When I enter Father's quarters, it's always the scents that take me first. Green tea and sandlewood incense, the green and live smells of vines and other indoor plants kept freshly watered, the faint herbal smells of the natural soaps he used to keep his chambers clean.
I had run in here before to gather his fallen clothes and not noticed any of it, but now the smells washed over me in a wave, somehow, simultaneously, reminding me that he really was gone, and yet, making me feel as if he was forever, eternal, always with me. It was enough to make me choke up and threaten to break down again, but I closed my eyes and took deep, even breaths instead, embracing what my senses picked up and enjoying them for what they were instead of letting them bring any sharp reminders or regrets.
Even when I was finished I still felt a little like an intruder as I padded through the room. He'd had Don order him sets of traditional tatami mats and the Japanese style bedding and cushions that fit with them, hand in glove. The plants were spread around the room, most of them hanging from the ceiling and left to grow freely, their leafy arms stretching out where they would to embrace the corners of the room. The immense, antique footlocker style wooden chest where he kept all of his things almost seemed a little out of place.
It was unlocked -- none of us, normally, would ever go near his things after all. I opened it, feeling almost as if I were robbing a shrine. I started removing items, at first to find what I needed...but it didn't take long for it to turn into something more than that.
The first thing I removed was his tea set. He had several different varieties of tea, all placed in canisters. He owned an old fashioned style strainer. Father had never approved of teabags. He thought they ruined the tea. There was also a little honey, also set in a canister, a few small, silver spoons, and five handleless, porcelain cups. Those were white, but they'd been carefully lacquered in red to show off several kanji that I couldn't read.
Next he had five flat, black sushi platters. They'd been lacquered in gold: an elegant bird pattern sweeping across the edges. A black velvet bag held two long, simple silver chopsticks. A silver polishing kit was after that; Father took taking care of his nice things very seriously.
A sewing kit and rivers of fabric came next. Some of it was odds and ends. I found some of the fabric he'd used on our hakama, for example, and the softer, patterned fabrics he'd used on our gis and his. A sudden, striking reminder of all the quiet ways in which he'd taken care of us, provided for our needs.
His incense set came next; that I set aside for my own, personal use. That, and maybe one of his cushions, was what I'd come in here for in the first place.
I started to put all the rest away when I noticed one last item at the very bottom of the chest. I reached in and drew it out; a black leather bound journal with well worn pages. It was pretty thick, thick enough to have lasted him for awhile, and had a black fountain pen attached to it. Fountain pens, by the way, are totally awesome, as you can buy cartridges of ink to pop right into them that are a little less expensive than buying, and losing, cheap ballpoint pens that dry up.
I held it for a moment, enjoying the feel. Wanting to read it, not sure if I should. In the end, I had a burning desire to know what he'd written in those yellowed pages. Maybe there'd be something in there that would help me sort out what I'd learned reading Mike's books.
Instead of a diary, though, what I found was a book of haiku that he'd written.
Most of them had our names for titles, and then went on to be about different animals. There was a poem about a bulldog entitled "Raph," for example. Each talked about different qualities we had, some he liked, some that worried him. Mostly, those that worried him.
He'd been worried I was too proud.
Was I? Too proud, too secure, too sure of myself? I had worked very hard to remove every single flaw I had ever found in me. I kept my temper under tight control. I worked very hard, practicing twice as much as my brothers. I didn't have Don's intellect, but I believed that I had honed what I did have into a very strong strategic weapon. I tried hard to follow the virtues of honor and courage.
He'd been worried that I lacked compassion.
I didn't understand that at all. I'd always struggled to protect the weak and innocent that we came across, though we did not, in my opinion, come across too many innocent. Surely that was compassionate?
An accusing little voice cut through my self-defense.
How understanding was I of Raph? I knew he had to go blow off his steam, I knew how hard things were for him, but I usually just yelled at him. Raph was the one person I let my temper go around, because I had to let it go around something, and Raph could push my buttons like nobody else.
And as for pride, did I ever doubt my actions? Did I ever stop to examine them? How often, when one of my plans fail, did I turn to Raph or Don or Mikey and blame it on one of them? Not always out loud, but often, in my head, sure.
Wasn't all that pride and self-confidence and lack of compassion what caused me to ignore Mikey in the first place? Still more: I had found answers to his disappearance. I had found a second chance. But I had to think about it more first. I had to trust my own intellect to tear it apart and strategize it. That's why I was here, in Splinter's room, going through his things in the first place, wasn't it? Because I, proud of my ability to work through anything, had intended to meditate on the problem until I saw something I liked?
Mikey's book, the one I'd read anyway, had talked about nobody being without sin. For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. That was one of the passages I'd read. It was the sort of stuff Mikey had tried to talk about, though less eloquently.
