Something's different this morning. I roll over and realize that the window has morning sunlight pouring through it. Driving gales don't seem to be rattling anything and there's no sound of a deluge pouring on the roof. As if I'm more in tune with nature than is normal, my body too has warmed and settled... and I'm hungry. I dress to head out and make it barely out the door.
The world is changed from gray dreariness to a place of absolute wonder. Now I can see that the mountains across the fjord are towering massifs, clothed with evergreens below and draped with snow above. Endless streams plunge down darkened cliffs in bright and feathery waterfalls to birth rainbows with their mist. The expanse of water itself has some small whitecaps further out, but is a rich clear aquamarine where it isn't reflecting the beauty beyond. There are two fishing boats headed out, their nets hung high and folks purposefully scurrying about their decks in the chill morning air.
It feels like a wonderful morning to be alive. The air has a freshness I can't remember ever sensing, more than just the scent of the sea mixed with evergreen fragrance, it's as if the air itself is joyful at just being there to be breathed by a mere mortal me.
I finally overcome the beauty's spell long enough to walk to the small restaurant that perches along the water, maybe 500 meters west; I've eyed it for days, but only now do I feel fit to join the public. The place has a few customers, but those who are there are an obviously contented lot.
My waitress is an older woman, but as friendly and cheerful as a happy gran'mother.
"Sit where you like, lad. And do ya know what you'll be wanting?"
"Got indigoberry pancakes?"
"Best on the north coast, small but full of berries and stacked to feed even the grandest of hungers."
As I head for a window table, my grin must be evident because she follows up with, "and will you be having bacon with those then?"
"Trying to spoil me, now?"
"You're a man of good taste, sure."
"Well, at least I know what tastes good, indigoberry pancakes and bacon it is, with a pot of morning tea."
"Well said, that. I'll have it right up."
"Thank you, Mam."
"Mam it is? Proper gentleman you are."
"Yes, Mam, my da raised me so."
"And a good man he must be too. I'll get the tea, luv."
I haven't the heart to spoil her day by telling her that da is gone. There's so much cheer here, I just want to soak it in... it's like playing with Sabby on a warm spring day... well, like that was...
...
"Dia dwitch!"
An oddly dressed man is standing beside my table... in black from the neck down with just a narrow bit of white at the center of his throat. It's obvious he meant his words as some form of communication, but I'm entirely lost as to what.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Ah, ya don't have any of the Irish, do you?"
"I guess not, Sir."
"I said 'God be with you' in the tongue of our ancestors. Depending on your confession you would answer with a blank look if you're an unbeliever, 'and also with you' if an average believer, and 'God and Mary be with you' if a truly old school Irish Catholic. Of course, the latter would begin the game of adding saint's names to the blessing back and forth until one or the other of us forgot one of the list or ran out of saints to add."
"No offense, Sir, but I really have no clue what you are on about."
"Ah, that's a blank look and no lie. Mind if I join ya?" he asks while already part way into the chair opposite me.
"Please, be welcome."
"I couldn't help overhearing your exchange with our fine hostess, your accent led me to believe that you're one of us."
"I'm afraid that I don't understand."
"Would you recognize this?" he asks, and out from under his coat he pulls a pendant version of the Croes Gaeltaid, a slightly more ornate one than what I have painted on my 'Mech.
"The Cross of Patrick."
"Very good, also called the High Gaelic or Celtic Cross. What do you know about it?"
I am desperately trying to dredge up what Joshua said to me those months ago, but for right now I'm a bit at a loss.
"Just that it's from old Terra and that my granpa used it on his 'Mech because his name was Patrick."
"Did he tell you that was why he used it, or was that his excuse if those hostile to the faith asked?"
It seems I've heard that basic question before, "I don't know, he was dead before even my da was born."
"Ah, I see. If you don't mind, I'll say his name in the Mass on Sunday."
I shrug, this conversation is a bit strange and I'm at a loss to know how to deal with the situation.
"I take that as a 'whatever' so I'll do it anyway."
A silence falls and I try to politely look out the window at the beauty.
"How are ya, Father Pat?"
"A fine good morning, Kathleen; other than being a bit stiff of the weather, I'm grand."
"The usual, then, Father?"
