Paul's Letter to Rome

by Interfectorem

A man of the New Canaan guard is chosen to witness and facilitate the return of the community's Prodigal Son. In one of the most uncertain and dangerous times of the community's history, Paul and the community wrestle with the question of what being a faithful servant of God looks like as the hostile world around them inches closer and closer for the Burned Legate.

4. The Prodigal Son Pt I

Chapter 4: The Prodigal Son Pt I

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The Next Morning

The next morning was not much different from any ordinary one. I awoke when my wife did and had breakfast with her and the kids. The new day came with almost no memory of the previous one, and why that was, I'm still not sure. Perhaps it was just because of the routine that came with each new morning that seemed to capture all focus, but what was even more peculiar was the fact that certain parts of the previous night were brought up selectively without any deeper thought.

What I mean is that I still remembered the Constable's instructions for me, and how I was to spend this day on light duty over in the archives, but there were no thoughts about why that was, what happened, or why this came about. In fact, I was even allowed to sleep in a bit since my normal duties had me waking up much earlier than I was able to this day. I got to enjoy breakfast with the family and even wake the kids up since I didn't have to organize morning muster with my detachment. I of course was asked why I got to sleep in and enjoy breakfast with the kids, but I only answered with what was true "The Constable put me on light duty for the next few days so I can recover easier." That was good enough for my kids, and myself without any other thought, although I could tell it wasn't quite enough for my wife.

My wife continued to go about her normal morning routine, thankful for the unordinary time she got to spend with me, but she continued to look at me as if something were troubling her. For most of the morning, I couldn't quite pinpoint what that was until at some random point in the middle of my last bite of breakfast, I remembered what I said to her before passing out. I still awoke with a clean wound and new wrapping, and she still smiled at me lovingly when she saw Joseph light up at the fact he got to come with me to work. Although it was there at the tail end of breakfast that I remembered what I told her last night, and finally understood the look she'd been giving me. I think the reason she stayed quiet about it that morning was perhaps because she chalked my words up to the amount of blood on my shirt when I showed up. It was easy for people to spout all kinds of incoherent or illogical words and responses after losing enough blood, and that must've been what she concluded in order to sleep last night. Still, the reason I chose those words was a mystery even to myself and by the time I was done with breakfast, the whole memory of yesterday and especially the night before seemed like a strange dream. Because of that, I wasn't sure what I had to explain to my concerned wife, if anything.

By the time Hannah was on her way out the door for school and Michelle heading for Missionary Prep, Joseph was rubbing it in to them. Michelle kissed my cheek on the way out, Hannah kept her head down, and with Joseph hopping up and down in place beside me, my wife was staring at me with a face that told me the falseness of my conclusions regarding last night:

"No, whatever happened last night was not a dream, and you owe your wife a better explanation. Soon."

I saw this look, saw the images of last night flash before my mind, and one last time I tried to convince myself there was nothing to it before there was a knock on the door. When I turned and opened the door, Mr. Duncan Schmitt was standing there in his complete uniform, stepped into the frame of the door, and hit me over the head with some reality from last night. The young guardsman proby stood in the doorway with the words;

"Hey Mrs. Young, Lt. Young. Doyle had me check up on the burned man, he's doing well I think. He's still unconscious but he looks fine… Looks kinda like a mummy with all the wrapping Doc Franklin did… Anyway, the Constable's having me follow you today since he said you'd need a hand after bleeding like a faucet last night, so I'm all yours today I guess."

I greeted the man subtly, "Hello to you as well, Mr. Schmitt. Although your presence isn't required. I'm fine. The bleeding stopped before it began…"

Duncan only adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder and said, "Yeah the Constable said you'd refuse my help, but orders are orders, so you got me for the whole day…"

An uncomfortable moment lingered after that, especially with the supreme lack of subtly the young man vocalized about my prior condition before my family. There, I began feeling even more unspoken questions from my wife, and saw Joseph looking at my abdomen wondering where the blood is. Seeing his dad was alright, the moment ended, and Joseph immediately turned back to Mr. Schmitt as the guardsman went on as if he hadn't just created an uncomfortable moment;

"Hey kiddo. Didn't see ya down there. You staying outta trouble?"

