Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter Four

At dawn Thursday, she started a pot of coffee and gazed absently out into the backyard.  The yard was deep and - other than a large oak tree near the house – was clear of trees for about one half of an acre.  Deep green grass covered the ground.  A huge picnic table and trestle benches which could have sat two dozen people bordered the left side of the yard.  There was a brick and cement barbecue pit.  She guessed the fenced field beyond was probably cattle pasture.  Woods, beginning with the oaks and maples surrounded the right edge and a pecan grove stood sentry at the bottom of the yard.  It was too beautiful to stay inside.  She retrieved her well-worn broomstick from her room and went quietly out the kitchen door.

 

Gwen stood in the center of the yard and drew a deep cleansing breath.  She hadn't done the Morning Meadow ceremony in over six months.  Morning Meadow was a ritual that taught spiritual lessons and physical skills.  Everyone who served the light learned it.  Children begin the practice as soon as they are old enough to hold a wooden dowel.  Morning Meadow was a beginning.  The basic steps for all the complicated steps to come.  With mastery, the lessons learned in Morning Meadow were sufficient to protect yourself in simple battle. 

Simple battle, she snorted at her thoughts.  She thought she was done with battles.  The Light had other plans for her.  She cleared her mind and held the stick horizontally to the ground at shoulder height: Dawn.

She sank to her knees, keeping the staff steady: Awareness.

She lowered the stick to the ground, pressing her forehead to the cool dewy grass: Awe.  She held that position while her muscles stretched and her joints popped.  Curling upwards from the small of her back she stretched the staff as far as she could reach: Surrender.

She returned to the Dawn position and drew in another breath.

She dropped the rod end, allowing the tip to dip level to her waist and repeated it with the left end.  She did this six times.  Then the rod dipped to her hip on the right and the left six times.  She dropped the staff to her knees on the sides and eventually allowed the staff to touch the grass.  The Spider's Web wasn't complete until she'd walked the staff ends back up to Dawn position again.  Her wrists ached from disuse.

She transitioned to Frog in the Pond, alternately swinging the staff outward from chest to side with the right hand snapping the free end into her left hand and then arching the staff with her left hand out to the side and back to snap into her right palm.  She repeated Frog in the Pond a dozen times.

She brought her hands together in the center of the rod and stretched it up as far she could lift it and then bent at her waist touching her knuckles to the ground:  Rainbow.  Holding the staff parallel to the ground and keeping her feet flat, she began to twist it around to the back of her ankles to the left and then to the right.  Rising slightly, she twirled it around behind her left calf and then her right.  A little farther up with each pendulum she worked the staff up to her waist and then all the way inch by inch until she stopped twisting her torso and began twirling the staff.  It had taken her two weeks to learn how to perform the Journey without falling over with dizziness.  Smiling with joy, she repositioned her hands and returned to Dawn.

She began the exercises again.  Dawn, Awareness, Awe, Surrender, Dawn.  She added steps to Morning Meadow working her way across the yard.  A box step for Spider’s Web, grapevine steps for Frog in Pond, but nothing for Journey because balance was the key to that exercise.

As she arched to the ground with the Rainbow she followed through with a somersault.  She arched and rolled across the yard.  Then she turned around and worked her way back to the center of the yard in box steps.  Sweat was pouring down her arms, torso and legs and her mouth was fuzzy with thirst.  Dawn.  Awareness.  Awe. Surrender.  Dawn.

She laughed and lowered the staff.  She smelled coffee and turned at the sound of pastor's voice, "That was beautiful, Gwen.  Thanks for brewing the coffee.  Didn't know what you wanted in it so I brought the works."

He stood behind her carrying a tray laden with a steaming pot, mugs, a jug of milk and a sugar bowl.

Still breathing hard, she smiled and followed him to the picnic table.

"It is so beautiful here," she sighed over the mug she had to hold in both hands due to her aching wrists.

"You're beautiful here," he replied.

"Atticus, please don't.  You don't know me."

"I agree.  I don't know you yet.  But I do know beauty when I see it.  And you are beautiful."

She put down her mug and frowned.

"Do you do that exercise every morning?" 

"I stopped for a while but I plan to get back into the habit of the Morning Meadow.  That's its name.  It's a spiritual ceremony as well as a physical rendition.  Every individual step has a name too, but they are all things from a meadow."

"Tomorrow morning, will you let me try it with you?"

She nodded.  "It's not as easy as it looks.  Don't get discouraged."

He snorted, "That didn't look easy at all!"

"What are your plans for today?"

"It's Thursday.  I work on my sermons for Sunday and Wednesday, prepare the agenda for the Elders’ meeting, and go fishing in the afternoon."

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Are you any good at cooking?"

"With the right ingredients," she replied softly.  "There's only so much I can do with peanut butter."

Excerpt from

Comes the Warrior

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter Three

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.

Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter Two

            She was crossing a bridge over a rocky stream in Georgia when an old blue ford pick-up rattled up behind her.  She pressed against the railings to let it pass.  It didn’t.  The driver stopped and rolled down the passenger-side window.  “Need a lift?”