"If you'd be so kind, I'd be grateful."
"Will you be at your usual table, or are you with this fine lad today?"
He looks at me, there is a kindly appraisal going on and I'm not sure if I even know whether I want him to remain.
"I leave it up to this young gentleman," he looks directly at me, "would you mind the company... hmmm, I don't know your name yet."
"Padraig, Sir."
"Padraig indeed! Well, will you have my company or would you rather appreciate the glory of creation alone this mornin'?"
I hesitate; what is a polite answer...?
"Kathleen, please serve it to my normal spot, I think the kindly lad is trying to determine how to politely ask to be left alone."
She looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time, and with just a bit of disapproval, "how can it be so?"
I dislike her frown and wish everything were brighter again. "No, no, he is welcome to stay if he so chooses."
Her smile returns and she questions him one last time, "so here, then, Father?"
"Yes, Kathleen, here it is." His look is gentle, but I have no doubt that he is able to read my response as if I had said everything I thought.
After she has walked away, he quietly says, "I appreciate your courtesy, Padraig. I shan't press you further unless you choose to talk."
I'm a bit embarrassed that I have been so obvious, "sorry, Sir, I've been a bit sick lately and this is my first morning out."
"Then I'll try to be social without making you uncomfortable, if that sets well with you. I'm not a man of few words, and the poetry of life is oft all too eager to burst forth."
My breakfast comes, a vast mound of indigoberry loaded pancakes, a tureen of sweetened melted butter, four strips of crispy bacon and a large pot of a wonderfully fragrant tea. I pour a cup for myself and offer him one also.
He seems a joyful man, but the more I look, the more I wonder that he could be old enough to be waitress Kathleen's da. After a few mouthfuls of berry-packed ambrosia have been swallowed, I ask, "if you will pardon my asking, Sir, but how old are you?"
He smiles, it is as if he knows where the conversation is going but will let it play out anyway. "Forty at the turn of the year. How about you, Padraig?"
I had not expected his question and it takes me a moment to decide to tell him, "sixteen, Sir."
He nods a bit, his smile never leaving. Kathleen returns with a plate of steaming fresh toast and a thick strawberry jam. Mister Murphy closes his eyes for a moment and I almost think he is saying something. The moment passes and he reaches for a spoon and the jam.
"How are the pancakes, dear?"
"Lovely, Mam, the best!"
"Why thank you kind Sir, I hope you enjoy your breakfast." Looking at my companion, she queries, "and you, Father?"
His mouth is already stuffed with twice as much jam as toast; he politely chews in silence, but gives her a big smile and a two thumbs up gesture.
A young couple walks by and I hear both of them acknowledge him, "Father."
He nods in their direction, but the mouthful hasn't gone away yet. Must be a big family. His mouth is finally empty and before he can inhale the next slice, I ask, "how big is your family?"
I would swear that he knows again exactly what I am getting at, but he answers, "I'm the first of five children."
"No, I mean your children."
"By natural means, I have none."
I hadn't really expected this answer.
"You really don't understand who I am here, do you?"
"No, Sir. Please forgive any offense, none is intended."
"I believe it, son." He pauses a moment, takes a deep breath, and continues, "I'm Father Murphy, the parish priest for Jewels Harbor. Most of these folk are believers and many are parishioners in my flock. The Irish colony on this planet became focused here in the Bays over many years, the mountains and coast here have sheltered us and many of our traditional ways persevere. All but two persons, yourself included, in this room can trace Irish family lines that reach back millennia."
"May I ask what it is that you do?"
"Of course, Padraig, of course. I am the spiritual leader, a guide as it were, for those Christians who live here. Do you know what a Christian is?"
"Not really. In ancient history class I think they said it was one of the banned cults from Terra, kind of like the Clans are now. On the other hand, by the definition the teacher gave us of a cult, I often wondered if the Wobbies weren't one.
He chuckles as I say this, and replies, "not really much to go on, that."
"I think a friend of mine has something to do with that stuff. She gave me a book called Mere Christianity, is that the same thing?"
"Hmmm, have you read the book yet?"
"Well, no, I've been busy and then I was sick and..." my voice trails away as I realize that I'm just coming up with excuses. "I intend to start on it today."
