(Hey Friendly Reader! Meghan, to whom this story is dedicated, is really getting a kick out of reading all your reviews and
so she says that, before I add the next chapter, there needs to be a lot of reviews. She didn't say what a lot was, so you
guys'll have to guess on that. I thought, knowing how this particular chapter ends, that her request was just a little mean.
Still, it's her story, so I promised her I'd let you know how she feels.)
Chapter 8: Progression
By six A.M. the Reverend Dunn's house was overflowing with people. Gabriel's mother had come over in a panic, with
Chase, who was composed but concerned, and Joy, who was in near hysterics, in tow. Mike came about a half hour later
and they all sat, in agonizing suspense in the living room. Jamie and Phillis were held up in a small sunroom where he could
comfort his terrified, guilt ridden, grief stricken daughter in peace. Sara had her interview with the sheriff in the Rev.'s study
and Gabriel rested, undisturbed, in the guest bedroom upstairs.
So, when Sara came back from showing the Sherif the crime scene, carefully steering him away from the deep impressions
Ian's boots had made in the dewy grass, she found herself floating in the large, full house. She didn't want to intrude on the
Avalla's, Phillis needed some solace. And she didn't want to sit with the Bowmans, again she felt like she would be invading
a very private time. She would have liked to find her way up to the bedroom and sit with Gabriel, but the doctor strictly
forbid visitors. He said Gabriel needed 'undisturbed rest.' So Sara wandered into the kitchen, hoping to just sit at the table
and think, maybe she would be lucky and Danny would come and talk to her. But when she pushed open the swinging door
she discovered she was not the only person who had retreated into the kitchen.
"Ah, Sara," Rev. Dunn said, looking up from his open bible and yellow legal pad covered with notes. "Do you need
anything?"
"No," Sara said, uncertainly. "I was just looking for someplace quite to sit and think."
"I see," the older man said, disappointed. "Would you like some tea, while you think?"
"Ah . . . sure?"
The Rev smiled at her, he almost looked grateful. "Why don't you sit down? I'll find you a mug."
"You know, I'm fine," Sara said casually, "I didn't mean to interrupt you."
"I've just been going over my notes for the sermon," Dunn explained as he pushed himself away from the table and walked
over to an already steaming tea pot. "You might say I've been divinely inspired. Do you want green tea or," He turned his
head to see Sara still standing somewhat uncomfortably in the doorway. "Sit down, please." He ordered, as she moved to
obey he turned back to what he was doing. "Black, I have caffeinated and decaffeinated, and I have a pumpkin tea left over
from last Thanksgiving, I've never quite plucked up the courage to try it."
"Black, with caffeine would be fine," Sara said, slipping into the worn kitchen chairs.
"Milk, sugar, honey, lemon?"
"Ah," Sara said, surprised by the vast choices, "Nothing, thanks."
"Simplicity is a blessing," the Rev said, philosophically as he set the steaming cup down in front of her and then placed
himself across the table from her, behind the bible and notes.
"Thank you."
They sat, quietly, for a while before the Rev. gathered the courage to say something, "I can't tell you how grateful I am that
you protected Gabriel."
"I couldn't do anything else," Sara said earnestly.
"You could have," he said. "Most people would not have done anything."
Sara shrugged.
"No grater love than this, he, or she I suppose, that lays down her life for her friend."
"That's nice," Sara said softly.
"That's God."
"So God is nice."
"God is love," the Rev. Dunn said. "And apparently, so are you."
Sara laughed bitterly, "I don't think God and I have all that much in common."
The Rev. laughed too, although his chuckle was much more good natured. "I suppose not."
There was a moment of silence and then, suddenly, before she even realized she was making any noise, the question she had
hoped to ask him, "What about the disciples?"
"What?"
"Jesus died, right?"
"Yes, and he rose again."
"Yeah, yeah, but he left. It was like he died."
"No," the Rev. said slowly, a tad concerned about the haphazard theology. "It wasn't."
"The point is he wasn't there to protect them, and they all died."
"John died of old age."
"In prison," Sara amended.
"What are you saying?"
"It's all well and good for Christ to give his life. I mean, he was the son of God, he was special, chosen."
"I understand what you're saying," Dunn said hesitantly. Again, her sloppy theology bothered him, but he thought that,
perhaps, this was not the right moment for a lesson in Christology. There were more pressing issues.
"How could he just leave them like that? How could he lead people into danger and then abandon them?"
"He didn't abandon them . . ."
"Yes he did!" Sara said passionately. "He came down, led all these fishermen and whatever away from their safe homes and
then when he did his duty, what he had to do because of who he was, left. He couldn't protect them."
"Maybe they were doing what they had to do."
"What do you mean?" Sara asked. Dunn could see she was asking about herself, not really about Christ, he just wished he
knew why.
"Remember, on Friday, I said we all have our cross to bear."