Joseph immediately began pummeling Duncan's legs, I met my wife's eyes, and inaudibly promised her right there, "We'll talk tonight." She nodded, greeted Mr. Schmitt in her usual warm way, and bid me farewell with a kiss on my cheek before leaving with my son and Mr. Schmitt for the New Canaan Town Museum.

The walk there was a brief one. Thoughts of the previous night were buried by the idea of getting to spend this day with my son and the new young guardsman I'd been meaning to spend more time with. Along the way, I heard from Duncan that my detachment was working with Doyle for the day and was sending their well wishes. Thinking about my men made me feel warm, but thinking about them made me recall my only complaint. That being how I wished Joseph was to join my side while I was with them. John, Carl, Ramos, and Nathan all loved Joseph and Joseph really enjoyed playing around with them at community gatherings. Almost all the men of the Guard knew Joseph and my family, and I thought back to all the times my men got to spend with them at the most wonderful gatherings or celebrations in New Canaan.

Hearing Joseph talking away with Duncan as they trailed me, I began thinking of all the faces my boy wouldn't see again at the next community night. Gavin Salazar, Roy Sutton, Axel and Dennis Gates, Diego Marquez, Rowan Tomlinson, and of course Evan Buller. I've commanded, led, and lost many men over the years since earning my place as a lieutenant of the Guard, but it was just those seven names that I knew Joseph would never get to see again after that fateful day over a month ago. Thinking about this, I felt my abdomen, placed a hand under my vest, and was relieved that it came out dry. Feeling relieved about my wound, I was then greeted by the Wollen couple before I could think anymore about the injury or the men I lost.

I greeted the Wollen's, congratulated them on their recent marriage, and apologized for not being able to make it, and they wished me well, remarking at how nice it was to see me walking the streets and not atop one of the towers. Before I could explain, I was greeted by the next passersby who I again hadn't the chance to see or interact with too often due to my duties. The whole walk was like this. It wasn't often that I was seen walking the town in the late morning, and I couldn't quite express how nice it was to walk the town and not be on an urgent mission. Duncan commented on how I could possibly know everyone we passed as Joseph hopped along shouting, "Duncan! Look at me!" as the young man ignored. I could only tell the young man that once you're in this place long enough, everyone knows one another, and emphasizing how it is only because of Christ that our community is so tight-knit.

He could only respond with, "Huh. I figured as much… Never had much a family of my own growing up out there in the wild…" clearly with his attention divided between following me and acknowledging the boy still demanding recognition for how far he can jump along the street.

As we drew nearer to the town square and rounded the last buildings before the museum across from the temple, the streets, homes, and shop fronts were more and more crowded. It eventually became impossible to address everyone who wished us good morning and commented on how unusual it was to see me not on official duty, and I replied to Mr. Schmitt through the chatter of so many people;

"… I know your baptism's coming up, but I hope you already know that you're part of the New Canaan family."

Holding Joseph by the collar so he wouldn't get lost in the crowd or run off somewhere, Duncan stuck right behind me as we moved through the busy streets, "Next week… I'm pretty sure. I guess that'll make it official."

"If you want to put it that way, I suppose you can. Everyone here is a part of the body of Christ, we are all family, and once you've confessed your faith in Him, you can take that as your formal admission into…"

Duncan was already well known in the Guard, and was surprised constantly by the people of town who seemed to know all about him despite never meeting them. In fact, it was after I said this that Duncan's hand was grabbed by an older man, and was told how good a job he was doing. Duncan thanked the man and struggled to keep up with me, pulling Joseph along with him as he recovered and replied to me;

"… I thought I'd already done that plenty of times with you all. I sorta wish I didn't have to get dunked underwater in front of the whole town when Doyle said they had a perfectly good mud puddle behind his home…"

I've baptized tribals and even some New Canaanites in similar places when there wasn't anything more "formal" available or when a new believer didn't want to wait till the next baptism day at the Temple. Either way, I knew he couldn't see it but I was all grinning as I said to him;

"We gave you that chance months ago… You're locked in with the Temple ceremony now. And don't worry, Doyle, Hudson, Ray, Nathan, John, and me promised to cry loud tears of joy and make a terrible scene when you're up at the altar with Mordecai."

