undeserving of his Lord’s grace but now he understood everything.
The broken was not necessarily damned. The broken did not need repair to be beautiful. The broken could stand forever if it willed it enough.
He went outside before the sun started to set because he knew the preacher was always on call, especially around that time. He kicked at pebbles and built little pyramids with the stones. Night was falling and the cars only passed him by, casting his lonely shadow on the road, stretching it so much it looked like an alien. He started to feel discouraged and a chilly breeze stirred among the tall trees, encouraging him to return to the desolate chapel. The declining light made the place dim but not scary. The sconces were covered in wax, the candles were shedding burning tears with every passing minute, as if they too regretted the absence of the dear man.
Shemaiah walked behind the altar and looked at the door. He imagined himself addressing a whole congregation, hands on the sides of the missal stand, eagle-shaped sculpture right before him.
“Reading from the Holy gospel according to John,” he said, his voice echoing against the grainy walls. He could not remember much about his Bible studies but he tried to rearrange the texts as best he could.
“Whoever believes in the son has eternal life,” he whispered, struck by remembrance, “whoever disobeys the son will not see light but must endure God’s wrath. The gospel of the Lord. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.”
His last words rang out three times in the lifeless room. His heart was aching with the need to find his pious self back. He yearned for it so dearly tears were running down his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry I strayed,” he said softly, “forgive me. Anyone, forgive me.”
And suddenly, the warm halo of the flickering flames disappeared, replaced by sudden darkness. Some of the candles were blown out by a gust of wind. Shemaiah stared at the figure in the doorway, his jaw dropping open in disbelief.
“A farmer looked me up in the Yellow Pages and told me you’d be there,” the man said, his tone so indecipherable the boy was almost afraid of what awaited him. Maybe he had been foolish in believing he would get adopted so easily by the preacher. Maybe he would be sent back to the orphanage, punished, reviled, betrayed all over again.
“You’re gonna get mighty sick if you stay there, I’m taking you with me. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it? Ain’t the sisters been kind enough?” He chuckled, but the sound was weak.
“No, I mean, they were. They are kind. I just…”
Shemaiah spoke too fast, his words got all jumbled up and the tip of his ears turned pink in shame. The good man interrupted him.
“I got myself tangled up in some trouble, but I heard you got it worse with… your family. I know you must’ve been shocked but you can’t just up and run off like that. They’ll go crazy,” Pastor Asbury said, running a hand over his face in exhaustion. Shemaiah finally took a few steps to stand right in front of the father. He kept his head low, his long locks shielding his face. His fear was materializing right before him.
“Tomorrow morning, you’re gonna have to go back to the orphanage,” the man said solemnly. “I can’t keep you with me, Shemaiah, it’d be bad for the orphanage’s reputation.”
The young boy’s eyes were wet, the tears dropped on the grey ground, fat and stinging. He bit his lips, trying to restrain himself from saying things he should not. He shook his head slowly.
“I wish I could,” the preacher said, “but… I… you must wait for someone to choose you.”
“No,” Shemaiah whispered, “no, no, no,” he protested, “I can’t do that. I don’t want to-”
“You don’t want?”
The boy lifted his head and stared at the man’s eyes like he was seeing them for the first time. They were unapologetic, so stern Shemaiah wondered where he used to find comfort in them. He opened his mouth to protest, to say he was sorry he had spoken so selfishly but once again, Baruch Asbury cut him off.
“It ain’t about wanting, buddy, it’s about what you deserve. Do I look like I’m doing what I want whenever I wanna do it? No, not quite.”
“Why?” The child asked, mouth trembling, fingers curled into a fist, “I don’t feel safe there, everyone’s always making fun of me, and if they’re not they act scared. I don’t want to scare them but-”
“You done understand what I just said?” The preacher asked, his blond eyebrows knitted together, “it ain’t about what you want. You’re just six years old, you don’t know what’s good for you. That’s just how it is. You’re gonna go back tomorrow, and they’ll find some good folks to raise you.”
“But my parents… they wanted to kill me,” Shemaiah said softly, his lashes heavy with frustration and sorrow. He tried to maintain eye contact. He tried to beg. “I am scared. I don’t think I can… leave with someone else,” he sobbed.
The pastor sighed.
“We’ll talk about it later. You’ll get feverish with them wet clothes. Go sit up front, I don’t mind,” he concluded before walking back to his car.
Shemaiah followed quickly. He looked down every time the man turned his head in his direction. It was his way of showing he could be obedient.
“You got yourself a broken leg, yeah?” The pastor broke the silence after a few minutes. His thumbs were playing a little tune against the steering wheel. He was agitated but the child could not tell what it was that bothered him so much.
“Yessir,” the boy answered shyly, “they wanted to give me to bad people so I ran away.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them in the news. They got arrested at the Canadian border.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Pretty much, but they did filthy things so it’s good they’re not in town anymore.”
Shemaiah stared at the road. He knew Jean Lynn and Clyde had never loved him, but still, he could not believe they were such bad people. They had shared happy moments. They really did.
“When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze, do you remember that?” The man asked with a smile.
“Yes, I was reading it before they fetched me,” the boy answered while looking at the preacher’s serious side profile.
“Well, now you gotta trust what you’re reading. Perseverance’s important. You won’t be missing a thing once your heart truly takes in the good Lord’s gospel.”
“I haven’t read anything in months,” the child admitted, “the sisters don’t seem to care. I need your help, Father. You’re the only one… the only one that can… bring me back on the right path.”
The Father sighed and a humble smile appeared on his cracked thin lips.
“I done told you, if it was up to me I’d keep you, but I mustn’t, I shouldn’t. It ain’t in the cards for me to do that. But don’t you fret none, good things are awaiting you. Just around the bend, I tell you. Won’t you trust your old friend?”
He chuckled and put a heavy hand on the boy’s thigh. The slap burned him but all he could do was smile. Of course, he trusted the pastor more than anyone else. Maybe even more than God.
“I trust you,” he affirmed firmly, “thank you for always saving me. I don’t know how… how I can repay you but… I…”
Tears again. He tried to stop them from falling, brushing at his eyelashes discreetly.
“I am so happy you found me,” he croaked before lowering his head even more, unable to refrain his sobs. His shoulders were shaking. The poor boy was too exhausted, his feet were bloody, blisters had popped and his socks were stuck to the pus. His whole body was cold and sticky, his teeth were chattering despite the heater and a headache was starting to set in. He had the impression that he had already lived that moment. The car. The cold. The heater. His scar was itching.
“You can cry, Shemaiah,” Asbury whispered, his hand still on the boy’s leg, “you must be tuckered out. How about you go to the back? A good rest will do you right.”
His voice was as deep as ever, but there was a new softness to it.
“I want to stay by your side,” Shemaiah answered, hands still trying to dry his sadness out. He forced a smile onto his shivering mouth. He wanted to look brave before his savior.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, kiddo, you don’t know,” the man sighed. He was distant again but the boy did not mind. For now, they were together. For now, it meant he was safe.
— Monday Boy