Part III: Overcome
~10~
It was all so clear now. He had been right. I had been wrong. I pulled people out of the frothing water and then scuppered the ship. I tried to take the Father from his flock and my friends suffered for it. All that I touch turned to dust. All that I dare to hold dear dissolved to ash. I was a monster. A killer. I knew only death. My hands were weapons. I took life because it was easy, the easiest way to solve my problems, or so I once thought. I knew now. The Father always knew. Not every problem could be solved with a bullet, he said. And I was the bullet. And now I must listen to the Father, because he knew the truth, and my sole purpose on this earth had always been the purveying of violence. I was a tool. My friends died because I believed I was more than that. I thought I was a hero. They had been right. John, Jacob, and Faith, they had all been right. And if I'd left them alone, left their Gates untouched, hundreds of people could have survived the Collapse. Didn't matter that they would have suffered. They would have been alive. Burke only killed Virgil because I brought the marshal out of the Bliss. Pastor Jerome, Mary May and Nick were tortured because I pushed John's buttons. Eli Palmer and who knew how many Whitetails were gunned down because I allowed Jacob to turn me into a machine, when I saw the outcome a mile away but was too much of a coward to end it before it happened. After all that, I still tried to arrest Joseph Seed, even though he gave me a second chance to walk away. I should have learned my lesson. Those of my friends who remained would have been safe in Joseph's care. Safe. Imprisoned, but safe. That's all that mattered. Freedom? Look what I did with my freedom. I used it, lost control of it, then lost it entirely, taking it away from everyone else in the same stroke. Because of me, they were neither safe nor free. They were dead. And it was my fault.
My fault.
He said he forgives me. That he knew I was sorry, and would do anything to take it all back. But I didn't. I couldn't. I was unworthy of forgiveness. I didn't deserve a peaceful life or merciful death. I deserved only this living hell, where I dreamed of fire and endured every waking hour languishing over my sins. I would not eat. I scarcely slept. I suffered, as it was only fair. Only right. Joseph said I could make things right, but I didn't see how. I needed him to show me. I needed him.
I needed him.
Day 538
I no longer recognize the man before me. Once, he held his head high. Once, he had the fire of heaven's forge fuelling his spirit. Then he found revelations, he realized the truth, and, as I foresaw, it destroyed him.
His body mended with the aid of the Bliss, but his soul has been torn asunder and it is taking everything I have to keep him going. I was there for him when he had to purge the Bliss from his body again, through the convulsions and the sickness and the metaphysical torment. That had been many moons ago, and since then, the deputy...changed.
He stopped eating. When I hounded him about it, he began avoiding me. When I sneaked up on him he would be mumbling to himself in the shadows, uttering 'no' and 'shut up' over and over, all the while hitting his head with a fist, rocking back and forth. I confronted him yesterday and he fawned like a beaten dog, then turned away from the food I tried to give him. I know it must be this way, and yet it bothers me for some reason. Hopefully, by putting my thoughts down realization will come to me.
...
The dream visited me a third time last night. Only instead of devouring me, the black Snake coiled tightly around me, crushing me in the middle of the Garden. And as I fell into darkness, into the Abyss, I heard an infant screeching in pain.
The sound tore at my soul, and I curled into a ball, covering my ears until the sound at last abated. When I opened my eyes, I found myself at the feet of Jacob, who sat upon an unseen throne, arms on his knees and gazing down at me impassively.
"He yet lives," he said.
"He is a stronger man than you gave him credit for," said I. "And for that you died."
"But you are making the same mistake, brother." Jacob leaned back, shifted, then leaned forward again. "He will be the death of you. One day. Look."
I turned and there was the deputy, but there was no child in his arms this time. I stood in anger.
"Where is she?!"
He was covered in blood. Listing to the side, eyes sunken and hollow, limbs shaking. Yet his teeth were bared. Downed but not defeated. Smothered but not extinguished.