He smiles, "well, I don't agree with everything he says, but coming at it from your background, I think it would be a good place to start. I'd like to talk to you more after you've read it, would that be ok?"
"Well, if I'm still here."
"Fair enough, Padraig. I'm in every morning and on Wednesday and Saturday evenings for the sessions."
"Sessions?"
"You sound like you're at least partly of Irish blood, but if so you were obviously deprived of your culture. A 'session' is a loose term for a meeting of musicians, in our case, musicians who play traditional Irish music. We get together here and play tunes as lively as The Butterfly and as solemn as the Derry Aire."
A thought strikes me, "do you know a tune called 'The Battering Ram'?"
He smile is radiant, "so you do know a bit, you mean this one?" He launches mid-sentence into whistling the flute portion of my battle song and drumming on the table in a slightly modified version of the same.
The waitress stops beside the table and she too picks up whistling the flute part.
In a minute's time, at least four others from nearby tables have also joined in, three whistling and one drumming on the oaken tabletop.
Finally, my companion holds up a hand and they all stop at once.
"May I come and listen?" I ask breathlessly.
"Any time, Padraig, any time at all. We're doing it tomorrow night, right after confession." He must see the blank look again, "that's about six-thirty here, though I could always be late."
"I'll make every effort to be here for it."
"If you have to stop reading your book to come, please believe that I would rather we could talk about the book than have your hear us play this time. Some things are more important than others and Lewis presents a cleaner case for the basics than I can in a short time."
...
I'm halfway through my meal when it occurs that he might have an opinion on a question that plagues me. "May I ask you something?"
"Yes, my son?"
"Huh?"
"Oops, sorry, lad. Force of habit, that. Ask your question."
"Do you know if clones have a soul?"
"Yes, I believe they do, why do you ask?"
"Well, I grew up thinking that clones are cursed and have no soul."
"There are two things there: first, its sin that brings a real curse; second, every human has a soul given him by God. Cloning is a sin, being a clone would not be, nor would it keep one from having a soul."
"Huh?"
"To sin, you must be free to choose between right and wrong, since the clone has no choice about who he or she is, by definition he or she can't be guilty of the sin that created them."
"I don't follow."
"Well, would you say that a child born from a rape is cursed?"
"I don't know..."
"The sin of rape is perpetrated by a parent, not by the child. The child is not the rapist, so the child is free from that sin's curse. Likewise the clone."
"Um, ok, but I'm not sure I follow on the soul part."
"Irrespective of the sin of the parents, God knits us in our mothers' wombs, and the soul already exists in us before we're born."
That opens a new avenue of thought, "Well, what about the Clans?"
He laughs heartily. "I don't think Highlanders are all that different from the Irish, we're all human. Why, are you of a Scottish line instead of Irish?"
"No, my granpa was a Wolf, my da his clone."
The kindly face frowns as he struggles to sort out what I've said. His eyes grow suddenly large, "you mean those clans?"
Now I think we're communicating, "Yes, Sir. Granpa had no mother, so does that break things? Did he still get a soul? Did da have one? Do I?"
He now looks right at me with a renewed confidence, "yes, I can say without doubt that you have a soul. That's really what troubles you, isn't it?"
I shrug, there are a lot of ideas here that I'm not familiar with.
...
The last swallow of tea seems extra sweet, I guess I didn't stir enough to completely dissolve the honey. My pancakes are gone, as is the toast my companion so relished. Father Murphy has excused himself at the request of a couple who seem to urgently need his attention, but I've learned between mouthfuls that 'Father' is something of a title; I still don't know if it is from some other language and just sounds like the English word or if it's somehow symbolic.
A scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts gently from the kitchen, I had better leave before my taste buds vote for a second meal.
"This is for his meal and mine, and something extra for you too," I tell the waitress, handing her one of the local gold coins and begin to turn to leave.
She reaches a quick hand to my arm and replies, "No, luv, that's ten times the meals, let me get you some change."
"No, Mam. You've lifted my spirits far more than that's worth and I intend to be back as oft as I can to partake of the fine cookin' and finer welcome."
"Well, you're welcome here and that's certain, but you needn't pay so for the hospitality."
"Please consider it my way of saying thanks."
