Chapter 5: The Prodigal Son Pt II


...

The whole world seemed to completely freeze as I read letter after letter there in that basement of the New Canaan museum. Going through the records of a dead man was never something I imagined myself doing. I didn't even really enjoy reading or writing. Of course, I could do it, but at that time, the fact remained hovering in the back of my mind: Why did this take priority over what I could be doing with my son and Duncan? The Deacon Mathers was still gone, I had already lost track of time, and had no idea how long I had been reading as memories of the previous night ran through my mind while my eyes read on.

The next letter was without context for such a spiritual transition or abandonment. The previous letter from the young Joshua Graham expressed such terrible guilt and regret for what he had done to the Blackfoot tribe's first enemies under his friend Edward. However, it was that last part, and his brief yet sorrowful explanation of the logic behind what he was blindly marching into paired with what my present self already knew about the man that made me understand even just in part, why those eyes looked at me the way they did when he was beside the flame.

The next letter began and it was obviously during a time when he had established some kind of formal contact with New Canaan, while he was still a young man, and long after his sorrowful understanding from the previous letter began to fade while Edward marched the Blackfoots against more and more of their enemies. The words began like a man who had gone through far too much and was in something too deep to come back from while the tone and word choice came off as a frustrated youth who couldn't adequately explain why he was doing the things he was doing out there in the world. The young man in the letter seemed to know what he was doing, know who he already turned his back on, and decided to keep going for his sole focus on one mission he Had to convince himself and others was the right course. It was from a man who was obsessed, attempting to justify his addiction but still refusing to acknowledge there was an issue in the first place:

May 20, 2251

From: Joshua Graham

To: Judah Black and the Community of Faith

I apologize that you fail to understand the reasons for my refusal to return. I believe I made my statements and reasoning quite discernable and put much time in their portrayal that I could have spent furthering my Mission and God's mission. Now, I understand that some of my points about Rome being the secular sinful vessel to explode Christ's message across the world may have been a means of outrage amongst you, the elders, and the community as a whole. However, I must stand by what I've said and again refuse your requests for me to return.

Out here, I have found my true calling, the calling of unification, and it is a calling I cannot run from. I have neither the ability nor the will to do so now. I understand some of you have heard the occasional story about Edward and I's confederation of tribes, but I know you understand the tribal propensity toward embellishment. While the details may be trivial or outright false, the fact of the matter is that what Edward and I are creating, what we are doing, is good. I remain sorrowful that you all feel otherwise, but I can only reiterate what I have said constantly in my infrequent letters. That being: nothing I say can describe the nightmare of warfare that is the Northern Arizona Wilderness. With that said, I will answer the question you and the Elders have sent me again and again with another question:

How do you intend for me to preach the word or good news of our Lord Jesus Christ to men who speak no other language than the one of violence and annihilation? Dying for Christ only matters if those who witness your death have the ability to comprehend who or what exactly you're dying for.

No, Edward is right. The tribes of this land understand nothing but destruction. It is only when the spirit to fight against what they know is best for them has been crushed out of existence and they are absorbed into our creation embodying commonality or unification that those who our Lord has spared even have a chance at beginning to understand complex thoughts like who God is and how He should NOT be defied.

Today I serve as an instrument of reward for the sin, barbarism, and horrendous world the people of this land have built for themselves in the decades after the holocaust. When Joshua led the Israelites into the lands of Canaan, one by one, the city of Jericho to the kingdoms of Hazor fell to the armies of God and showed the world the brutality of His wrath upon the ones who deny what is God's.

Rest assured, I still intend to save all who I can. My mission has not ended despite what some of you or the elders are undoubtedly believing. However, in order for that to happen, this land must first be unified and given the opportunity for some semblance of peace to even take root before such a return to our Lord is even a concept to the ones under our new banner.

If anyone, Bishop Black, or any of the elders want to help in any legitimate means, then you should continue to pray for the souls of the warriors we've lost, the ones who will fall in our next battle, and the enemies we face. Pray especially for the latter. Those who defy what Edward and I are building know not what they do, and will unfortunately carry their sin or ignorance into the grave. But above all, pray for peace. With the help of the Lord, I only fight for peace, and I'm sorry so many of you continuously fail to understand that.

