Credit where credit's due: LaughableBlackStorm for the feedback. And I gotta give a shout out to Praetor Corvinus and some of his stories, which was kind of the inspiration behind this. Also? Firm Agnostic Theologian here. I study all, but advocate for no specific religion. I just find the stories, parables, myths, and histories so fascinating, and so much fun to incorporate into stories.
References/Spoilers: CSI Season 7, Episodes 4, 5, 7, 24: "Double-Cross", "Fannysmackin'," "Post-Mortem" "Dead Doll" (and basically anything in the Greg storyline of season 7). Also hints at spoilers for Season 8's "Goodbye and Good Luck." Other references include: The Book of Job 38:3-40:8, The Gospel of Luke, 10:25-37, and Ovid's The Metamorphoses.
The Good Samaritan
Summary: Greg has faith in crisis. Post-Ep for Double-Cross (Season 7, Episode 5).
He sat at the base of the statue of St. Jude in the courtyard outside of the church. He frequently watched the clergy scurry about. He watched the teenagers, proudly sporting gang colors, spray tags on the statue, as if they could claim it and the church as their turf. People rarely paid attention to him. If he sat still long enough, he ran the risk of being tagged as well. Sister Elizabeth constantly shooed him, telling him he needed to go to the shelter and to take his vagrant 'friends' with him. He wasn't sure to what friends she was referring, but he never listened. He had as much a right to this statue as anyone else that claimed it. Father Frank would occasionally see him and kneel, offering food or water, or meekly asking him to come into the church for the night. But as the weeks wore on, Father Frank stopped to notice him less and less, until he stopped noticing all together. And with the death of that girl, he could hardly blame the man. Father Frank had other things on his plate, more important things.
Still, he remained there, using the statue as a shelter, and there was no better shelter out there to be had than the saint of lost causes. He watched the world from this privileged angle, and saw every manner of human being, the saintly and the sinning, pass right on by, without even a glance at him. Because he was homeless, and a drunk, and they were busy.
And then, there was Greg Sanders.
The boy had exited the church with a bit of a meandering gait, carrying a metal kit in one hand as he sauntered through the courtyard. His gaze moved every which way, across the blooming white roses, up the ivy that clung to the courtyard walls. It wasn't long until that wandering gaze landed on the man sprawled out at the base of the statue of St. Jude.
His brow knit with concern and he dropped to one knee. "Are you all right sir?"
The man at the statue grumbled and turned over, covering his face with his jacket.
"Sir, you're shaking," Greg said, putting his hands on the vagrant's shoulders. "Are you sick? Do you need someone to take you to the hospital?"
"Be on your way, boy," the old man barked. He peeked out from under his jacket, the hand holding it still shaking. "Less you got a cig I can bum."
Greg smiled sadly and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir."
The man narrowed his eyes at Greg. "You don't look in too good a shape yerself, boy."
Greg's smile vanished. He straightened and looked off to the left over his shoulder, as if searching for something over the walls of the courtyard. "Been one of those months, I guess." He sighed, looked down, and kicked at something in the dirt.
The old man shifted into a sitting position and extended a quivering, bony finger in Greg's direction. "I say them's marks o' courage. Got me a few in the War."
Greg cocked an eyebrow, his interest once again piqued by the old man. He crouched back down and gave the man a wry smile. "Oh yeah? Which war is that?"
"All of 'em," the man replied. "Seen every last one, and they all marked me somehows."
"Right," Greg said. "Bet you were there at the Battle of Hastings."
The old man's eyes sparkled, just for a moment. He adjusted his position and tilted his head at Greg. "You ain't, yet. Been t'war."
"Nope, sir, afraid war was not my calling."
"Just 'cause it ain't called, don't mean it won't come." He pursed his lips. "You'll be needin' somethin' to depend on when that happens."
Greg shook his head, staring at the corner of the statue. "I've fought my fair share of battles. I have people I depend on."
"Not people that worries me, boy," the old man spat. "S'faith."
And at that, Greg scoffed. "Ah, OK."