I did not much care for the word, sin. It sounded archaic, old fashioned, unrealistic. Still, lack of perfection -- which for me, being a perfectionist, is a really hard thing to admit -- that I could see. And sure, I'd done plenty of stuff I was ashamed of. I hugged Splinter's book of poems close, examining myself in a colder light.
And honor. I valued that. But I'd never stopped to consider where my honor, my obligations, lay towards the Creator of all life. I'd never stopped to consider Him at all, not really...and now here I was, short one Father and one brother. Presented with a second chance, why was I reluctant to take it? The whole point of the matter was that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't overcome all my flaws on my own. And even if I did, somehow, through some miracle, did that somehow make the ... well, the sins ... I had committed in the past any less?
Even though I didn't feel I was a bad person all around, even seeing the glaring indifference I'd had towards God all my life made me feel ashamed.
Well, not always glaring indifference. When I wasn't indifferent I was usually angry. At God for leaving us cold and alone in the sewers. Back in the days when I was more often hungry and afraid than full and strong. When my brothers were threatened, or Splinter. When chance seemed turned against us. When my home was destroyed.
I'd never thanked him, though: not when we finally, through sheer chance, learned about recycled cans, not when we found cast off clothes that allowed us to go, however briefly, into grocery stores with that little bit of change. Not when we'd found cast off blankets that made the winters bearable, before any of us could die. Not when we'd found our fist lair in a dry, unused portion of the sewers, not when we'd found our second, an underground lab, complete with rooms of our own and training areas. I'd never thanked him for Don's intellect or meeting April. Some of this...some of it I could lay at the feet of our own ingenuity, drive, determination, skill. Some had come to us through purest chance. Come to think of it, if I believed in "chance", then chance had given me a family instead of leaving me to fend for myself. So why was it, then, when bad things happened I blamed God, but when good things happened I gave all the credit either to myself, my family, or to Chance?
It all came together, all at once for me. I was already on my knees, there by the blanket chest. Now I bowed my head as well. "I think I've realized what Mike was talking about," I said softly. "I need you, God. I need you to make me more than I am and better than I can be on my own. I need the forgiveness you offer. I believe. I understand why Jesus came down and died. Please come into my life. I will do all I can not to dishonor the gift that you've given me. Thank you for your forgiveness."
It was not the pat prayer from the book.
It was my prayer.
I stood up, and felt new inside. It was a small, quiet transformation. With it came the certainty that I'd see Mike again, and Splinter, and moreover they were in a better, happier place.
With it came the realization that I had work to do. Nothing was more important than this truth I'd stumbled upon, this truth that directed the destinies of immortal souls. I had to find a way to share this with the others -- but I had to admit I wasn't sure how. Their -- our -- reactions to Mike hadn't been great.
I put everything back in the blanket chest, remembering Mike's compulsion to read more, study more, learn more about God. I found I had that same hunger within me. I had a mission, a new sort of mission.
I was eager to get to it, but the sound of the hidden garage door opening brought me to attention. The van and the hog were both in there. I drew my bokken and went creeping upstairs just in time to watch Raph arrive, in a stolen SUV, with a doctor.
"Clothes and keys right on the seat," Raph said with a grin. "Ditched the clothes -- they were too small -- but the keys came in handy."
He withdrew a massive black bag and looked back at the doctor. "Coming?"
The doctor seemed very placid. He looked up and nodded to me. I read his nametag first: Dr. Perry -- then looked into his face.
I must have taken a startled step back, because Raph was frowning at me. I couldn't help myself though. The name meant nothing to me.
But I recognized Dr. Perry. I'd met him before.
Author's Notes: This was a pretty hard chapter for me to write. For a little while I honestly struggled trying to write some of the haiku that jolted Leo, but finally gave that up as an exersise best left to better poets than I. I find that writing some conversion experiences also come easier than writing others. I don't own any of the turtles, the cast of Left Behind, etc. Dr. Wayne Perry is, however, my original creation.
Orange Turtle: Aww, you know I like you. =>
Jo Dawn: *grins* Thanks! I wasn't sure if that chapter worked or not, cause, you know, Raph's a little subdued.
Ramica: Yeah, it would be hard if he ever had to do that.
Red Turtle: Nope, the Dr.'s kidnapping is mine all mine.
Tigger56Bounce: Leonardo looks at you reproachfully.
Tripmon: How long will this be? I have absolutely no idea. We're about 100 pages into the Left Behind books on actual events, if I remember correctly. I have a definate point I'm working towards. I know how the story goes, but not necessarily how many chapters it will take to get there. As long as it takes!