It was all starting to make sense now, and with the reading of that letter, I understood where the man's mind was. I could see in his handwriting, how neat and precise it was, that he no longer had any reservation about what he was originally dragged into. The strangest and possibly most frightening thing for me was how much I understood his intentions. I have no way of knowing what the wastes of Northern Arizona were like at that time, but to a boy who lost his parents at such a young age to tribal wars of the Utah wastes, it made sense to me. I thought back to the face of Evan Buller, the concerns I expressed to the deacon, and how shocked I was at the Elders' plans for expansion into a world that understood nothing but destruction. Even in the present day, I knew the enemies around New Canaan bore little difference to the ones Joshua was leading in battle. But there I began to wonder why this city surrounded by so much darkness was different from the young man with the fire of God who found himself in a similar position: He, just like us, were alone out here in the dark and blood-soaked wastes.

I began to wonder why we had so many allies, why we were the ones who managed to break through to some of the worst tribes out there while the young man was not. I don't know if he tried different approaches over the years during the timeframes between the letters, or if he was always fixated on the violent approach sometime after his initial regrets about the Ridgers. All I knew is that his approach showed all signs of working how he was planning.

I thought back to everything I knew about that enemy beyond the known wilderness to the south and east. That monstrosity of Joshua and Edward's creation proved to be an unstoppable force, consuming, from what the stories have said, all of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and even the border regions of eastern Utah. Even once it became known to us that our stray missionary took up the title of "Legate" and his friend Edward crowned himself "Caesar" and created "Caesar's Legion", the work of unification he espoused in the letter above was not completed. Believing his work to be his own interpretation of Joshua's conquest of Canaan, I could understand his thought process and again began to wonder why we haven't taken on a more Old Testament approach to the enemies around us.

There I began to understand even further what must have been going through his mind. Sometimes, and I've even felt it recently when I'm reminded of what happened to men like Evan Buller, but I am reminded of how it is sometimes far too difficult to see Christ through the storm around us. What can you do when you know He's there, but you cannot feel Him or see Him? You have faith that you will come out the other side of it one way or another, whether the bullets hit you or not, but that doesn't mean some people won't quit fighting. I would be lying if I said there weren't times I couldn't feel Him with me in the moment, but I knew He was there, and I fought and swam and shot and tried with everything in me to make it through, just for the smoke to clear, the clouds to part, the rain to stop, and reveal His face once again. The wounds on my body and the sight of so many dead would bring me to my knees again and again, and there I could see Him once more. I see the Lord staring down at me after such a terrible hardship, proving He was there the whole time, knowing what I should have done, and calming me with the knowledge that all my efforts just exhausted me more than it should have since I already had the faith he sat behind the clouds in control of everything. Just like Peter who began to sink when he saw the water and forgot who was in front of him. He didn't have to try so hard, I didn't have to try so hard, Joshua didn't have to try so hard, and even though we all try our best to avoid sinking below the waters, the fact we kept looking to the waters around us instead of who was in front of us even if the rain is coming down too hard just makes us sink further and further, causing Him to reach even further down to prevent us from drowning...

It may be hard to understand what I mean exactly by what was said above if the reader doesn't quite know Him the way I do personally, but I think Joshua Graham felt something similar as Edward carried him further and further along once their creation started becoming more and more real:

There is not a doubt in my mind that Joshua couldn't see Christ through the storm of so much war and flame, but I believe he knew He was there. I think somewhere along the line, Graham grew frustrated with his inability to see Christ as he followed that secular man into war, causing him to sink deeper and deeper into the same waters that characterized Peter's lack of faith even as he stood upon the sea. Graham probably thought he began to see our Lord in the perceived "Holy work" he grew to believe he was doing as he sunk further and further beneath the waves. I have no way of knowing for certain what Joshua endured over so many years, but I believe that one day the storm finally ended in Graham's life only to realize it wasn't his faith in Christ he followed when the clouds parted and the water consumed him. I think that the clouds revealed it was the face of Caesar who came to serve as the true master he was following as he fought and fought for so long. I believe Graham's master was not the master who sacrificed everything for him despite his inevitable sin. I believe that Graham realized it was really the master of the southwest he followed; a master who knew no mercy, a master who bestowed the price of failure onto others rather than himself.