"Can't wait," said Duncan dryly as the three of us stepped onto the shaded platform in front of the row of buildings across from the Temple. The town square was busy off to our left, but most of the foot traffic was around the streets or buildings surrounding the square. Other than a few of the men in deacon attire or robes of the choir, the steps or area around the Temple itself was scarcely populated. I thought I saw the robes of one of the Elders, but he was too far for me to discern. Before too long, I looked up at the signs hanging from the awning beams, and there we were.

The Museum of New Canaan was a dusty little place in the dead center of that row of buildings across from the Temple. Built within the ruins of a concrete structure this whole block was made from, the place had been completely refurbished over so many years since the bombs. The walls were completely paneled in wood, and the giant windows at the front of the place let in more than enough light regardless the hour of day. Nobody really entered the museum since most New Canaanites had learned everything they needed to know about the history of their community in school and even though this place used to serve as the town hall of sorts, it was obvious that nobody really entered this place too frequently. This was made even more apparent when we entered to the chime of a bell and after a brief survey of the rows of shelves, my eyes landed on a woman behind a short wooden counter who was in the middle of shaking herself out of a daydream at our entry.

It wasn't too often that I got to see Mrs. Hollenbeck, and if she wasn't a member of the women's group my wife was part of, I never would've known she worked at the museum. When she was sure she was present, a large smile grew across her face as she greeted me, Joseph, and even Duncan. Duncan again marveled at how she could know who he was despite never meeting, but after a short exchange in pleasantries, Mrs. Hollenbeck said she wasn't expecting anyone other than Deacon Mathers today.

I told her the short of why I was joining the deacon today, and she said she'd pray for my recovery before telling me that the deacon was downstairs in the official "archive storage". I asked in passing if she knew why he was down there so frequently, and she said that her guess was as good as mine. I mentioned casually that I caught word that he was helping some of the Elders in a potential effort to expand the community and she thought that was a marvelous idea. Still, the two of us weren't entirely sure how much of this "research" into history was needed for such an event. As the thoughts from last night crept into my mind, I decided to keep his fascination with the abandoned home of Judah Black to myself.

In the end, she motioned us past the wall to her right, saying we could find the stairwell to the archives just past the bathrooms. I parted ways with Mrs. Hollenbeck, taking my son and the young guardsman with me. Following the wood-lined wall and passing a few rows of shelves laden with books and items from our community's history, we passed the bathrooms and found the stairs near the back of the building. I wondered what was upstairs, but the thought left me as I took my two followers down one flight before pushing open the only steel door in the old building marked "Archives."

Upon entering, the place certainly had a unique feel to it. The smell of old paper flooded our nostrils and it appeared as though the reconstruction of this part of the building was all but ignored. Unlike the charming and homely aesthetic of the museum above, the basement archives was a place with nearly three dozen rows of tall shelves, chipping paint and water-stained walls, and only a few dim fluorescent lights flickering on the ceiling. There at the far end, the man at a desk surrounded with stacks of papers lifted his head at our arrival, showing it to of course be the Deacon Mathers. Even from a distance, I could see his smile, and I approached with my son and "helping hand" in tow.

There truly wasn't much to say about how this day went. It wasn't what I expected, and as I helped the deacon by gathering papers from the labeled shelves, I was admittedly more bored than I ever thought possible. The deacon and I exchanged a few words here and there, but nothing about the previous night or the stranger. For whatever reason, I tried not to think about last night, and again tried my absolute best to forget the conclusion I landed on regarding the stranger's identity. What was even stranger was how Mr. Mathers too never brought up the prior evening but in fairness, it appeared he was too busy focusing on the documents I fetched or the ones he was already buried in before our arrival. Other than the words we exchanged regarding the amount of blood I lost last night and my overall wellbeing, Mr. Mathers acted almost as if the night didn't happen.

I was kept more idle than I thought I would be, and Mr. Mathers would only reiterate that my presence was only out of orders to the Constable. Because he didn't really need me to be there, he even offered to let me walk the town, spend my day in the museum, etc. I took him up on some of that every now and then, taking Joseph and Duncan outside into the town square for a few minutes at a time. However, before going too far, or deciding I might as well just spend the day at home and send word to the Constable later, there was something inside that prevented me from doing that. Regardless of how bored I was, how much the fluorescent lights made my head hurt, or how unnecessary I was for the deacon's quiet work, I was still drawn back to that basement again and again after each short "break".