"Yeah,"
"Christ's cross was fairly obvious, but Peter had his own cross, his own fight, his own duty, as did Paul and John and
Timothy and every Christian for the last 2000 years."
Sara looked at him, on the verge of understanding.
"There are those who's burden is heavy and who's duty is clear. But you do not walk alone. Some people's duty, their task,
their cross, may be helping you with yours."
"I don't . . ." Sara started, but Danny, who was standing behind the Rev. interrupted her.
"You have to help the world, Sara," Danny explained. "That doesn't mean other people don't have to help you."
Sara sighed and shook her head, "You know, I really don't want to talk about this. I thought I did but, maybe . . ." Her
voice trailed into indecision.
"Do you mind telling me what burden you bear that is so heavy?"
Sara shrugged, "I'm speaking hypothetically."
"I'm old, but I can still see."
"I don't . . ."
"You can trust me."
"You can trust him," Danny said. "You should trust him."
"Fine," Sara said, a little angrily. She didn't want to trust anyone. The Witchblade was her gift, her duty, her burden, her
cross. She didn't mind being crucified, so long as she didn't take anyone down with her.
"As a cop, in New York," she said tentatively, "I make an awful lot of enemies. And, ah, I'm not . . . diplomatic."
"You do what you think it is right?"
"I don't play the game."
"And you feel it puts you in danger?"
"I'm not afraid for me," Sara said, almost laughing at the sheer lunacy of it. "I'm afraid for Gabriel, and my doofus rookie
partner Jake, and anyone else I come in contact with." She looked up at Danny, tears were starting to congregate in her
eyes. "It seems like the moment I start caring about someone, the moment I . . ." Her voice trailed of, she couldn't even say
the word. "I'm starting to think it's too big a risk."
"But what about the people who love you?" the Rev. asked. Although Sara didn't realize it, it was a fairly common problem.
She didn't realize that people with far less responsibility than she felt as guilty as she did when they saw someone come up
besides them and choose to walk the same path.
"What about them?"
"Gabriel is a very brave and determined young man, I have a feeling he will not let you push him away."
Sara smiled, just a little, at the memory of him coming up to her and describing his first meeting with Ian Nottingham and
that simple phrase "I pick my own friends."
"You're right," Sara said. "He's not going to let go of me."
"It's his choice. Peter chose to carry Christ's cross, and yes he died, but his heavenly reward is great. You should not try to
force your friends away, forbid them from carrying your cross Sara. You would deny them their heavenly reward."
"What if," Sara said, hesitantly because she was afraid of the answer. "What if it gets Gabriel killed?"
Gabriel's grandfather suddenly became very sober. At the moment, his grandson was lying in a bed upstairs, having had a
brush with death, weak and helpless. It didn't take much imagination to see Gabriel dead, and the fear of loss griped the
good reverend. It took an incredible amount of strength for him to say what he did. "Than he ran the good race and fought
the good fight."
"How can you just accept that?"
"Because I have faith in God," the Rev. said softly. "And I have faith in the ability of other people to do what they feel they
must."
"I need that kind of faith," Sara admitted, she felt on the edge of tears. In hopes of quenching the uncomfortable swelling in
her throat, she sipped the tea. It was strong and hot and it helped.
"You can't control everything, don't try. It's like The Beatle's say . . ."
"The Beatle's?" Sara said, a surprised laugh cutting through her tears.
"They stole this idea from Christ, mind you, but: 'It's easy, all you need is love.'"
***
Gabriel didn't really remember anything. As the bright rays of the morning sun crept across his face and broke into his deep,
deep sleep, he slowly began to realize that he was in a bed. He didn't remember lying down. In the distance he could hear
the clamoring of the church bell. It was a sound he missed in the city, so sweet, so peaceful, so beautiful. Slowly he opened
his eyes. The light was too bright, he closed them again and let out a low moan; he had suddenly realized his head hurt. He
wanted to slip back into the all encompassing darkness and numbness the harsh sunlight had pulled him out of, but he
couldn't. So for an immeasurable amount of time he just listened to the bells, calling the faithful to church on this fine
Sunday. This fine Sunday . . . it was Easter. Gabriel suddenly felt something akin to panic, although he was far too
exhausted to feel that emotion in full. It was Easter Sunday, the church bells were ringing. His mother would be furious that
he was late, and his grandfather would be so disappointed. Despite his exhaustion, the constant, overwhelming ache in his
head, and the somewhat inexplicable situation he was in, he decided he had to get up and go to church. With great courage
and force of will he pushed himself onto his elbows . . . the room started spinning uncontrollably, his head was about to
explode, dark spots formed in front of his eyes and, with a gasp, he collapsed back onto his pillow. He lay there, panting,
slightly disturbed by the fact that he couldn't even sit up. He suddenly, desperately, needed to remember what had
happened. The harder he thought, the less he knew. He had a vague sense that Phillis had been there, but he didn't know
where she was. He also had a very strong sense that Phillis was in danger, that he was in danger, or had been, maybe. It was
all a jumble.