My mind was lost in thought as I remembered the face of failure from last night staring at me beside the glow of the flickering flame. My mind continued on, going this way and that, and felt what the man underwent as I robotically arrived at the last two letters:

August 4, 2251

From: Joshua Graham, Legatus Imperialis of Caesar's Legion

To: The Current Bishop of New Canaan and the Community of Faith

I am saddened to hear of Judah's passing. I know undoubtedly that he has kept more faith in me than you or any of the Elders ever did. I will mourn his passing and pray that the community doesn't put too much pressure on his legacy because of me. I loved him greatly, and I completely understand how you will likely abandon every future attempt to contact me because of his passing and the inevitable strain his relationship with me has likely put on the rest of you.

Because of your inclination towards believing the drummed-up stories you've heard about me, I do not believe I have any more ties to the rest of you. It is still unfortunate that you all fail to understand the work I do, but with Judah's passing, I see little more need to communicate with any of you or the Elders. I do not intend to return anytime soon, and I will continue the work I have been trusted with till my death, but until then, I give you all my best regards and pray that you someday manage to see what I have accomplished.

Apparently, that wasn't the end of Graham's communications with New Canaan despite the tone it suggested about the passing of Judah Black. However, it was clear that communications from that point forward were so strained and infrequent that any more exchanges of letters must've been hidden away in other file boxes or lost in time. Still, the last letter in that first folder told me of how infrequent communications between him and his home were because it was the last one in the box destined for the archives of Bishop Judah Black's Personal Correspondence. It read like this:

July 28, 2255

From: Joshua Graham, Legatus Imperialis of Caesar's Legion

To: The Community of Faith

This is my last letter to you all. I will not receive nor reply to any more attempts to contact me or my Legion. If you value the lives or freedom of your messengers from the southern tribes, you will not send them to Legion borders any longer.

Flagstaff has fallen, and I write to you from a position of supreme power over Northern Arizona. Accompanying this most recent triumph and the establishment of our new Rome on the campaign will certainly be more stories of my brutality. Regardless of the particulars, the result will be the same in the ears of so many innocent souls back in Ogden. I can only reiterate for the final time that my own namesake's conquest after crossing the Jordan was not a display of our God's mercy, but of his wrath. I am done casting my pearls before swine, so I will not attempt to justify myself anymore.

You will continue to hear of me as Edward or Caesar sets his sights on New Mexico and preparations are made to march on Phoenix, and so I will leave you with one more thing: Have no fear about our march into Utah, for Edward already plans and I intend to steer him towards New Mexico and then Colorado before anything else. However, the day will undoubtedly come where the tribal plague of the southwest is gone, and with that, we will march on Utah proper. All I ask is that you refrain from firing on Legion forces when that day comes and I can only pray that the gates are opened for me so that you may see the truth in what I have fought so hard to achieve.

And there I began to remember everything that happened after that letter was received. Of course, I never knew the details, but when that letter was sent, I was 16 and already preparing for missionary work when I would turn 18. The wound was still fresh, even when I finally did turn 18. I remembered the faces that looked on everyone who was about to depart for mission. I couldn't understand it at the time, but remembering those looks, I could see them say, "Don't be the next one."

That may seem like a ridiculous plead to those about to depart for missionary work even though Joshua had already been gone for so many years. However, very slowly, and over many years, the end of direct communications with the missionary translator turned right hand of a dictator morphed into the occasional story from lands beyond the wilderness in those first years after the final letter from him. When I returned from mission at 18, my own horrendous experience was lessened by news that Sedona and Circle Junction had fallen to the Legion. I remembered Dani and I taking Michelle for her first service for baptism and hearing how the Legion was marching on Phoenix. When I had sworn into the Guard and went on my first expedition to help an ally, I heard how Phoenix had fallen. The years passed, I took part in campaigns, expeditions, and patrols, Hannah was later born, Michelle had another birthday, I lost a few men of the Guard, I was promoted to Sergeant, then Lieutenant, I attended so and so's wedding, and the stories kept coming in: The Legion conquered this place, then they conquered that place, Arizona has fallen, Caesar's forces have routed the last tribes of New Mexico, the Legion is marching on Colorado, Denver has been encircled, Legion scouts have been sighted in eastern Utah, our allies in the wilderness need us to take in refugees of Legion expansion, etc.