As miserable and unnecessary as I was, I felt even worse for Duncan and Joseph. Since arrival in the basement, I was almost constantly having to tell Joseph that this wasn't what his dad did for work every day. I trusted Duncan to back me up on that, but he was almost too brain-dead to reply to anything. Duncan certainly wasn't needed to help me for anything today, but the Constable's orders were his orders, and even though the young man was better fit for scouting the wastes, patrolling the market, or even just running messages across town, he was stuck with me and I couldn't apologize enough. The poor boy Duncan just sat on that probably lice-ridden ugly old couch beside the door next to Joseph. Joseph was lucky enough to be a kid who could amuse himself with a string if he had to (and he certainly had to today). I remember it was probably around 3 hours into the basement prison sentence when I looked at Duncan sitting on that couch like a corpse that hadn't moved since our last walk upstairs 20 minutes prior. Remembering our earlier conversation, I thought of how unfortunate it was that Duncan was about to die before his baptism. I don't think either of us would've thought that it was going to be boredom that would do it.

Seeing Joseph still whining but at least busy tying his fingers with that string, I looked back to the deacon who sat ever silent and ever reading the stack of papers in front of him. Watching his eyes going from line to line, I realized I had only ever "helped" him about three times in the past three hours, and began thinking about the most recent file box I fetched. It was at this point that curiosity and boredom got the better of me, so I asked;

"What exactly are you doing this research for? I can't imagine the elders were just trying to get rid of you for a few days…"

The man raised his face as his mouth went from serious focus to its usual friendliness as he met my eyes.

"I'm sorry you're bored, Paul. I know this isn't the most exciting thing for you to do and I apologize for not needing more assistance from you…"

Personally, I didn't feel an apology was necessary, but before I could say anything, he went on, "… Although you're right. The Elders aren't trying to get rid of me for a while. They would've sent me on mission if that was their intention…"

He watched his joke have its intended effect on my face as he, at last, gave some explanation for his work in this dark basement, "… The elders expect the future of New Canaan to be bright like we discussed yesterday afternoon… However, you were right. We know that is no easy endeavor with all the threats around us, but my research here is simply to be able to offer my input into the way we achieve that hopeful future… Here in the archives, I'm hoping to have history at my backing when I arrive at the next meeting series and offer my input. You see, I recognize that I am new to this community, and even new to faith if you account for my whole life. Since the people are trusting me to help lead them, I just want to be fully aware of everything you all have endured… Does that make sense?"

I thought about it, and it did make sense. The deacon constantly showed me how true his intentions were, and it was moments like this and countless others that made me know that if there was any fruit of the spirit he encapsulated, it was his faithfulness to us and everything we are. With this in mind, I replied to the man with my thoughts on his last statement,

"'Fully aware of all we endured?'…" I could only chuckle in strange but sincere admiration, "That'd make you one of the few… I don't think most New Canaanites know all we endured, myself included, but your dedication to us continues to impress me…"

The deacon nearly blushed, "It's only you, the Constable, and Christ I have to thank for when you spared me that day and brought me here. I know I don't owe you, him, the elders, Mordecai, or Christ for what you all did, but I'll still offer my best…"

Before I could say anything, I watched his eyebrows raise and a shocked expression consumed his face as he asked, "What time is it?"

I glanced down at my watch and said, "About 12 and some change…"

Immediately, he stood from the desk and began stacking the papers, placing his bookmarks where they were needed, and preparing to urgently depart saying, "Speaking of the meeting series. I need to be there at 1230 and I have to show up early if I'm going to let Elder Harlan know about your security suggestions…"

He went to throw on his jacket and internally, I appreciated the fact that he remembered what I said regarding Duncan's report. As the man sped up his readying, I glanced over at Duncan and Mr. Mathers said aloud;

"… Constable Hanshaw should be there as well so I'll be sure to ask him about having you do something else since you and your boys are so bored…"

I was going to thank him but couldn't get a word in as he stuffed a few folders marked "important" into his satchel, and left me with, "… One last thing: While I'm away, could you find the file box marked 'BR-3-46-22-BBPC'? Should be row 32 about halfway down or so… I gotta run but I will go through it when I get back. See you in about an hour and a half."