"Well, as you wish, then. As the Lord walks with you, may He watch over your path and kick the troublesome rocks clear before your feet can touch them."
Outside the door there are flowers among the white stones lining the path, I hadn't noticed them on the way in, but now their colors burst out before me like dew sprinkled gems of sapphire, ruby and amethyst. I can hear some finches in the bushes and a glorious morning stretches out before me.
Maybe I should rest a bit today... and perhaps reading a good book in the fresh air and sunshine is the best relaxation available.
…..
"We'd like to speak with you about a matter of interest," Brian Kell states in a calm matter of fact tone.
I've just finished pressure-washing mud off one of Shark's shins, the previously darkened skies have been gloriously clear all day, but there is quarter-meter deep mud on every road and I seem to have acquired an actual ton of it. Captain Svensen is at the wheel of a small blue electric cart while Mister Kell lounges on the passenger side. My first impression is they are important people who feel they have too little time to walk where they need to go.
"Ok, Sir. Sonia isn't back yet, though."
"That's fine, are you willing to consider a solo deep recon onworld?"
"Here?"
"Yes. You said you are from north of Prontsi, correct?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Prontsi? Yes, Sir, we went on various field trips there while I was in school."
He looks up at the Sha Yu's nose, "ECM with that exotic Capellan stealth armor, right? Anything else fancy?"
"Yes, Sir, BAP too."
"Good mod from base. We may need to run a 'Mech to Prontsi in the next day or so and we would prefer a pilot who knows the area and something of the route."
"I'm confused, Sir. Why wouldn't you drop them in closer?"
"That's our first choice, and still our primary option. I don't like to be surprised, though, and things there appear to have become very... fluid... in the last few hours. Our orbiting Jumpship reports that there's now a patrol cordon up that appears ready to intercept dropships, if that continues, I may need to get someone in close enough to see what cameras from space might miss. We could drop you a hundred klicks or so east of the Refuge, but you would need to go the rest of the way yourself."
"Back the way I came out, in other words."
"Is that a problem?"
I think of the route, of all the folks I know and those... I might have to pass Zuzan again.
"It might be, let me think about it, ok? I'm not sure I really want to leave my partner here anyway."
"I understand completely. Please let either of us know if you decide, ok? By the way, Miss Cramer is at least three days steady sailing out, more like a week if she continues as she has to this point."
As they drive away, part of me is dying to know how he knows that... but that would beg the question of why he knows.
...
"Dia dwitch!"
I have a fork-load of indigoberry pancakes almost to my mouth... lets see, what were the answer options...
"This is where I have to give you a blank look, right?"
"You remember, good!"
"Good morning, Father Murphy. Won't you join me for breakfast?"
"If you aren't a believer at all, you can choose to skip the 'Father' part and just call me Pat... I suspect the title's still rather strange to you."
"No, a title is a title, I'll at least honor that."
"As you wish, Padraig. Oh, and thank you for the breakfast yesterday."
"My pleasure. I hope you will allow me the privilege to treat you again today."
"Now why would you do that?"
"Courtesy, friendship, I have too much money and want to share."
His look is incredulous. Well, perhaps it is softening, "are you actually serious?"
"I'm a pilot," now the disbelief has returned, "despite my age. Let's just say that I was involved with several engagements recently that provided me with enough resource to buy a replacement 'Mech without depleting my reserves."
"Would you give to help homeless children or the poor?"
"How much do they need and where do you need me to go to help?"
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"My current resources are more than I suspect my father and all his friends combined ever had. I have been given much, some of it earned, but some of it because of a kindness or two. Maybe some day I'd find a way to spend it all, but why not share it with folks who need something? I have no idea how to help others, but I want to."
"The orphanage could use anything you can give, a thousand would be exceptional, but even a few hundred would be a blessing if you can spare it."
"I'm an orphan myself... would a million or so help?"
I am suddenly aware that Kathleen the waitress is standing there listening to me... I notice because she has just dropped a pot of tea on the floor, shattering it and sending scalding-hot liquid everywhere, including a splash or two on my pant leg.
I have no idea what Father Murphy is thinking, his face is blank. I don't think there is anything sinister in his visage, I'm just not sure what I have said has registered.