"He took everything from you," said Jacob behind me. "A spineless sinner. Murdered our brother, our sister. Our family."
"He was in pain," I said.
"Mercy is a weakness, Joseph."
"Is it?" I did not turn around. "Mercy is something you never understood. That does not make it a weakness."
"Three times he was in your grasp, and three times you let him go. We died because of those choices, brother."
"Every soul can be saved," I snapped, finally turning around. But Jacob had gone.
I faced Isaac again. He was still standing there, but my daughter was in his arms now. I approached slowly.
"Please...Isaac..."
He held her close, guarded, as she mewled.
"I'm sorry she died," I said. "A day does not go by that I don't wish to see her little face again."
The deputy locked eyes with me, seeming to relax his hold.
"But it was for the good of all..." I held my hands out for her. "I don't regret my decision—"
It was true, but it was also a mistake to say. Isaac's hold on my child tightened again and he ran into the void.
I woke up weeping. I wept for my baby, my life, my burden. I know I did the right thing, but that did not make it easier. Did not make the pain go away. Why, God, why was I given the cruellest of tests? A little life, so small, so helpless, sacrificed to prove my devotion to you. You stopped Abraham, but You didn't stop me.
My dreams are my own. I should be able to control what happens. Then why did Isaac, the soldier, the killer, always keep my daughter from me? What did it mean? That Isaac wasn't yet fully under my control? Was Jacob really trying to warn me from beyond death, or was it my own subconscious doubts? I am no fool. The deputy is unstable and thus more unpredictable than ever before. But when he broke, he let me hold him. He begged for forgiveness.
I should have kept up with my writing. But I'm afraid I kept putting it off, and whatever I did get down the past few weeks was always forgotten, disjointed, or nonsensical. And, I confess, I have been spending so much time with Isaac that the new Word has lost its draw. No one, not my brothers, not my flock, not God, had ever listened to me like the deputy does now. It unsettles me, the way he stares so intently, clinging to my every word. I was able to tell him everything, about my trials growing up, the first time I heard the Voice, the day my blood father beat me for reading a comic book.
After much prompting and encouragement, Isaac started to talk to me again, but this time, he opened up, as though to prove he was a human like any other. He told me about his family. A devote mother, taken by leukemia when Isaac was a child. A sturdy father, succumbing to booze and getting killed breaking up a bar fight before his son reached nineteen. A younger sister, who'd eloped and sent the occasional postcard from somewhere in the world...
He seemed to forget with whom he was talking, sometimes. Today he looked off into a past only he could see, speaking of the horrors he faced in the Middle East – watching children burn and soldiers blast each other to oblivion, ancient cities crumbling to dust all around him. And then he observed how, in becoming a junior deputy under Earl Whitehorse, he only brought himself in a circle. He had fought the same God only with a different name, a different following, this time in his own backyard.
I listened. It was all I could do. I wanted to interrupt, to tell him he was wrong. That we were nothing like the heretical terrorists on the other side of the planet, that we were God's chosen and we were doing His will properly... But then I would have been proving his point. Every religion has its branches, and every branch believes it is the truth. And Isaac told me as much.
It angered me. I know I'm doing God's will. I have heard the Voice since I was a child. I have seen the path He has set for us. I told Isaac this. He only nodded and said, "I know."
I asked him what he thought of me. Was I still a monster in his eyes? Did he see my ways as savage as those in the Middle East? Because I still saw him as an animal of violence. He was spawned from the darkest streak of humanity, bloodthirsty and warmongering. I could not blame him for it any more than I could blame a wolf for its fangs, but I cannot deny my contempt for his chosen path. Disposition or no, born under Mars or not, he could have chosen to open his fist in friendship rather than clench it in wrath. God put goodness in all his children, and it could grow, should the owning soul cherish it, nourish it, like a delicate seedling... Isaac was impassive during my spiel, but a line creased his brow just before he replied, "You...made...me."