At that, the deacon departed, blowing past the shelves of this dim basement. The urgency of his departure did little to stir Mr. Schmitt from his vegetative state, but I was able to let out a "You got it" before the door shut behind Mr. Mathers. Seeing how sad and idle my son and the young guardsman were, I decided with Mr. Mathers' departure to carry out his instruction and then immediately take the two out to stretch their legs or to get some lunch.

Getting up, I walked to the row of shelves marked 32, and strolled down, reading the labels on the shelves and looking over the dusty old boxes that hadn't been touched in probably years. The lights above didn't reach this far into the depths of the shelves, but around halfway, I pulled up my flashlight and to my surprise, the one marked "BR-3-46-22-BBPC" was the first one I saw at eye level. I didn't even bother to try to figure out what the numbers or letters stood for as I hoisted the heavy box off the shelf and returned to the light.

With the heavy box in hand, I moved to the deacon's side of the desk, and couldn't find a good place to set it amidst the paper stacks. I decided to place it beside the desk on the ground and there it sat as a footstool as I collected my breath from carrying it. I remembered the Constable said not to move heavy objects last night but I shrugged any more thought of that out of my mind when my hand revealed nothing but dry shirt under my vest. I was just fine, and left alone amidst the deacon's messy desk. It didn't take more than a brief glance for me to immediately know that I wouldn't understand all the papers the deacon was going through. It all looked like a bunch of old letters, lists of names, and diary entries. I recognized a few of the last names on the lists, because their descendents were still alive in the present day, but I couldn't make heads or tails about what the deacon was trying to discern from "Ms. Anna Mavis" who was writing to her sister about how nice her first mission is going back in 2224.

I finally concluded that the deacon's affairs were his own and there was no use going through all the ancient documents on the desk. Upon seeing the bored faces across the room I could help remedy, I went to stand when I halted mid-rise and remembered Mr. Mathers' most recent fascination and the conversation I had with him yesterday afternoon as the sun was setting. There I heard the voice and felt the eyes of that burned man enter my mind: Judah Black…

Before I could begin to think about and worry about the man from last night, who he could be, who I internally knew he was, and all the oddities from the past two days, I briefly scanned over the desk and the name of Judah Black did not stick out on any of the papers. At that, I wanted to rise and take the two across the room out to lunch, but I couldn't.

As much as I wanted to stand, I instead felt my hands drifting to the box I had just pulled from the shelves and was using as a footstool. Completely unconscious, I removed the first paper in the file box and before I could wonder why I wasn't taking my son and Duncan out to lunch, my heart had stopped when my eyes read the reason for the box's label:

"Beginning Record – March – 46 – 2200(2246) – Bishop Black Personal Correspondents"

Below the heading immediately started with a letter I couldn't Not read. It was proof from the past of what truly happened last night and proof that I couldn't deny a second longer:

March 6, 2246

From: Bishop Judah Black, Spiritual Leader of the community of New Canaan and leader of the Mormon Unification with the Followers of Christ

To: Mrs. Sandra Martin of the Followers of the Apocalypse organization of California

Regarding our last correspondence, I must insist that you send your missionaries to the community of New Canaan first before we can organize any mutual effort to assist the tribes of the south. As noble as your mission and goals are, I'm afraid I wasn't quite clear in my last letter when I say that we harbor similar ambitions arrived at by different means. To clarify my previous message with your latest response, it is only the 'why' that serves as the primary factor in our hesitation to lead a joint effort. Our community is a community of faith, we live by faith in our Lord and our faith in Him alone. To proceed without our Lord at the heart of any expedition is something I cannot willfully permit.

Now I understand your organization has had poor experiences with religions out in California and stories of this supposed "Master" you've described make me saddened that there could possibly be any confusion between the Lord we've served for thousands of years and this abominable creature of recent decades. As I have said previously, we do not consider ourselves a "religion" by any sense of traditional understanding, as we see the how we live and what we do as a way of life or relationship that only comes with knowledge of who our Lord is. I digress, but the finer points of who we are and how we live is of discussion for a later and hopefully more personal occasion.

