The Sight

Thirty-Two

Chapter One

Dust floated sparkling in a shaft of morning sunlight like something more valuable. It collided with the horizontal form of Owen Donovan, asleep but not really.

Shivering in the despair of post-intoxication, he lay staring at the ceiling, yellowed and cracked, eyes at half-mast scorched by the smoke from a thousand cigarettes. His distorted vision melted paint and drywall into nothingness as what remained of the more cerebral part of him scratched meaning from air, substance from the vacuum. He ignored the blood pounding between his temples sending waves of sickening pain from one end of his body to the other.

Straight-up bourbon consumed in a never-ending procession tore at his soul and beat the tar out of his struggling frontal lobe. A steady descent into alcoholism erased a once familiar sense of self-preservation.

The prior evening’s memories burrowed deep into his gray matter, refusing to come into the light. Images like flashbacks burst into his semi-consciousness without context only to retreat in muddled succession behind the veil.

A delivery truck rumbled over a patchwork of potholes at 6:50, the din shoving Owen a little closer to awake. He offered supplication to the gods of excess in silent hope they ease the endless conga rhythm thrashing his skull to smithereens. Boom boom boom, without mercy.

A sharp kick shook the couch. A groan and a turning away. Another boot to the couch’s subframe, more severe than the last.

C’mon. Get up, a voice demanded.

Owen burrowed deeper into the cushions, hoping the voice would go away.

The voice grew in volume.

Get up, Owen!

The first deliberate sound from Owen’s battered throat had more in common with a scratchy grunt than anything resembling intelligible conversation. He pushed out a second attempt.

Too early.

What are you doing? Your job interview is today. Eight thirty sharp.

I can’t, Pop.

I’ll make you some coffee.

Tom Donovan’s footsteps echoed down the hallway to the kitchen. He dug through the cupboard for a can of Folger’s and a paper filter. Mr. Coffee waited for instructions in willing subservience to its human master.

Pop, don’t want no coffee. I ain’t going to the interview.

Owen pulled the ratty blanket over his head and did his best to ignore his father and the mounting irritation penetrating the older man’s composed exterior.

Tom spent the better part of a quarter century trying to understand his youngest son. Their divergent personalities assured a monumental task. His colossal bag of patience emptied itself onto the ground at Owen’s feet.

The sound of a measuring scoop slamming into the countertop and bouncing across the kitchen floor echoed down the hall. Tom steaming with obscenities blasted back through the dining room, hammering the divider door into the brass stop. The door swung back with too much velocity as the complaining helical spring returned it to its starting position. Vibration shivered the knickknacks inanimate on a nearby bookshelf, sending airborne a light cloud of dust.

He tore the blanket from Owen’s sleep cocoon and sent it flying to the opposite wall. Owen, in a rustling stupor, muttered a progression of gibberish and turned his head in time to witness his father relocate him to a position more or less vertical. Tom Donovan grabbed his twenty-five-year-old son by the collar of his tee shirt forcing an audience.

What the hell? Owen managed.

Wrenched into the land of consequences, Owen faced a man who bore only a slight resemblance to the individual he called ‘father’. He made a halfhearted attempt at shaking the fog from his brain, but succeeded in magnifying his confusion and intensifying his headache.

You listen, Tom snarled, stabbing a calloused index finger into the young man’s chest. Pain flashed across Owen’s features. I’ve spent thirty years at Five West working my way up from nothing to give you and your brothers a better life. I stuck my neck out for you with the new steward to get you in the door. You’re going to that interview if I have to drag you!

Tom stepped forward and parked his sneer inches from his son’s jumbled features. Without words, he dared Owen to resist.

Get outta my face, Owen spit back, his handsome features marred by hangover mixed with mounting hostility.

The tension in the room skyrocketed. Tom’s face blazed heart attack red. Owen’s lips peeled back in a half growl.

Upstairs and make yourself presentable. You have half an hour.

Ain’t happening. The provocation dropped from the young man’s fingertips as a gauntlet from a challenger’s hand.

Tom stared into his son’s eyes, fire reflecting from smoldering fire. Owen returned contempt as if all respect ever taught by a well-meaning father meant nothing. Tom broke the standoff. His objective was to motivate his son to make the trip to the shower. Intentions contorted through a filter of rage into actions he would soon regret. He seized Owen’s stained logo tee, strength emerging from decades of hard work. Owen pried at his father’s big hands. His heart raced, a basketball dribbling through his ribcage.

Get off me! Owen yelled.

Tom shoved and Owen pushed back.

A dark figure, a void in the fabric of the earthly, appeared for a moment within the Donovan house on Ulster Street. It fed off the conflict generated by father and son and returned chaos to those doing battle. Without distinguishable feature or marking of any sort, the figure faded into the shadows between the spiritual realm and the matrix composing all things physical, unnoticed by the men. The figure used its power to influence the confrontation.