And then, he stopped talking. It was as though he had said all he needed to say. I demanded that he tell me what he meant, to no avail. He picked up a pencil and scratched away at a piece of paper, ignoring me completely.
He has never let me read any of his writing. But he is getting a look in his eye I do not like. It's not thirst. It's not hunger, for food or sensual pleasure. I cannot place it, and I worry for my child. He is sleeping at the moment, and I could use this time to seek out his written thoughts, but I cannot bring myself to. Not yet.
He's having another nightmare. I will try to calm him without waking him.
I cracked open my third beer and turned on the bar stool, absorbing the taproom. Warmly lit, tuned by Bob Seger and smelling of booze and cigarettes and pepperoni, it was right cozy in 8-Bit Pizza. There was Sharky and Hurk Jr arguing by the stage, something about dynamite and monkeys. Nick Rye was deep in conversation with Grace Armstrong about baby clothes at a nearby table, and further down the bar Luke Lee was hitting on Jess Black.
"Used to hunt for a taxidermist," he said proudly. "Gave me a buck a squirrel."
Jess bit the cap off her beer bottle. "You don't say."
"And how are you doing, honey?"
I turned back around, facing the bar. Adeliade Drubman was refilling the pretzel basket, a tea towel over one shoulder, a rifle visible over the other. Maybe it was the light, but she looked cleaner and happier than I'd ever seen her. They all did. All my friends. Happy, healthy, carefree...
I opened my mouth but no words formed. Addie cocked an eyebrow.
"What's wrong, dep? Peaches catch your tongue?"
I tried again, but all that came out was a hoarse grunt.
"Come on, man, speak up," said Luke from down the bar. Both he and Jess were staring at me. I made another coughing sound, panic welling in my chest.
"You, uh, you alright over there?" called Nick. I turned to him, wordlessly grunting. "Just nod for yes, shake for no."
Cough.
"You know, it's kind of rude leaving Auntie hanging," said Sharky. Everyone was staring at me now. Their faces were blank.
"I didn't talk until I was five years old, right, Mama?" said Hurk Jr.
"Mm hm," said Addie. "Your first word was 'dumbshit.'"
"It's not like he said much anyway," said Jess dismissively, but she did not take her eyes off me. "I just thought he was stupid."
Again I tried to speak. More wordless grunts. Their stares were becoming accusatory.
"Thinks he's the strong, silent type," said Grace, rolling her eyes.
"Had no trouble ordering me around, but when it came to small talk? Silencio," Luke scoffed.
"My baby talks more and she's not even a month old." Nick pulled his sunglasses off. His eyes looked strangely pale. Even as I stared, the others stood from their seats and came closer. All of their eyes looked bleached.
"You know? I reckon Joseph Seed was right about you," said Nick.
"You thought you were better than us." Jess stabbed a throwing knife into the bar, knuckles white around the hilt. "Some kind of hero."
I tried to deny it, but my tongue still refused to work. I got to my feet as they all stepped closer in sync. My back pressed against the counter.
"You didn't help us because you felt it in your soul, man," said Sharky. "You was being selfish."
"We were just safeguards to you," Luke agreed. "Someone to pull you to your feet when you fucked up."
They were very close now. I saw a gap between Hurk Jr and the bar and tried to slide sideways through it, but Addie grabbed my shoulders from behind the counter, bubblegum-pink nails digging into my skin.
"Going somewhere, sugar?"
"Not gonna say a word in defence, are ya, partner?" said Nick. "So concerned about yourself you won't even wag your tongue at us."
"I say—" Jess stabbed the counter again. "Use it, or lose it."
"Or, abuse it." Addie's nails dug harder into my shoulders. "What can you do with that tongue, sweetie?"
My next coarse effort to speak was the last straw. Grace and Nick grabbed either of my arms and hauled me away from the bar, Addie's nails leaving deep gouges in my skin. I struggled but their grips were stone and they easily slammed me down on a table, shattering beer glasses. Shards pierced my back, beer soaked my shirt, but my friends were impartial to my distress, pinning me down.