As life went on, as I lived, the monstrous nation beyond the wilderness to our south and east only grew and grew. My life was punctuated by news of that nation closing in on our city inches per day, and the question remained: When the wilderness of Utah is no longer a wilderness, when all the tribes whether hostile or allies are all under the banner of that Roman Bull, what would happen to us? I know there are many in the Guard who kept that thought in the back of their minds, wondering about the day where we would be forced to face the man who turned his back on us and what we would say when we met him at the gates. Would he spare us? Would he absorb us as well? The Legion grew and grew over the years and we knew the man who led them in war, whether or not we were old enough to have met him personally.

I thought again and again about the hypothetical day our community would have to confront him after doing our best to forget about him for almost two decades. What would that day look like?...

Then it occurred to me as I remembered all my previous recollections of what would happen that day… That day already happened. It happened just last night, and it appeared that only I had known it.

The man who plagued every New Canaanite's thoughts regarding the world beyond the known wilderness, the man who could have led his armies straight up to our gates and killed or enslaved us all with minimal effort had returned to us. The man returned to us in unbearable pain, scarred, burned, and completely broken, but only I seemed to know it. I thought of the eyes from my dream, the man walking towards me from the burning city, and there I saw the skinless body from last night and that pleading face before it was captured by the flame of the campfire. The flame that burned him did nothing to extinguish the flame that had been hiding deep within for decades, and now I knew what I had to do.

I was startled nearly half to death when my thoughts were interrupted by Duncan standing over the desk with Joseph at his side;

"What you reading?"

The papers fell out of my hands, and Joseph giggled at that. Duncan stared at me expectingly as I picked up the papers off the ground and my lap,

"Just old letters. The stuff Mr. Mathers was going over."

I wasn't trying to hide the letters, but I stuffed them back into the box and closed the lid before I met Mr. Schmitt's eyes just in time to hear him say with a yawn, "Sounds exciting… Joseph and I on the other hand are about to die of boredom. You wanna walk around with us?"

Standing up, I could see Duncan looking at me strangely but either too tired or too bored to ask about it. After shaking myself awake and the thoughts from before out of my head, I said, "Actually, let's grab lunch. We should still have time before Mr. Mathers returns…"

Joseph was already drooling at the idea of food and something else occurred to me so I asked Duncan, "How long has it been since Mr. Mathers departed?"

Duncan was already walking across the room as I was hurrying to catch up with him and Joseph as the man replied, "One hour? Six hours? No idea."

That was my guess too, so I stayed silent and walked with the two of them towards the exit. Pushing open that steel door, Joseph began running up to the top, disappearing around the corner. As soon as I reached the top, I wasn't expecting to see a crowd of people. It almost appeared as though a sermon had just ended as over two dozen deacons and at least six of the Elders were congregating in the museum or filing down the stairs from the second floor. Puzzled at this, I instinctively scanned the Temple officials for Mr. Mathers and when I found him, my eyes immediately went to the man on his left. But more importantly, the little boy in that man's grip. Completely ignoring Mr. Mathers, he and the man in white robes holding Joseph stepped over to me. A quick glance at the red face of Joseph told me all I needed to know and I brought my hand to my heart as I said to the man in robes;

"Bishop Mordecai, I- I'm so sorry."

The elderly leader of our community smiled at me with the softest expression I had ever seen. It wasn't often I got to be so close to Bishop Mordecai and let alone speak to him, but I only wished it had been under better circumstances as he released his grip on Joseph and smiled at him;

"No need to apologize, Paul? Am I correct?..." I nodded, somewhat marveling at how the Bishop knew my name at sight alone. I felt Joseph cling to my legs and the Bishop addressed Joseph, "… Now just be careful going up those stairs too fast young man. Next time you'll knock me over! haha. I'm not as spry as I used to be and I think I have a few good years before my legs give out."

I could see just in the Bishop's face alone that there was no anger or any ill will in it even after a crazy boy ran into him. I'd only met Bishop Mordecai about two other times back when he was only an Elder but he even lived up to his reputation around town when it came to his legendary kindness. All the lines in his aging face were in spite of so many years being the calmest and most collected and best intentioned leader of New Canaan during my lifetime. I struggled to break from his calm demeanor, but I felt Joseph bury his face in my leg, reminding me to say;

"Joseph, did you apologize to the Bishop?"