"I beg your pardon?" is what he finally manages.
"Can you convert gems, or do you need me to figure out how to transfer it to credits or bullion? I've never been in an orphanage myself, but I've seen them. Anything I can do to help kids who haven't had the breaks... well, I want to do."
Judging by the stares and lack of comment, I wonder if they believe me.
"I'll be back in a few minutes, need to go to my 'Mech."
...
"Did you hear that there's a WoB loyalist rebellion in one of the provinces?" Duncan looks absolutely gleeful at the prospect.
I hate to admit that I'm torn by this news. On one hand, I wonder if I will ever consider myself avenged for my da and home; on the other, nothing like the Solstein Massacre had ever happened under their rule. If I have to consider the lesser of two evils, which would it be?
"Do you know where they are?"
"Prancing or something like that..."
Prancing? I don't think I've ever hear of it... wait, Prontsi? "Do you mean Prontsi?"
"Sounds about right. No orders on it yet, but our two lances are to be combat ready by 2100 at the latest."
Duncan turns back to his Wolfhound and I continue to my Shark.
Now Mister Kell's mission means something... should I help crush the Wobbies and perhaps plunge my own province into further chaos or refuse to move against them on the chance they can restore some kind of order?
Up the knelt leg I climb. I have taken an unautomated slot, not a gantry equipped unit bay, so climbing remains a secret pleasure that few others understand.
"Alexis, open the canopy, please."
It rises all too slowly, giving me more time to wonder what I should do about the possible mission. I feel I owe them still for what they have done to me and our planet, but I'm no longer sure I know our own people.
What if mum is with them? I don't know where the thought came from, but there's a sudden shock at the realization. We were never close, but could I help or guide an assault if she would die in it?
"Alexis, do you have access to sat maps or any other significant data through the base computer?"
"I can check, Sir."
I open a box I have strapped beside the chair and lift out two of the many pouches of diamonds. It's an insane way to store a fortune in gems, but I'm out of alternatives since the better ones already flood every other container not occupied with food or clothing.
Alexis finally answers, "Padraig, I have access to a hemi from last week at ten meters, a ten meter weather for this continent from yesterday, and a selection of three meters also covering most of the continent all dated after our battle at the Oakland Refuge. There also appear to be pure tacticals for several specific locations."
"Pure tacticals?"
"Low orbit ten centimeters, the highest resolution normally available to Inner Sphere commands. Easily best for close combat planning, you can identify individuals bodies, guess troop patrol lanes, with the right light even spot potential minefields, lone weapons and surveillance equipment. They must be from formerly Blakist surveillance satellites, I doubt even the Kells would have spent that much to launch their own at this early stage of the conflict.
"Does one of them cover Prontsi?"
"One moment, please." She pauses only a second, "yes, there are actually two, one visible light and another in infrared."
"Please get every other map they have that covers this continent from three meters and up, then grab those two."
"Why that specific order, Sir?"
"If they are going to cut us off from them or question the access, it will most likely be for those two."
"Is there a problem, Sir?"
"I don't know yet. I have some folks to help out, I'll be back later, but I'll leave the link on if you need me."
"Aff, Sir."
...
"For the orphans," I drop a large pouch on the table. "And for the poor," a second of about the same size drops onto the oak beside Father Murphy's plate of toast.
Sitting down, I stab a fork-full of pancakes and stuff my mouth. The semi-sweet mouthful is cold, but the overabundance of berries makes them perfectly wonderful anyway. Kathleen has apparently cleaned up the broken teapot, but she's back now, hovering over Father Murphy's shoulder as he reaches for one of the leather bags. Only as I sit there do I begin to wonder if everyone else within earshot is paying attention too.
He pulls the drawstring loose and opens the neck of the grapefruit-sized bag. I would swear there are tears in his eyes.
"Look, I can convert them into whatever form you need; I just want you to know I'm telling the truth, I want to help. There should be a million or so in each bag; if not, I'll get more."
Bless her, Kathleen throws her motherly arms around me and starts to cry.
Finally, Father Murphy speaks, "Are you sure you can trust us with so much?"
I had honestly not expected this line of thought. "Shouldn't I?"
"I'm not sure we can use this much before it tempts us to think of ourselves."