"Serious, now, boy," the old man roared. "Ain't no atheists in fox holes, that the truth."
"Never believed that," Greg muttered.
"Why'scome not?"
Greg blinked at the turn of phrase and decided to humor the man. "Well, if I were in a fox hole, God would be the last person I'd be thanking for it."
"S'not God that put you there," the man said. "S'man that put you there. Man and you. What you got against God, boy?"
"I was in one," Greg explained, bluntly. "A… foxhole, if you will. Down there in the mud, with enemy soldiers. I saw the looks in their unnatural eyes, and there was no humanity there, no God. No reason, even. It wasn't God that saved me, either. It was medics. Doctors. And a woman. Just one woman…" His eyes glazed over. "She was just there, holding my hand the whole time."
The old man's lips curled and cracked his withered face like lines in the dry earth. "And you say that God wasn't there?"
Greg blinked, his eyes refocusing as he looked at the stranger before him. He didn't know why he was telling him all this, or why he had even stopped to ask if he was all right in the first place. He shook his head to clear it. "Forget it," he said, rising to his feet.
"Can't ferget what you believe, boy," the man called at Greg's retreating back. "Don't care what that is, 'zactly. Just care you believe in somethin'."
These words plucked something in Greg, like a cord on an out-of-tune guitar. He shivered at the tone of it, then slowly turned back to the old man. "It's not that I don't believe. It's just… hard to make sense of sometimes."
"So it's a crisis o' faith you be havin', then?"
"No, I have faith in crisis," Greg explained. "Right now, crisis is all that's making sense for me. But the worst of it's over. Storm's past. I'll move on."
"C'mere, boy."
Greg cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
The old man beckoned with an arthritic hand. "Drop that big metal box o' yers and come on back here."
And Greg obeyed, as if it were his grandfather demanding it. He let the kit fall and approached the man again, this time really trying to get a good look at him. His skin was tan with splotchy discolorations in places that made his race difficult to determine. His beard was full and gray, with black and white peppered in there as well. One eye was larger than the other, it seemed, but both of them peered at him with a sharp blue intensity. His other features suggested that he might be African American, but he had a narrow face and high cheekbones. There was dirt caked into every one of the numerous wrinkles that had grown on his face as the ivy had grown on the courtyard walls. He was trembling all over. "Are you sure you don't need me to take you to a hospital, sir?"
The old man gripped Greg's wrist and it was firmer than anything the young man had ever expected. It almost scared him. "Storm's not passed yet, boy. There's a whole new wind abrewin' in times ahead. I'm not too sure you ready for it."
"And why not?" Greg asked, almost offended.
He gave a lopsided grin. "'Cause you still got the urge in ya to take time out of yer day and talk to an old man like me."
Greg worried about the old man's sanity. "How long have you been out here? When's the last time you ate?"
"You see the world, boy?" the man continued. "Millin' about this earth, absorbed in themselves. Cities so big we doubt the folk who sit next to us on th' bus. We hoard charity 'fraid the men we's be givin' to go waste our good fortune on vices. But that's the thing 'bout charity – don't matter what it's used for, just matter that it's given. But nobody gives no more. The Good Samaritan is dead."
He was still gripping Greg's wrist. His old hand was worn, but smooth, and cold like a stone in a stream. Greg put his other hand over it, tenderly. "Let me get you something to eat."
"You ain't hearin' me, boy," the old man growled through gold and missing teeth. "People have fallin' inside o' themselves like lawn chairs. Everybody's all closed up, 'cause as our population gets bigger, our world gets smaller, and our lives get a little less safe. People are afraid of connectin'. Reachin' out to anyone, saving no one but themselves. Boy, there are people who are not like you. People who take, and they will take from you, until you feel like you have nothin' left to be stolen. They will paint you the villain when you wanted to be the hero. You will be betrayed by the laws you thought you stood for, and it will eat you up, I'm tellin' you! It will eat you, and you will be consumed. And then, that woman? The one who held yer hand? She'll be the last angel to fall, and you will be alone."