            Peeking into the cab, she saw a man in his late thirties, short blonde hair, brown eyes, a wide nose and full lips in his handsome face, and a winning grin.  “Nope.  Thank you.  Just out for a stroll.”  She continued walking.

            “You’re a might far off the beaten path.”  The truck slowly kept up with her.

            “Never cared much for beaten paths,” she increased her step.

            The truck kept pace.  “I’m not trying to pick you up, Sister.”

            She hunched her shoulders and strode forward.

            “It’s just, I know you’re not from around here and – and – you look half-starved and a might wind-swept.”

            She was nearing the end of the bridge.

            “I just can’t stand the idea of one of God’s servants being cold and hungry.  And it’s going to snow.”

            Gwen stopped and looked at the man.  “It’s the first of May.”

            “Well, it’s gonna snow sometimes.”  He grinned.  “My name’s Atticus.  I’m pastor at Morning Creek; it’s just up the road.”

            Gwen grinned and began walking again.

            The truck crept forward.  “We’re a huge church.  We had nigh twenty-five people last Sunday.  And dinner on the grounds.  So the refrig in the fellowship hall is stocked with fried chicken and apple pie.”

Gwen didn’t stop, but she peered at Pastor Atticus again as her stomach growled.

            “Well look, our insurance agent says we have to keep the church and hall locked when not in use, but if someone were to look behind the stone angel by the double doors, they’d find a key.  And if that person were to take what they need and return the key later, wouldn’t nobody mind.”

            Gwen stopped and stared open-mouthed at this total stranger.

            He smiled.  “I gotta go serve communion to the shut-ins.  God bless you, Sister.”

            He drove away.  She numbly raised her hand and saw him smiling at her through the side mirror.

 

She ate cold chicken standing at the counter and surveyed the room Pastor Atticus had called a fellowship hall.  The setting sun sparkled through the jalousie windows, illuminating the dust specs she’d stirred up as she walked across the linoleum floor.  She refilled the water bottles and stored them in a raggedy backpack she’d been given in Utah.  She wiped the counter and looked back at the full refrigerator longingly.

            A door led from the hall to the sanctuary.  The church had a dozen nine-foot wide pews on each side of a central aisle.  It smelled of cedar planks and bees wax.  The altar shone with lemon oil.  The evening light fell gently through the nine stained glass windows:  Matthew, Mark, Luke and John on the left; Grace, Joy, Hope, and Charity on the right; and Jesus on the cross behind the pulpit.  An upright piano guarded the presbytery and a drum set flanked the pastor’s pulpit.  A massive carved mahogany table served as the altar.  It held a Protestant cross, a chalice and a paten resting on its charger, and an ancient Bible opened to Luke.  There was a brass strip underlining Luke 24:49. ''And behold, I am sending forth the promise of My Father upon you; but you are to stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high."  The two brass candlesticks held half-burnt white candles.

Her vision blurred with unshed tears, her chest expanded, trying to gather in the essence of the air.  The happiest times of her life had been in churches.  Singing in the choir, praying, teaching Sunday school.  Her feet led her forward and she sank onto the front pew.  A tiny puff of dust escaped the thin cushion.  She bent her head and began to sob.

 

She woke with the surety that someone was watching her.  A man was kneeling next to her, his right hand stretching toward her.  Before he could register that she was awake, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and his throat with her right.  Pushing him backwards, she landed on top of him.

“Whom do you serve?” her voice echoed in the tiny church.

            “God the Father Almighty,” the man spoke calmly.  “And Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord.”

            It took her a second to realize where she was and another second to relax her grip.  It took a third second to roll off the pastor’s chest.  He sat up and asked in a humorous tone, “Whom do you serve?”

            She put her right hand over her heart, “I serve the Light, the Bringers of light, and the Light Eternal.”

            Atticus got to his feet and held out his hand, “Sounds like we’re on the same team.”

            She took his hand and stood up.  “I’m sorry.  I fell asleep praying.  You just startled me.”

            “You got a strong grip,” he gently rocked her hand in his.

            She eyed the side door that led back into the fellowship hall.

            “Do you have a name?”

            She gently but firmly pulled out of his grasp.  “Thank you for the chicken.”  She took a step away.

            “There’s plenty more.”  Light from the full moon through the stained glass of Jesus cast a hallo around the pastor’s head and shoulders.

            “I tucked three pieces in my pack.  For the road.”  She took another step and bent down to catch the pack’s straps, keeping her eyes on his face.

            “You running away?”  He stepped toward her.

            “I’m just traveling.”  She hoisted the pack over her shoulder.

            “Well, maybe you’ve traveled as far as you need to.”  He kept his voice soft.  The colored lights seemed to follow him as he stepped closer.

            “That would be nice,” she heard herself whisper.

            “So stay.”

            She looked up into his face and tried not to cry again.  “No.  No, I have to keep – I’m just traveling.”  She spun and marched quickly into the fellowship hall.