Joseph muttered something into my leg and a subtle wave of the hand, and another warm smile said Joseph was completely forgiven by the Bishop. Just as my eyes caught sight of the Constable loudly talking to some of the Elders on the other side of the room, I glanced at Mr. Mathers beside the Bishop and was not expecting the Bishop to address me again. The spiritual leader of our community asked me beneath the murmur of all the people in the room;

"How are you, Paul? The Constable as well as Mr. Mathers here have had nothing but great things to say about you and the situation with the Guard…"

I began to wonder what situation in particular he was referring to when he added, "… I understand you were wounded last month. Have you been healing up well?"

Just like before, I hadn't really thought of my wound until it was brought up by a concerned person who was always more worried about it than I was. Seeing the calm concern in the old Bishop's face, the idea of replying snarkily like I would with a guardsman was an alien thought as I replied,

"I'm doing just fine sir, thank you so much for asking but everyone else is more concerned about it than I ever was."

"I'm glad to hear that… You can never be too concerned about a bullet wound. Believe me, I think there's still a few people alive who remember when I got hit in the leg on a hunting trip with my father. That little .22 is still in my leg 40 years later!"

I thought it great to see the Bishop had a sense of humor and I couldn't help but smile as I saw one grow on Mr. Mathers' face. Just then, the deacon hopped in,

"Bishop Mordecai never lets a meeting go without reminding us of that."

The Bishop chuckled to himself and met me again with a look of sincerity, "That's no comparison to what men of the Guard, men like you go through, I know. Still, your efforts are seen, and heard, and with the Constable's news, I'm going to make it a point to receive more input from the Guard community in any way I'm able…"

I wasn't sure exactly what he was talking about and searched my brain for what I told Mr. Mathers, the Constable, or anyone. Before I could recall everything I said in recent conversations with either men, my mind hovered on the things I had seen last night. Although before I could get too lost, the Bishop brought those thoughts right to the forefront. I wordlessly thanked him for the consideration, and he was about to bid me farewell and step away when he stopped himself;

"Oh, and I hear you were with the guardsmen who brought in an injured stranger last night?"

I thought again about the calm and innocent old Bishop as the memories flickered, "Yes, sir… I think he will be alright?"

He heard the twang of a question but only said, "No name?"

Again, I knew the name of the stranger, but I couldn't confirm it since it never came from his lips. I could only shake my head as I thought of last night.

The Bishop lowered his head, "Not the first stranger to come to our gates. All we can do is our best for him… And from what I heard, you and the men of the night watch certainly did just that, so thank you for all you do, Mr. Young."

I accepted the gratitude, admired his humility and understanding nature in as few words as possibly without seeming overtly weird. Then the man stepped away to gather with some of the other elders as Mr. Mathers stepped up to me,

"What a guy, huh?" Mr. Mathers asked as the Bishop joined a group of Temple officials socializing in the museum.

I continued to observe the people around us as I replied robotically, "Yeah, just like I heard he is"

After briefly catching the eyes of the Constable, I saw him give a subtle wave, and I nodded back before he returned to the conversation around him. The voice of Mr. Mathers entered my ears again, "Is it strange how well I know the Bishop when I've only been here for 5 years and you've lived here your whole life?"

I met his eyes and already replied, "Yeah it's strange… Sorta." Before I saw the grin on his face.

I smiled at the joke but it was clear to him that my mind was still elsewhere as he asked me, "Speaking of how long we been in this town: Why are you and your lackeys still here? I figured you'd have gone out for lunch..."

Remembering what I was actually doing while he was at the meeting, I said more defensively than I probably should have, "We were just about to do that. I thought you were heading to a meeting?"

He gestured around at all the men in the room, "It's over now pal. I didn't know it would be held upstairs but the second floor has a conference room they just put together and the Elders decided to host the meeting here. It's a nice room upstairs, great view of the town square from up there, plenty of room, and… I can show you upstairs if you like?..."

I watched the room begin to clear as the religious leaders slowly began to end their prospective conversations and depart out the front door. More and more people left and I found myself once more lost in thought about everything I had read, about the brief conversation with Mordecai, and the few short words with Mr. Mathers. All seemed to be business as usual across all of New Canaan and here Mr. Mathers was asking me if I would like to see the nice little conference room on the second floor of the museum building. I finally turned to face him and when I did, I could see him still waiting for an answer to the question he asked with the usual innocence on his face, but I couldn't stop myself from giving him a near plea for answers about what he knew. The question rang in my mind again:

"While I'm away, could you find the file box marked 'BR-3-46-22-BBPC'?"