The hanging light was blinding, swinging back and forth over the table so that Nick's and Grace's faces alternated between silhouette and highlights. Their eyes were lost in Bliss. I tried to warn them, but all that came out was a choking cough.
"Stop making that sound," Sharky snapped. "You remind me of the cat I accidentally set on fire—which I didn't actually do."
I looked at each of their faces, pleading, but I was as bad as a Peggy in their eyes. Jess came to stand by my head, a glint of steel in her hand.
"You really are pathetic, aren't you?"
"Can't believe I ever thought you were cool enough to be in my cult," said Hurk Jr, crossing his beefy arms.
"I used to think he'd make a good godfather to my kid," Nick scoffed. "Now I wouldn't trust him to protect a pile of dirt."
"Crappy shot, too," said Luke. "Couldn't tell ya how many times I pulled his fat out of the fire."
I struggled harder than ever, but then I remembered I hadn't eaten well for months. My body had shrunk, my clothes baggy. I was a bundle of twigs in a pillowcase. My friends were strong and whole and laughed at my feeble attempts to break free. The sound hurt more than the glass in my back.
"Not so tough now, are ya, deputy?"
"The 'great American hero.'"
"Pathetic."
"Useless."
"Worthless."
The blade in Jess's hand glinted and my eyes were drawn to it. Her milky eyes revealed no emotion.
"Like I said. Use it—" She forced my jaw open and held the knife, blade down, over my mouth. "Or lose it."
"Stop."
The knife halted its cold descent. In unison my friends all looked over to a person I could not see but recognized nonetheless.
"There is no need for this," said Joseph Seed. "Please, release him."
They obeyed without hesitation, but I did not sit up.
"Your time is done. Go. Go," he said calmly, and they filed out, into the night. "God be with you."
Joseph came to stand by the table, looking down at me. He looked sad. Pitying. He put a hand to my head and stroked it gently. The wooden rafters above faded. I saw ducting and light bars and pipes.
"Sleep, Isaac. Find peace."
I fell into darkness and dreamed nothing.
Day 541
Merciful Lord in heaven, why?
I walked in on Isaac today to find him slumped against the wall in the infirmary, blood pouring from his mouth, a knife limp in his grasp. I thought he had stabbed himself, but when I rushed to him, I saw the bloody mass in his other hand and took it, only to discover that it was flesh. The deputy had cut out his own tongue.
Months ago I gave him the freedom to roam during the day, for he is no longer a threat to me. I did not know he was a threat to himself.
He was so white, the blood so red. There was a needle hanging from the inside of his arm, an empty vial discarded nearby. I recognized it. The last of the Bliss. He tried to smile at me; it was grotesque. I asked him why, why did he do this? But of course, he could not reply. I knew I would find the answers in his journal pages, I just had to get my hands on them. The last time I tried, he had become aggressive, overly-protective, and I'd resolved to respect his privacy. But that was before he resorted to self-mutilation. First, I had to see to him. Judging by the mass he had removed, he'd not managed to take the entire tongue out, but just enough so that his speech would be ruined forever. So I punished him.
I'm not proud of it. The deputy was not in his right mind, and might not be even now. Wilful silence had been surmountable but now that he can't speak, it makes me feel alone.
He just took it. The punishment. It was as though he expected it and therefore accepted it. It was wretchedly unsatisfying, like kicking around a sack of meat. I hurt him all the more for it, wanting him to be himself, wanting him to fight back, wanting to see the Wrath return to his eyes. I think I saw it, a few times, but it always went away, replaced by triumph, or amusement, or some twisted mix of both. The rage I felt for the deputy for killing my brothers came to a head and I struck him and struck him until my fingers dislocated and he didn't ever once try to defend himself.
He was barely conscious, slumping sideways along the wall, when I finally stopped. I stepped back from him, chest heaving, and saw what he'd written in blood on the wall over his head – 'Now I am an Angel.'