            “He told me you were coming,” his voice echoed from the sanctuary and she froze.

Excerpt from

Comes the Warrior

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.

Excerpt from Comes the Warrior Chapter One

 

Gwen awoke.  Someone was in her house; someone who should not be there.

Her chest heaved as she tried to calm her racing heart.  She reached down beside her mattress and grasped her battle staff.  Slipping out of bed, she positioned herself beside the door.  The moon’s light piercing her window shimmered across her pale pink cotton nightgown.

Three years ago, hearing an intruder in her house would have scared her,

She would have called 911 and trusted someone else to take care of this.  But three years ago, she met Sanchor. She was adopted by his band, trained by him, fought by his side, lost her heart to him, and been betrayed by him in turn.  So tonight, as she heard someone prowling beyond her door, she was terrified, but she knew what she was capable of.

The door handle turned.  Gwen shifted her balance and centered herself.  The door opened.

A bolt chunked into her mattress.  She stilled her breathing.  A figure entered the room, glowing in the moon light.  Its face was smooth, no indentations for eyes or mouth, no protuberances for nose or brows.  No hair, no ears, clothed in nothing other than its scales.  It was a ukera, a lizard-like humanoid.  Its stench filled her nostrils and she fought the urge to gag.

The ukera’s head wobbled as it searched the room by sonar.  Sanchor had told her that ukeras had once been good and served the Light.  That was before the Darkness came.  The Darkness that Sanchor said twisted man and creature to its will.  The ukera’s head stopped wobbling.  It turned to face her.

She swung: the sower harvests the grain, and caught the ukera on the side of its knees.  It fell to the floor.  Never hit an ukera in the head, Sanchor had warned her.  It will explode and spray you with its musky blood.  You’ll never get rid of the smell.

She planted the business end of her battle stick on the triangle joining its two rib cages.  She heard a snap as its lungs burst outward, filling with air.  A slow way to die, but sure.

She leapt over the ukera and sprinted down the hall to the kitchen.  She squatted beside the table and peered out the window.  Two hooded men were silhouetted by the faithful moon.  The moonlight glinted off crossbows held ready in their arms.  Ukera never used weapons.  Who fired the bolt into her bed?  Her ears near burst trying to listen for the other soldier -- the one who carried a crossbow and had to be inside with her.  She heard nothing.

She kept low; she reached the phone beside the frig.  Its dial tone blared loudly and she stabbed at 9 then 1 then 1 again.  It rang three times before a woman answered, sounding bored.

“Intruders!” Gwen hissed as quietly as she could.

“I’m sorry; you’ll have to speak up.  What is your emergency?”

“Is that what you call a telephone?” The robed figure stepped into the kitchen, brandishing a loaded crossbow.

She lunged upward, Salmon up the River, ramming the stick into the soldier’s belly while screaming, “He’s trying to kill me, there’s a man in my house. Help!”  She hoped the operator understood and would act on it.

A bolt shattered the glass in the kitchen door and embedded itself into the microwave.  Gwen rolled under the table as the door exploded inward.  One soldier ran to his fallen comrade while the other blocked the exit.  Moonlight shimmered across their face masks: lighteners.  Lighteners were made from the skins of some luminescent sea creature on a far distant world and allowed the wearer to see in the darkness.

You know how to blind a lightener, don’t you, Gwen? she remembered Sanchor’s lesson as he smiled at her so long ago.

Gwen aimed her battle staff and threw it.  It clipped the light switch and the florescent flooded the room.  The soldiers screamed in agony and tried to rip the masks from their faces.

Gwen ran into the backyard, vaulted the wooden fence and tumbled into her neighbor’s back yard.  A dog lunged at her, straining its chain to the limit and barking ferociously.  Saliva splattered her as she sprinted past the massive pit-bull.

            Lights flashed on in the houses around her as other dogs took up the alarm.

            “Call the police!” Gwen shouted. 

“What’s going on?” a neighbor growled.

            She slammed into a trio of trashcans, screaming for help, and then silently slipped back through the alley to the fence behind her house.  She had made enough noise to lead the soldiers away. And by now, the police were coming, she hoped.  She snuck over the fence and crouched behind the ancient oak in the corner of her yard.  She could see into her kitchen – the soldiers were gone.  She drew a deep breath and pressed her forehead against the bark.

            A popping acorn was her only warning.  She jumped up and swung at the man, a simple Frog in the Pond move.  He blocked her blow with graceful ease – Rock against the River, twisting her staff out of her hands with his own battle staff.  She head-butted his chin and cartwheeled backwards to retrieve her staff.  He reached over from behind her and yanked her against him with her own staff.  Her bare feet dangled above the ground, unable to hurt him through his metal shin guards.

He shook her and pressed the staff more firmly against her throat.  “It’s good to know you have not gone soft and forgotten your training.”

            She stilled.  “Sanchor?”

            He pressed his lips against her ear and whispered, “Do you still love me, Gwen?”

Excerpt from

Comes the Warrior

© Evelyn Rainey

Available for publication.