With this in mind, I must again emphasize my suggestion that you send your people to our community for initial outreach so that you may see who we are, know who we serve, and understand the importance of our work that is only done in our Lord's name alone. However, as it should please you, I will continue to bring up the idea of mutual cooperation with your organization at our next series of meetings with the Elders…"

It was obvious that some of the letters received and sent were gone or disappeared in time, but the archive continued with the next one still addressed to this person from California. Before I could begin to wonder how the previous Elders and Bishop could communicate with people from so far away after we've been isolated in the wilderness for nearly decades, I was already reading the next letter.

September 12, 2246

From: Bishop Judah Black Spiritual Leader of the community of New Canaan

To: Mrs. Sandra Martin of the Followers of the Apocalypse organization of California

I must admit that I was not expecting a response so soon. From the sounds of things and considering the growth of the "NCR" it may not be more than a few years before California and Utah are touching borders and perhaps a formal meeting between us becomes possible.

Considering the timeframe you sent me in our last exchange, I am delighted to read your acceptance and understanding of our spiritual intentions. I agree that coming to some form of middle ground is the best course of action and we look forward to receiving your representatives after the success of your proposition. Yes, you have read that correctly: we will accept and honor our end of your relations proposal.

After much deliberation with the elders, I have agreed to send one of my best to link up with your missionaries at the 15/89 location by the end of the first week of November 2246. The man I'm sending is aware of your organization and its mission as well and is eager to serve as a bridge of understanding between our two groups. He is fully aware of the men you are sending, this Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Sallow, and is looking forward to meeting them and assisting in this joint work.

Regarding the person I'm dispatching: It should be known that this man and his importance to me personally is a gesture of great trust and a sign of how seriously I'm taking your offer of cooperation. The translator who will meet with your missionaries and assist in communication with the tribes of the Grand Canyon region is none other than my very own adopted son. Unable to have children due to my wife's unfortunate end, the young man I've dispatched was adopted from two parents in the community that unfortunately saw their ends doing their missionary duties in the war-torn wilderness of Utah. Since the passing of his two parents when he was but two years old, I had taken him and raised him, and loved him as he were my very own. With this, you can inform your missionaries that the name of the man they are to meet with is: Joshua Graham. Left with his parents' name, he is still my son, and his presence on this expedition into uncharted Arizona should again emphasize my trust in the men you've selected and a sign of my personal hope for future cooperation with your organization.

Please bear in mind that I do not speak so highly of the man I'm sending due to paternal instinct. Although he may lack experience with the tribal world as some of the other missionaries of God, he is experienced enough with the wilderness and nature of the tribes to act as more than a blessing and guide for your men who may not understand the gravity of the tribal world outside of California. To quell any potential concerns on your end regarding the man I selected, I will illuminate the remainder of my selection's attributes here:

Joshua has just returned from his first mission, is already eager to set out again, and was blessed from a young age with a gift of comprehension for linguistical learning that he's only perfected over the years under my care and tutelage. He is my best translator and despite no New Canaanite ever traveling beyond the old world borders of southern Utah, he is more familiar with the southern dialects and variations than anyone else I have at my disposal. Even though he may not be able to speak the languages of the tribes your team is expected to encounter verbatim, bear in mind that this expedition for the pursuit of knowledge is what brought your inquiry to my attention in the first place.

Rest assured, my son's well aware of possible variations in regional communication, but his understanding of the southernmost, border region language should be more than enough to ensure the success of your men and their mission of outreach….

There was more to the letter above on the next page, but I couldn't read anymore when my peripherals caught the heading of the next letter and how it wasn't from the California woman or Judah Black. Just like before, it was clear that a number of the letters exchanged between Judah and the woman weren't present in the archive but the name atop the next letter completely captured my attention and my thoughts again went to the previous night as my eyes read:

November 2, 2246

From: Joshua

To: Bishop Black and the Community of Faith

You all know I am not much for writing and letters, but I know Elder Parnell and Bishop Black are expecting a letter when I have made contact with the Followers missionaries.

Exactly where the instructions told me I would, I found the two men, Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Sallow. I was blessed to have departed when I did since the two men had only arrived less than 24 hours before I did and great first impressions were seemingly made. I know I will have more to say, and I will keep all of you up to date on the status of this expedition when I have more to say but please don't expect to hear from me too regularly as I will be busy offering my services to these men and doing what I can to further the work I've been entrusted to do.