Mr. Mathers knew what was in that box. Whether or not he knew the specific contents or not was irrelevant. He knew what had happened last night and who the stranger was. But why was he acting like it was nothing?

His face morphed into a concern once more the longer I stared at him until finally, I croaked out;

"Look, I think I need to talk to you about something. Some of that stuff down there in the archive…"

At that, his face hadn't changed. All he did was lean to the right and give nods at the people behind me. It was a nod of sympathy, a nod that told me it was only Duncan and Joseph leaning against the wall not understanding anything other than how miserably bored they were.

The deacon looked back at me and said only, "We'll talk later… For now, go get some food and spend the rest of the day at home. It can't do you any good to be stuck in that basement all day… I'll come to your home later and we can talk about whatever you need. Just get some food first. Remember the angel that came to Elijah and don't stress yourself about anything… Take care of yourself and we'll talk soon. I promise."

I glanced back, saw my son and the young guardsman leaning against the wall as if to say they were waiting on me, and all my curiosities left for the moment as I was reminded of my responsibilities to take care of myself and others. Without anything more than a nod back at Mr. Mathers, the agreement was made, and I took my son and Mr. Schmitt out of the museum into the New Canaan town square at a little past midday.


1 Hour Later

It really is surprising how a little bit of food and a change of scenery can do wonders for your mental state. Problems before eating aren't that big a deal once some food is in the stomach and you can approach the rest of your worries with a clear and focused mind.

I had a great lunch with my boy and the young guardsman but in the end, the sun was a little lower in the west and Joseph was excited to go home and play while Duncan was excited to do literally anything other than return to that basement. Joseph's friends were still in school by the time we began the walk home and he was looking forward to ruling the whole block until school let out, but along the way home from Leslie's little bakery, I remembered that I still had one last thing to do before returning home. It was what I promised the Constable I would do last night. I had to pick up some medications to aid in my healing from Dr. Franklin, and it was remembering this that made my heart nearly stop once more.

I froze in place on the street back home and when I was asked by Duncan what the issue was, I briefly considered having them come with me because the idea of being so close to the burned man frightened me for some unexplainable reason. Then I thought about just having Duncan go fetch the meds for me and as good an idea as that was, I for some reason couldn't utter it. My mouth and mind were on different trains of thought because despite everything I was thinking, I told Duncan;

"Can you take Joseph the rest of the way home? I need to visit Dr. Franklin outside the gate… The Constable said she would have some medications for me to pick up after I was done with Mr. Mathers."

I was mortified when Duncan replied, "I know, I'm pretty sure I was the one who told you that. But whatever, you got it chief…" and immediately began to depart with Joseph at his side. I stood there in the middle of the street for several seconds after they left, not even hearing it when Duncan said he was going to go straight to something after dropping off Joseph. It was probably just to check in with Doyle, but I didn't hear anything else until he said sarcastically, "… Tell the burned man I said 'what up'."

By the time those words entered my ears, I was watching him start to race Joseph down the street and there I stood until I was brought back to the present by the sound of the gates lowering down the south road.

Once more my mind was entirely elsewhere as I made my way down the south street from the town square straight toward the gate to the market. I tried with all my might to focus on what I needed to do without anything else. Running on autopilot, my body and mouth greeted the passersby warmly, I said hello to the guard patrols and gate crews. I even walked with Richard Stanley and his guardsmen for several minutes catching up with him about… something. I again couldn't tell you. I was only thinking;

"Get to Dr. Franklin. Get my meds. Tell Joshua Graham that Mr. Schmitt says 'what up'. Ask him about why he thought he could return to New Canaan after all the atrocities he's committed, NO"

"Get to Dr. Graham, - Franklin. Ask her for burn cream. No."

"Get to Dr. Franklin. Tell Joshua that we forgive him. No."