Greg's mouth was partially open as a chill rolled across his skin in waves. His fingertips were tingling, as if they'd fallen asleep. Greg wondered if the man's tight grip had cut off his blood flow. He didn't understand most of the man's ramblings, except that they filled him with a sense of deepest foreboding. For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. Except, "Please… how do I stop it?"
"Job," the old man said, "once asked… 'Why?' He said, 'Make it stop.' He said, 'Please!'" The old man reached up and grabbed Greg's collar. "Brace yerself like a man, boy. 'Cause I will question you, and you will answer me. Do you doubt my justice? Eh? Condemn me to justify yourself?"
Greg broke away, falling backwards, throwing his arms out behind him to break the fall. The old man was laughing.
"God, you see…" he began, "only answered Job's questions with more questions. 'Cause he's kinda a dick like that, see?" The old man chuckled, a little half-heartedly now, and he stared down at his worn feet. "Truth is, no man can truly know the glory of Heaven, until he has gone through Hell. No life, even a blessed one, can be without trial. God didn't call off the protection on Job 'cause He was angry or messin' about with Lucifer. He did it, because every Father has got to watch his child fall, if only to make sure that he's prepared the kid well enough that he can get back up again. Not a lot of people really get that."
Greg was still leaning backwards on his hands, his knees bent, feet ready to scramble up again. His breathing was ragged, and he felt like he'd just run a mile. The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of Marlboros. He hit the box against his palm then opened it and fished out what appeared to be his last cigarette. He found a lighter and fumbled with it.
"So tell me the truth, boy," he mumbled. "You ever gonna give the time o' day to a fella like me again?"
Greg honestly wasn't sure. He said nothing. He just stared, wide-eyed, unable to look away.
The man nodded, as if Greg had already given him his answer. "Thought so." His eyes twinkled. "Maybe the Good Samaritan ain't so dead after all."
Greg finally seemed to find himself again. He shook out his whole body, feeling as though he'd been temporarily possessed, then slowly got to his feet. "I'll call the shelter about you," he said, quietly. "You clearly need a doctor or… something."
The old man looked up at him, the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Y'see? Still thinkin' what's best fer me. You always do that, Greg. It may getchya into trouble at times, tryin' to help… But never stop trying. One of the many things I love about you."
Greg couldn't face him anymore and turned away to head out of the archway. And then, it occurred to him that the old man hadn't called him 'Boy.'
Greg spun around. "What did you—"
The old man was gone.
Slowly, Greg walked to his kit and picked it up. He furrowed his brow and looked around the courtyard a moment, but he was alone. He let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes, figuring the stress of the case had to be getting to him.
He went back to the lab. He catalogued the evidence. He went to the locker room, and opened his own. The second he did, an old leather-bound book tumbled out. Greg glanced at it on the floor, then bent to pick it up.
"Don't care what you believe, boy, just believe in somethin'."
The voice was as loud and clear as if he stood in the room, but when Greg whipped his head to look around, no one was there. He cursed himself for being so jumpy. Maybe Catherine was right. Maybe he had come back into field work a little too early. Maybe a few extra days in bed might do him good.
He picked up the book, half-dreading it would be the Bible, but when he saw the cover, he was confused. It clearly read, in gold lettering: The Metamorphoses by Ovid. Greg flipped through the first few pages. He didn't remember owning a copy, though he had discussed it once with Grissom, back when he was trying to impress his boss with his literary knowledge.
The silk red ribbon that acted as a bookmark was sandwiched somewhere in the middle. Greg opened to the page and saw the title of a myth: Baucis and Philemon.
Grissom's voice floated into his head, a memory of their distant conversation. Greg had voiced his favorite myth and Grissom had replied, "I prefer Baucis and Philemon. A true love story of a humble couple who gave without hesitation to a pair of gods disguised as beggars."
Do you think… Greg began to ask himself.
He looked around the locker room, then snapped the book shut, tossing it back into his locker.
"Nah," he said, before closing it and heading home for the night.