I don't have much more time to write since the Followers men appear eager to set out as soon as possible. I'm leaving this letter with Dunn and Foster from the Guard after they've ensured my arrival and successful meet-up with the FOA missionaries. I will quickly note that my escorts have done very well in their duties, and I will be praying for their successful and safe return home in the coming weeks.

I'll reiterate the fact once more that you all cannot expect to hear from me too often once my work has begun. Still, to quell any worries, I'll be sure to send another update on my well-being when me and these FOA men have made contact with their first tribe, and I can establish some means of contacting you all once more. Please do not worry about me for any lack of regular communication, so all I can ask is that you pray for me and these secular men that I may do my part for the kingdom and serve the Lord well on this trip. I am in excellent hands, His hands, the best hands, so continue to pray for me. I love you all, and you will hear from me soon. I promise.

Nothing was in between this one and the next one. The images and experiences from last night ran through my mind still as the next letter went on:

January 9, 2247 *I think*

From: Joshua

To: Bishop Black and the Community of Faith

It has already been months since I set out with these men, and we have had contact with a number of the tribes inhabiting the Canyon region. Mostly war parties and too many close calls to count. Bill and Edward are already thinking this cause is fruitless since all the people we've come across have been more inclined to shoot at us than speak. I'm reminded of the tribes of the west GSL for our allies out here are few if any.

As you may have guessed, the expedition has been rough on myself as well as my new friends, but even though their hope remains a dying fire, I have fortunately been blessed enough to serve as a light in the darkness and chaos around us. Just when all seemed lost and Edward suggested we turn around, my prayers were answered when I encountered a few friends out here.

Here in the lands marking the borders of the Kaibab and Kalatzakala territory, in the middle of a land plagued by creatures and warfare, the three of us happened across a group of hunters from my friends in the Coachanelli tribe. I was just as surprised as you are to hear of or let alone see them so far south. The friends were a long way from home but were able to give Mr. Calhoun the location of the Blackfoots the Coachanelli just finished trading with. It is thanks to Matartha Cinekhacho of the Coachanelli that we have our way forward and you are receiving this message from me, for he said he would deliver it to his runners upon successful return to his home.

If Elijah Brinley gets the chance to see this message and his friends in the Coachanelli, please tell his friend Matartha again how grateful I am for his help.

As thankful as I am to have seen some friends of our God in these terrifying wastes, and as much as I wish I could end this message on a positive note, I have to admit that I am worried about Bill and Edward's new plan to seek out the Blackfoots. They are one tribe that has not made these lands any safer, but I remain hopeful that my new connection to the Coachanelli and ability to communicate my party's intentions will be more than enough to do what I've been sent here to do.

I can only ask for more prayers from anyone reading this, and once more assure you that I am in the best of hands out here regardless of what happens.

With no ability to reply to the young man beyond the known wilderness of Utah, no reply was possible from Judah or the community of faith that followed his brave actions from so far. The next letter picks up much later and read unlike the tone of a young man who was eager but nervous about his part in the expedition. As I read the next letter, I couldn't help but see the face illuminated in the campfire last night and how desperate it was as it stared back at me. The young boy had clearly lost something that neither I nor he at the time could likely discern. I knew this in my gut, and I think the young man did too as it read:

April, 2247

From: Joshua Graham

To: Judah Black and the Community of Faith

There's not much to say, I don't think. All I can hope for by writing this letter is that you call off any search expedition you may have sent for me. I am fine. I don't know if it was what I said to them, how I said it, or if I mixed up some words that might've meant something entirely different to the Kalatzakala 50 miles north, but the Blackfoots did not welcome us despite our peaceful intentions. We were taken prisoner by them not much longer after first sit down and the three of us served as their prisoners for the past three or so months. I think. I remain uncertain of what the date is now, but with the winds of night becoming less and less cold, I can only assume it's around April.

You may wonder how I'm writing this or more importantly, how you're receiving this. The only answer is that I am still a prisoner, but with a much longer leash now. I would thank the grace of God for my "Freedom" but the truth is that would be ignoring the large part that the man and friend I call Edward played in this.