Such a simple thing I had to do, I neglected to even consider whether or not the man was awake… Or if the skinless stranger was even Joshua Graham for that matter. Yesterday was just a coincidence, right? (God choosing to remain anonymous in my life) The man I helped bring in last night was probably just a survivor from a raided caravan. Some tribal raiders down south are known to use the occasional flamethrower? The story I heard about Graham's end was just a story. I read the letters. Joshua and Edward were best friends. They conquered the whole southwest for decades. They were best buds. I'm sure Edward was a bit miffed by Joshua losing that battle at the dam down south, but I'm sure they worked it out like best pals do? Plus, even if the stories about his fiery execution were true, there's no way a man could survive getting set on fire and tossed into the Grand Canyon? There's no way the Lord would spare a man who defied Him the way Joshua Graham did, especially in such a fashion… Unless of course God was not through with his plans for such a man of such great sin…

These were my last thoughts before I felt my hand on the doorknob to Dr. Franklin's little clinic outside the walls. My heart skipped a beat when I heard John Langdon say from behind;

"… Anyway, Nate and I will leave you be. You get well Lt. Young and make sure that stranger is alright…"

A brief glance behind showed Nate and John turn to resume their patrol of the busy market grounds and I was going to ask how long I'd been talking to them when I decided not to. I did watch them continue along, Nate talking loudly about his suggestions for a 'gift basket' of some sort before they disappeared into the crowd and then I turned the doorknob to Dr. Franklin's clinic.

Stepping inside, I was immediately greeted by Dr. Franklin wiping her hands on the apron around her dress as she stepped behind the wooden counter.

"Good to see you, Mr. Young. I take it you've been having a calm day? No more spontaneous bleeding I presume?"

My eyes took in the dim shack clinic, all the healing instruments and tools on shelves behind the counter, and daylight from outside pouring in through the foggy windows. It had been a while since I was here, ever since the White Leg ambush a month ago, but I remembered the place being more welcoming. My eyes lingered on the open doorway to the patient area that seemed almost pitch black from where I was standing in the day lightened musty little lobby. I met her eyes, saw the flakes of blood on her apron, and said;

"I'm doing just fine now. I was even just fine last night, but I suppose the wound opened and it freaked out the Constable…"

"That'll happen…" said Dr. Franklin as she seemed more focused on the patient charts atop the counter, "… It was probably just reopened from chaffing against your vest all day… I see that doesn't sway you though…"

I felt the heavy black tactical vest on my person full of equipment I rarely used even on patrol days. I probably should've gone without it today, especially since I was on my behind there in the archives for what felt like the whole day. I shrugged the thoughts out of my mind and said to the doctor;

"Force of habit… You can still vouch for me to the Constable. I can't stand 'light duty', Idle hands make the enemy's work and all that…"

"I hear ya…" said the doctor still more focused on the patient charts. A silence lingered before she glanced up and said, "Speaking of the Constable, I got something I'm supposed to give you."

At that, she pulled something up from below the cabinet and placed it on the counter top. It was a syringe bearing the gauge and familiar look of a typical stimpack. Another moment passed before she looked up at me and asked, "Can you do it yourself or you want me?"

I rolled my sleeve up and took a seat on the little fold out waiting chair next to me and she was already maneuvering around the counter.

"Not much experience," said I as she stepped up and uncapped the syringe.

She flicked the needle's end and said as she tied a band around my arm. "I've met mercs who refuse stims trying to be tough but yall guardsmen's aversion to them is still somewhat strange if you ask me."

The doctor held up my arm, "We try not to rely on them… Plus, some in the community of faith don't believe in such medicines. I don't personally have an issue with them unless it's an emergency… Which this isn't, but Constable's orders…"

She gripped the end of the band in her teeth as she sank the needle into my arm, replying, "Yeah this ain't no emergency now, but if anything, this'll help finish what the first one started a month ago…"

The plunger was pressed all the way down, she removed the needle, released the band with a snap, and I immediately felt the strange sensation that came with a stimpack syrum's miraculous repairwork all over my body as I asked, "Is it usual for stimpack healed wounds to reopen so easily after so long? I've been fine for the most part since I left your clinic a month ago and I'm not sure why the wound reopened last night… Especially since I wasn't breaking boulders."