"Well, start a business, invest it in the community, buy a fishing boat or two to give the kids a chance to learn their way... I don't know what's best, but you seem to be the one they trust, so you're probably the best one for them to look to."
"I accept your proposition, but this is enough," he says, hefting one of the bags and pushing the other pouch back towards me. "The church was once accused of losing its way to pursue wealth, always with wonderful sounding explanations... grand buildings, greater ministries, and still greater at paying its 'ministers' their fair 'double portion'. Your charity should be used for what you ask, and not to make us comfortable or unconcerned for our vocations."
"As you wish, Sir." I pick the refused bag back up and cram it into a cargo pocket.
"God brought you to us in our time of need. Thank you, Padraig."
I nod, but have to admit I'm disturbed almost to distraction by the twin thoughts of a mission against a Wobby loyalist uprising and the chance that mum could be there.
Apparently, my distraction is noticed, but misread... "I promise you that we will use it wisely, and never for our own enrichment."
Trying to smile, however pathetically, I reply, "not a problem, Sir. If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have given them to you in the first place."
"Then what's wrong, lad? Feel you are losing something you really want?"
"No, Sir. There is something else that I'm concerned about, one of those 'lesser of the evils' type choices that I may be faced with."
"Let tomorrow be, today has enough worries of its own."
"I'll probably have to choose today."
"Then choose the one that does the least harm to those who are innocent."
"What if there are none innocent?"
He looks at me, through me. I feel a tug at my soul, as if a curtain were being pulled back. There is compassion growing there, and a quiet peace.
"You must do nothing. Both other choices are potentially disastrous."
"How do you know?" A horrid thought comes upon me, "Are you a mind reader?"
"No, lad. But He knows and has chosen to tell me. Not the normal way to find these things out, but you aren't one of us yet, so perhaps this is how He wishes to reveal a bit of Himself to you."
"Who?"
"Our Lord sees every heart and speaks to us according to His own wisdom. Your choices are to spy out and then direct a military action, to somehow assist the other side, or to do nothing. I don't know the details, but there are some horrible consequences for each of the first two. Trust Him or at least trust the guidance I have heard from Him as a consequence of this sign of knowledge."
I'm thunderstruck, a statue of chilled granite lost in the ramifications... if he is a mind reader, there may be ulterior motives for him to speak so. On the other hand, if there were mind readers, the Wobbies would certainly have found them and put them to bad use a long time ago.
The alternative is something Mister Lewis writes about, a Someone who Father Murphy is in communication with... a Person who isn't visibly present and yet is quite aware of not only my actions, but my thoughts.
"Padraig, sometimes it takes a leap of faith to accept the incredible. I believe it was Doyle who wrote, 'once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however incredible, must be true.' When the option is presented, I pray you believe and make the right choice."
…..
"Padraig, we will need that run, are you up for it?" It is Mister Kell again, this time driving the little electric cart himself.
I'm on the path from the mechbay to meet with Father Murphy; he has promised to give me a tour of the orphanage and their meeting house. For once, there's absolutely no doubt in my mind what I need to do right now.
"The run to Prontsi, Sir?"
"Yup, ready to go?"
"No, Sir."
"May I ask why?"
"It's the Blakist Loyalists you are moving against, right?"
"Yes, it is. Thought you were opposed to them."
"It is possible that if my mum's still alive that she's among them. I can't be sure enough of myself to move against them with that possibility over my head."
"Are you sure of this?"
"No, Sir, not sure at all. She left the day we lost our farm and I wound up in the Raven... but it was she who notified the Wobbies. I never cared to know what had happened to her, but now... well, I can't do it, Sir."
"I respect that, pilot. Anything else I should know about?"
"No, Sir. I hadn't even thought about that until this morning when I heard the news about the Loyalists."
"May I ask you a personal question? Are you really only sixteen?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Terran or local?"
"I don't understand, Sir."
"How many days in a year?"
Seems a rather fool question under the circumstances, but I choose to give him a straight answer, "four hundred sixteen, except sleep years where there are 415."
"So that would still only compare to eighteen or nineteen," he's almost talking to himself, then more clearly to me, "most of us measure our ages by Terran years... there are 365 days in the normal Terran year."