Since I met him, Edward has proven to be one of the smartest men I've ever met. He has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of just about anything you could ask him, but during our time in captivity, he has shown a great knowledge of history and warfare from the old world. I only mention this because it was through his knowledge and my ability to communicate that I managed to negotiate our release with our captors.

I'm somewhat ashamed to admit, but our end of the deal has Edward training the Blackfoot's warriors for their fight against the enemies that surround them and us by extension. Of course, I am here to translate for him, while Bill has largely been keeping himself out of the situation altogether. I don't know if what I am doing is the right thing, or if it is the wrong thing, but Edward at least appears to be right. These people, my captors, the Blackfoots, won't survive with all the enemies drawing closer and closer to their villages, so I see the necessity in this new arrangement.

I am certain that some of you will have some misgivings about this, but know that I share them as well, and the situation here is completely out of my hands. It all seems so hard to adequately describe in any way you all can understand unless you were here. I don't know if I'm attempting to justify this, but I see the survival of this tribe as a way to afford them more time to find Christ. I have by no means abandoned my original purpose with these California men, or the lost of this region. Please pray for us and myself in the coming days. Edward speaks of marching on the Ridgers soon so prayers for those who will surely perish before coming to our Lord is all I can ask of you. They, I, just need more time. Time to save this tribe, and these two friends of mine.

The desperate face from last night faded away as I read on, showing to me that what was said above was just the start of a downward spiral as my mind remembered the skinless face that was so transfixed on the flame. The light in those blue eyes too faded into the darkness and the faint sounds of that scream in pain ran in the back of my mind as I read the next one:

May or April, 2247

From: Joshua Graham

To: Judah Black and the Community of Faith

I have no way of knowing if you received my last letter, but I can only hope that those scouts gave the message to the proper parties in the Coachanelli. I recognize that they were likely killed crossing through Kalatzakala territory, but here I remain with the Blackfoots. My captivity may be news to you if my last message wasn't received, but neither I nor Edward, nor Bill are their prisoners anymore. Although the cause for my true freedom is by no means a cause for celebration.

What we did, what I allowed to happen to the Ridgers, I don't believe I will ever be able to forgive myself.

I argued with Edward every night leading up to it when I heard what he was planning, but in the end, I can't tell if it was his convincing me or it was my submission that allowed it to happen. In the end, I still gave the order, and I can't even express how sorry I am.

I know there's no context for you all to understand what I did, but please pray for me. I've been repenting and begging for forgiveness every night, but there were so many dead and it's all my fault. I should've stopped Edward or ordered something else, but it's too late now.

As terrible as all this has been, there remains a part of me that sees the horrendous logic behind it all. So much has happened in the weeks and months spent in captivity and still, there is no way for my words to do justice. The wilderness around New Canaan isn't like the wilderness of this region. There is no light emanating from the Temple anywhere to be seen here. All we can see, all I can see is the fires of war. One enemy after another, we're already on to the next one and I follow as if my actions are not my own. Locked in thought, my body does while my mind sits in judgment after the fact and I see no way out. Since the start of this expedition, there have been enemies around us in every direction, each as vile as the other, if not more. The only difference I see now in the brief moments of clarity each day is that neither Edward nor I are running from them anymore. Now he wears the crown of a warchief and I stand beside him unable to go anywhere else so long as there are enemies he's marching them towards. There's more death to come, but how I can do my work, my True work, is so far away that I can't see it.

…

The letter continued on the next page, with the pause appearing as though the writer picked up writing it sometime a few days or perhaps even hours later. All it said was:

The Kaibabs decided to join us.

I was left in awe, wondering what happened out there so long ago and remembering the odd stories I heard growing up. I was still so young at the time that all this happened, but I've been with the Guard long enough to hear the stories and tales surrounding this man we were all warned about. I wondered where it all went wrong, how such a remorseful sounding man with so much internal conflict could ride the wave started by "Edward Sallow" or the man calling himself "Caesar" in the present day. How a young translator and preacher of the gospel remained unable to escape for so long came as a shock to everyone who heard of him, the truth of his origin, and considered the mystery of where his soul was for so long. Even in the letters, that mystery remained just that as I continued on, understanding so much more yet so little when I tried to delve deeper into a mind that became the worst in his inescapable circumstance…