She stood over me and wiped the end of the needle before opening up one of her childish sticky bandages with the "Vault Boy" on it. She pressed it to my arm, grinned at the silly bandage on a Lieutenant of the Guard, and said in thought;

"Not unusual I guess? Just not often. Some folks get so badly beat up that they need a couple stims just to get through the same firefight…" She paused, and I think we were both wondering if it was possible for someone to overdose on stimpacks since I heard of similar situations out there. After a moment, she added, "… Kinda like your friend you brought in last night. My boys and I doped him up real good and gave him another stim after he got here and nothing… I can't say I'd ever even heard of someone immune to the effects of meds and chems like the ones we gave him…"

After a short respite, I'd all but forgotten about the man I recovered, the man I researched, and the man whose identity I refused to admit I knew. But the doctor's words reminded me of the same thing I saw last night. The affects of a healing drug and how it didn't have the ability to heal such a man.

I looked up to the doctor and asked, "How is he? Do you know his name? How he ended up like that?"

She looked a bit puzzled at the way I asked that but looked at the ceiling in thought for a moment before saying, "The boys said they got some food in him and he was able to sit up after we got the bandages on him, but no chit chat… He doesn't seem in a talking mood so we hadn't tried honestly."

Dr. Franklin was already moving back to her spot behind the counter, but passing the entryway to the patient room, she took a long look in there before continuing on. Noticing this made me too look once more towards that dark entryway, but even in the short time I spent looking, I felt a rush of cold wash over me before I looked back at the doctor. Standing over the papers on her counter, she was staring at me as if to ask if I needed anything else. I couldn't speak, I couldn't even stand to depart like I wanted to, and just before I could ask the doctor for help since something seemed so wrong with me, she asked what I was least expecting;

"Want to go meet the stranger?..."

My blood froze, and I couldn't discern where all this fear in me was coming from even if I was the only one in New Canaan who knew the significance of this man's identity. I wanted to reply but couldn't, I only met the eyes of the doctor and watched her raise a hand pointing toward the entryway as she added;

"Go pop in and say hello if you want. I think he's still out but he's been getting visitors all day…"

I wanted to ask who he's been meeting with but I still couldn't speak at the idea of going in there to see the burned and broken body of the biggest stain on our community's history. My curiosity was answered when she said what an unclouded mind would've already known;

"… why so many of the townies been leaving gifts for the stranger is still a custom of you people I fail to understand, burns or no."

At last, she was done speaking and still the question remained, "do I go in or not?" I sat there thinking about my son at home with my wife and the young guardsman likely now going about some other task for Doyle or the Constable. I thought of what I had told my wife earlier this morning and how I promised I would talk with her about what I said last night. I knew that I had mentioned the stranger's true name, but whether or not she believed my words were a product of delirium or not, I couldn't have that talk with her. I couldn't have it until I knew for sure. Despite everything running through my mind, and despite everything I knew inside, I had to hear it. So, I finally looked up to the doctor and said, "Sure, I'll say hello."

I asked myself again and again why I said that and wondered why I was standing myself up. The doctor got back to work at the counter and I approached the dark entryway to the patient section of the clinic shack only to watch the darkness miraculously vanish as soon as I stepped foot on the other side. I entered the room, seeing the whole room lit up by lanterns and daylight from the small windows and began forward. Stepping past three rows of beds and the slim little dividers, I saw two of the beds occupied by what looked like tribesmen lying in deep sleep, and passing the next one, I saw one of the doctor's assistants from last night talking in hushed tone to a trader looking man in a wide hat. Just as I passed the fourth row, I nearly collided with the other assistant who apologized and greeted me by name in whispers before saying with a smile;

"… If you're looking for the stranger you brought in, he's two more down, corner bed."

My mind was a swarm and I didn't know what else was happening before I found myself standing in the opening to the final patient bed and staring at the man from last night lying completely on his back and covered in bandages just like Mr. Schmitt said earlier that morning. My heart nearly skipped a beat once more when I thought he was awake, but a closer look showed me his eyes were closed and there my eyes went to the little cubicle he occupied. There were at least seven tattered old baskets each full of a random assortment of foods and bottled drinks, each one dotted with some kind of 200 year old ointments or burn lotions. I stepped further into the room, reading and recognizing the names on the baskets, This one is from the "Upson family", This one is from the "Morales family,"… I read the names, thinking of the families and how these gestures were so like them before I could wonder how so many had heard about the stranger me and the night guardsmen brought in only last night. There would likely be more to come, but when I was done, I found myself sitting on the open chair next to the bedside operating cabinet and staring at the dim lantern burning on the wall above. I stared at that light for a long time, seeing the burned and bandaged man's chest rising slowly up and down in my peripherals again and again and again and again.