He was mocking me. My flock, my faith. I seized him by the hair. Knocking out his teeth would suffice, would teach him. The light was behind me. It cast a shadow against the wall. My shadow, with my hand raised, ready to strike. But I didn't see it as me. I saw it as my father, posed to punish me. And I didn't see the deputy kneeling before me but a child accepting a fate he shouldn't have to. I lowered my hand, placing it gently on his head. He closed his eyes, and we prayed.
I am the Father. I am the teacher. And yet Isaac is showing me a perspective I never truly understood – that of my enemies. I know he suffered loss in this war. I know every sinner lost friends and family resisting the Project. Isaac had always been willing to suffer to protect the ones he cared about, just like me. I see all people, even Isaac, as my children, my charges, my wards, and although I tell myself it had hurt to see them perish in their efforts to avoid salvation, I'm not sure it did, anymore.
And now I see. I succumbed to sin. I am a man. I am weak. Isaac is truly the tempter, the Snake in the Garden, for he gave me a chance to show compassion and yet I chose punishment. Even I, God's prophet, can be blind and rash long enough to make the wrong choice.
He is still at the kitchen sink, rinsing his mouth with salt water. He shudders in agony every time the fluid scours his ruined tongue. But he makes not a sound, not a single complaint. He'd removed his bloody shirt and it was soaking in the bathroom sink. My God, he is so skinny. I can count every rib from here, every ridge on his spine. I am the same, but seeing it on the man I've hated for so long fills me with yet another feeling I cannot describe or, perhaps, understand. It makes me want to feed him, to pity him like some mutt on the streets. But supplies are low. We'd emptied out both deep-freezes last month – the last of the moose meat was like leather, dry and tough, no matter what I tried, for it had been frozen for too long. Isaac hadn't seemed to mind. And he never complained when all we had left for meat was jerky. He always thanked me, whatever I brought him, and sometimes that would be the only time he spoke, for days at a time. Now, he won't be able to do even that.
He's still in the Bliss. Done with the salt water cleansing he staggers past me, flopping on the couch and staring vacantly at the fish tank. Though all the fish are gone, I've left the tank full of water with the filter and lights on. Isaac likes it. And I admit it's a comforting sound.
The blue light allows me to see WRATH tattooed on Isaac's chest. The work of my little brother. I never did get the full story on how he died. I only ever heard it from my flock – how the deputy was a dishonourable fighter, murdering John in cold blood when he was looking the other way. I want to believe that. I want to think Isaac was a dastardly coward, but every coin has two sides. And now I know both men well enough to construct my own rendering of the battle. They both fought valiantly and, for reasons known only to God, John fell. He had displeased our Lord. He, and Jacob and Faith. And He took them from me, using the pawn on the couch.
Yes. I believe Isaac is God's tool. How else could he have survived all that he had gone through? Several months ago the deputy told me of the battles he fought in, the trials he overcame, the people he helped all over Hope County. I almost didn't believe him. How could one man do all of that? Oh, he had help from the locals, one in particular he'd always been hesitant to talk about. A man called Luke Lee. There were other sinners too – the Rye family, the pastor of Fall's End, Eli Palmer and his Whitetails. I knew a lot of them. I had some of them under my control on the day of the Collapse. God had given me their will, and they would have died for me...
Isaac caught me staring. I held his gaze for almost a minute, and then he smiled dopishly. I should have hidden the Bliss better.
My knuckles had split when I punished him, and bleed even as I write this. They will heal. The damage to my soul, however, will take much longer to repair. My forearm, too, bleeds, and it will bleed and hurt until I remember who I am; I have cut a new sin into my flesh. And I shall press the wound to this page for you all to see, my family, for I had allowed this new sin to posses me:
WRATH
"Now I see fire inside the mountain. I see fire burning the trees. And I see fire hollowing souls. And I see fire, blood in the breeze."
I See Fire, Ed Sheeran