I'm puzzled at this revelation, such a year would mean the months wouldn't stay in their proper seasons.
A moment passes and he returns to his previous train of thought, "Well, I'm sure you can guess that I'm disappointed, but I think your choice reflects well that you know a lot more about your own limitations than most. Have to admit, I'd rather find out now than on the field when I might be depending on you to behave differently. We'll speak no more about it."
The little cart turns and sort of speeds away... well, hurries anyway. If I were to guess, his expression betrayed little if any anger, but was already on to his next option.
The memory of Colonel Harper's face haunts me from that long meeting room, he knew he had chosen what he considered the lesser of terrible evils. He could not have known the titanic power of the events he set in motion. Now I am trusting that something greater than me knows that I don't have to choose. What if I'm wrong?
…..
"Look, I'm about halfway though and I just don't understand some things. I mean that what he says makes a certain amount of sense, but I don't quite see what someone writing twelve hundred years or so ago has to do with now. And it's like he presumes that I know something about this stuff."
We are sitting on a bench in warm sunshine just outside the nondescript building that houses Father Murphy's parish meeting place, his own quarters, and about twenty orphans. I have my copy of Mere Christianity in hand.
"Well, if that's a problem for you, wouldn't the fact that the Bible's last book is over three thousand years old and most of it closer to four bother you?"
"I don't know, what's actually in it?"
"Padraig, don't you have a Bible or even a New Testament?"
"No, Sir."
"I'll take care of that. Would you come with me, please?"
We stand and walk the moderately groomed path back to his rooms.
"How does a Bible relate to Lewis' book?"
"Lewis is an explainer, what the ancients called an "apologist", but the Bible is the foundation he presumes you at least know about."
Inside, he strides to a shelf with at least twenty books on it. But he pauses, as if held captive by a thought, then turns and walks back to his desk. There's an old leather-covered tome in a lower drawer, its plain brown cover looking well-worn from use. Gently he lifts and fondly considers it.
"This Bible was given me by a Protestant, bless his soul, before I was old enough to actually know the differences. It has no title on the binding, because he was a traveler among the Capellans and the Bible is still a banned book there. His only requests were that I consider it and the One it points to and that I pass it on when the time was right. That's what I do now, you should have this." Without further ceremony, he hands the volume to me.
The book is large and fairly heavy, but its cover feels like it has resided in a hundred gentle hands, comfortable as a fine glove. Inside, there are thousands of printed pages, and handwritten notes in the margins and most of the other blank spaces.
"Some of those notes are mine, others were there before me."
"Thank you, Sir."
"If I may be so bold, start with the Gospels... they are here," he reaches over and flips pages more than halfway through and places a slip of paper to mark their start.
"Why there instead of the beginning?"
"The Bible is a collection of many smaller books collected into two sections, the Old and New Testaments. The Gospels are the start of the latter, and represent something of a new starting place within the collection. The things Lewis is trying to explain are best addressed in the Gospels and Epistles."
"Ok, I have no clue what those are."
"Gospel is from an ancient English word for 'good news'; there are four of them and they are records of Jesus' ministry on Terra. 'Epistle' is from the ancient Greek word 'epistolos' meaning letter; they are instructions from specially selected authors in the first century of the current era."
"Lot of history there. I just don't get what it has to do with today."
"Padraig, truth never goes out of date, or it wasn't true to begin with."
I feel rather drained. "I need to go get some rest and think about all this."
"No problem, Padraig. You'll come to the celebration tonight, won't you?"
"What?"
"I've declared a ceilidh in your honor, it's something of a celebration with LOTS of dancing, music, and Kathleen, bless her heart, has promised a special treat. Most of the parish will be there, maybe even a piper up from Fir Reaches. It'll be a grand hooley indeed."
"I don't want them to know I did this."
He looks at me with that 'you're a strange young man' expression. "You wanted the gift to be anonymous?"
"Yes. Please."
"I'll do what I can, but you realize that more folk than Kathleen already know, just by the public manner in which you gave it."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"You have a generous heart, let them honor you tonight. If you want to give without others knowing, however, you'll have to learn to be a bit more circumspect in your approach."
"Fair enough. I'll be there tonight, Sir."