And Sara, something about Sara.
In any event he could not just lie there. He tried, again, to push himself into a sitting position, maybe if he were careful, and
gentle, and slow, he would be able to avoid the black spots and waves of dizziness. He took a deep breath and was about to
begin when he heard something. He wasn't alone.
"Mom?" he said, his voice weak and raspy.
"They're all at church," a dark, heavy voice said from somewhere out of Gabriel's field of vision. "They left you alone,
unprotected, vulnerable."
Gabe licked his lips, he was terrified. He couldn't remember to whom that voice belonged, but he knew he had heard the
voice before and he knew he had reason to be afraid.
"Why are you here?" he tried to ask boldly. But when the words came out his voice was still weak and raw.
The voice laughed. "A house of prayer is no place for a warrior. Wolves are not welcome among the sheep."
"You kidding?" Gabriel said nervously. He was stalling, desperately trying to delay whatever horrible thing the voice wanted
to do. "My Grandfather would love for a true sinner to come in."
"I never said I was repentant," the voice said as its source stepped into Gabriel's field of vision.
Gabriel felt like his heart stopped. Ian Nottingham, dressed all in black, holding a pristine white pillow, was standing in front
of him.
"What are you gonna do?" Gabriel asked, knowing that he could not escape the black dragon even if he had been in the best
of conditions. He kept his eye on the pillow in Nottingham's hand. His mind ran amuck with images of its soft mass
pressing down on his face, and thoughts of the burning in his lungs as he gasped for air without avail. He wasn't sure if
visualizing the situation would make it harder or easier when it actually happened, he hoped easier.
"Are you afraid to die, Gabriel?"
Something about that man saying his name made Gabe's spine shiver. "Kinda."
The weakness of this response took Ian off guard. It was not the bold answer of the foolishly brave nor was it the plea of the
pitiful coward. It was an honest answer that had layers: neither black nor white. Ian had never been very good at dealing
with shades of gray. He changed the subject. "I thought we agreed you would not speak to Sara Pezzini."
"I thought we agreed you would buy that head," Gabriel said, transferring some of his annoyance at the fact he was lying,
helpless, with a trained killer standing over him with a pillow, to annoyances almost forgotten.
"You were well payed," Ian said, conversation with this boy was proving difficult, perhaps it was because he was suffering
from a severe concussion.
"But you didn't take the head," Gabriel insisted. "I don't think it's technically counts as a business deal."
Ian just looked at the boy, uncertain of how to act. Gabriel stared right back at him, imagining over and over again the
clean, white, soft pillow crushing the life out of him.
"The head does not matter, what matters is Sara Pezzini."
"Something we agree on."
"You should have stayed away from her," Ian warned. "If not for you she would not have wandered."
"Wandered?"
"Away from my master."
"Irons?"
"You are keeping her from her destiny."
"She tell you that?"
"The solution is simple, you must be removed so her path will be clear."
"Removed," Gabriel said, never taking his eyes off the pillow. At this point he did not find himself praying for difficult, he
was praying for Sara.
"Because you have refused to remove yourself, I will have to remove you."
"Wait," Gabe said. Regularly he would have laughed at the sheer lunacy of someone saying that he had to be 'removed' - it
was straight out of a cheesy film noir. But his head hurt too much and the prospect of the pillow filled his mind. "You can't
just kill me."
"Unfortunately you are correct," Ian said the disdain in his voice was not hid. "Dear Sara has promised me that my death
will immediately follow yours. Were I to kill you she would not hesitate to come and slay me in like manner, and after me,
my master."
The visions of suffocation faded away. "Well, if you aren't gonna kill me, what are you going to do?"
"Do you remember the doctor, Gabriel?"
Remember? Gabe couldn't remember anything. He stayed silent.
"Perhaps you would be interested in your diagnosis."
Yes, he would, but he didn't want to acknowledge he needed something, he kept silent.
"You have a concussion, very serious. If Miss Pezzini had not come you most certainly would have died."
Again, Gabe said nothing. He wished he could remember, but if that was not possible (because of his concussion or some
other reason) then he wished Nottingham would have been a little clearer.
"There was a fear you might slip into a coma," Ian said. "The doctor warned that, if you were to fall and hit your head
again, you probably would."
"A coma," Gabriel said softly. If his family were to find him, somewhere, on the ground, unconscious, perhaps never to
wake up, everyone would assume that he had just woken while they were gone, gotten out of bed and accidently fallen and
hit his head. After all, that's what he would have done if Ian had not been there. "That's a, ah," he licked his lips. "Pretty
good plan."
"Now you're afraid."
"Yeah," Gabriel said hoarsely. "Now I am."
To Be Continued . . .