Gwen
drenched herself in tomato juice and then showered quickly. She locked the guest room door and slept for
twelve hours. When she awoke, the house was
quiet. She found her few belongings
laundered and folded outside the bedroom door, along with a ball of white
socks, an extra pair of jeans and a white dress shirt. She took the pile of clothes back to the bed,
locked the door again, and got dressed in the jeans and T she’d taken from the
shelter.
There
was a note on the refrigerator: “Ms. Pearl
has taken ill. I’ve gone to the
hospital. Fix whatever you want to eat,
I’ll be late. Atticus.”
The thought of food made her feel queasy, so she wandered
around the cottage. It was clean but
worn. A hand-crocheted granny square
afghan covered a small sofa. The maple
coffee table was dented and stained; one of its legs had been broken and
re-glued. Prints were scattered on the
walls, each depicting pastoral scenes of lambs, trees and wagons. The curtains were muslin tie-backs. She moved into the hallway. The pastor’s bedroom was on the other side of
the bathroom from the guest room. The
double bed was covered in another afghan – a ripple design in maroon, hunter
green and navy blue. Green cotton
curtains covered the large window looking out on the backyard. There was a dresser covered with river
stones, feathers and unusually shaped leaves.
A golden wedding ring hung on a tarnished sterling chain from the corner
of the dresser’s mirror.
The room had a pleasant odor, like the smell of warm
flesh and sunscreen lotion. Gwen felt
safe in that room.
A small TV rested on a book shelf, but it only crackled
with snow when she turned it on. Next to
the TV was a calendar. Today was the
first Tuesday in May. The date niggled
at her memory. It had been the last
Thursday in March when she’d been driven from her home. She lost herself in memories of the ukera in
the moonlight, the lightener masks on the soldiers, the sound of Sanchor’s
voice. The feel of him touching her,
inside her. She felt warm and
dizzy. Then a coldness swept up from her
stomach and flamed in her throat: she
hadn’t had a period since the first week of March.
Her hands pressed against her belly in panic. She was pregnant. She knew it with a certainty that bordered
faith. She was carrying Sanchor’s
child. Terror vied with joy. She counted the months on her fingers; the
baby would be born in December.
Her feet led her to the church across the yard from the
parsonage. She unlocked the doors and
knelt at the altar.
She prayed for strength.
She prayed for this child whom she’d been given. She prayed for Sanchor. She prayed that he would somehow find out he
was this child’s father and the joy of that news would turn him away from the
Darkness. Then she became ashamed of
such wistfulness, and prayed that God’s will be done.
Her
prayers dwindled away as she knelt, listening for the voice of God. It wasn’t a corporeal voice, not like the
pastor’s angel. It was a stillness, a
peace which filled her, strengthened her, calmed her.
The church doors burst open and Atticus strode in. His face was masked in fury. She jumped to her feet in alarm. He saw her and stopped. Anger fought surprise, then his face reddened
in embarrassment. “I thought you’d
gone,” he explained.
She blinked.
Pastor looked so sweet now, when seconds earlier he’d looked like a Strategia
Oscuro in battle.
“How’s the woman in the hospital?” Gwen balanced her
weight, wary.
“She’ll be fine.
She let her sugar get out of control.
But she’ll be just fine.” He
stopped at the first pew. “Thank you for
asking. Were you praying for her?”
“No.” Gwen pressed
her hands on her abdomen, possessively.
He sported a cocky grin, “Were you praying about me?”
Gwen pursed her lips and scowled. “My prayers are private.”
The grin slid off his face and he reddened again. “Forgive me.
I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I didn’t mean to snap.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s just – you act like you know me. Like I’m supposed to know you.”
“You don’t like it when someone tries to get close to
you.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she didn’t want to admit it.
He held out his hand, “Would you pray with me?”
She meant to turn and walk away, but found she had taken
his outstretched hand. He reached for
and took her other hand, too, and bowed his head.
The peace she’d sought earlier flooded through her,
spreading like living warmth from her hands, through her arms to her stomach
and from there up to her head and down to her toes. She gasped and opened her eyes. He was looking at her. His lips were open but gently smiling. She felt herself drawn into his eyes,
drowning in his soul.
“Amen,” he whispered.
“Amen,” she replied, reluctant to release his hands.
That
cocky grin returned, “So what’s for dinner?”
She laughed. “I
didn’t look.”
“Well, I’m hungry, and you haven’t eaten since last
night. What do you feel like eating?”
“Something simple, but very filling.”
“Eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits?” He kept hold of one hand and walked with her
down the aisle to the church yard.
“Cheese grits?”
“I can make that happen.”
He released her hand to lock the doors.
“How are you going to explain me to your parishioners?”
“I don’t have to.
They all knew you were coming.
The Elders do, at any rate.
That’s all that matters.”
“Does your angel talk to them, too?”
“No, just to me.
But I’ve been preaching about you for a year now. About the war and the warrior.”
Excerpt from
Comes
the Warrior
© Evelyn Rainey
Available for publication.
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