You frigging good-for-nothing… Tom, half a head taller than his son and forty pounds heavier, would not concede. He turned and pulled Owen around with great effort and tossed him like a sack of potatoes. Airborne, Owen collided with an oak end table sending an antique yellow vase to the hardwood with a crash.

The shapeless form, hidden from all corporeal beings, flashed deeper and darker, gaining in evil intensity. Gasoline poured onto the flames.

Owen jumped back to his feet, his body exhibiting the reflexes of youth. He grabbed a brass sculpture from a bookshelf, a casting he created in art class before dropping out of high school. He swung the artwork in a deadly arc above his head. Tom drew his right fist back, muscles tensing in a wash of adrenaline. Time froze. Never had Tom raised a hand to his boys in anger.

In the midst of the irrational, a warm light, intense but serene, enveloped the Donovan home for a microsecond. Mr. Coffee burbled and coughed as it completed the process of brewing a fresh pot. The aroma of the brew inserted itself between the combatants. The surreality of the moment brought the physical contest to a halt.

Owen grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the couch and headed for the front door. The cotton fabric of his tee shirt, stretched and deformed, displayed a remnant of his defiance.

I am OUTTA here! he said over his shoulder as he dropped the brass sculpture on the front porch. He paused and stared, wondering why he held the object.

And don’t come back, Tom said. Ever! Do you hear me?!

Owen slammed the front door. The hundred-year-old wood frame rattled. The frosted glass pane in the side light cracked. Glass shards tumbled onto the welcome mat.

* * *

Carly Brakken dabbed her makeup brush in the tinted powder, shook the excess free, and applied with overlapping strokes. The incandescent light of the vanity highlighted her face with a warm glow.

Will stood in the walk-in wearing a tailored dress shirt and pair of striped boxers, choosing between his Brooks Brothers classic blue and a charcoal Gieves & Hawkes. Dark gray won the day. The television set, tuned to the local network, played in the background.

Hey babe, Carly called out without looking away from the mirror. The weather man says rain.

Will hung the suit apart from the others and pulled a burgundy striped silk from his tie rack. He examined the weave for imperfections, straightened it with his free hand, and positioned it around his neck.

Out the window Car. Cats and dogs. Will laughed as he tied a perfect Kent.

Carly sensed her husband’s attempt at holding back a cascade of laughter. She pushed back from the vanity, approached the walk-in, and stuck out her tongue. Will shot her a quick grin.

I bet you didn’t pick up your trench coat from the cleaners last week, now did you? Rain’s gonna pummel you like a feral dog.

Not me, sweetheart, Will fired back. I’ve got this freakishly large golf umbrella. You know the one. It could protect a medium-sized Norwegian family from a hurricane.

Whatever you say Mister Brakken. Just don’t come crying to me when the incredible and pretentious architect to the stars, Monsieur Depaul, sends you home for dripping all over your presentation renderings. Carly snickered as she grabbed her briefcase and skipped down the stairs.

Carly and Will Brakken, friends for twelve years and married for six, enjoyed an occasional round of verbal handball. Although their respect for each other was transcendent in all situations, they believed humor in large quantities kept their relationship fresh and animated.

What do you say we stop at Java Factory on the way in? I’d like a Monday morning latte.

You got it, ma’am, Will said.

Will and Carly stepped one after the other into the garage. Will punched the button sending the garage door into an overhead position. He darted to the passenger side, opening the door of the SUV for his wife before she could grab the handle.

Merci, Carly returned as Will swung the door closed with a nod.

Will piloted the pewter Mercedes from the Brakken’s affluent suburb on the east side of Syracuse toward downtown. The downpour had traffic moving even slower than the normal rush hour crawl.

What’s on your calendar today? Will inquired.

Preliminary strategy session this morning and then a meeting with a new client after lunch. Carly began working at the marketing firm right out of college as an account manager. She worked her way up in the competitive service industry until earning the position of manager with her own team of consultants. Only her husband and her lay women’s ministry at The Hill Christian Church received more attention.

What time is your women’s group meeting tonight, Will asked.

Same time it is every week, smartypants.

Dinner?

Not tonight, Carly said. You’ll have to survive without me until nine o’clock. Carly smiled as she feigned ignorance at Will’s pathetic puppy dog eyes.

Will slid the Mercedes up to the curb in front of the coffee shop as grim visions of grocery store takeout dwindled from his mind’s eye.

What’ll it be?

Latte, enormous, light on the foam. Pretty please.

Carly dug into her briefcase to browse her notes from the firm’s last strategy session while she waited for Will. The car’s radio played a mixture of modern jazz and fusion. Her thoughts focused, immersed in the words on the page.

Five minutes ticked by. She spotted Will pulling a handful of napkins from the dispenser and heading for the exit. Will did his best to not drop the two oversized cups of coffee and a bag containing two pastries as he backed through the glass entry door.

Carly didn’t notice a young man striding with his head down past a line of cars parked at the curb. Will, with a smile on his face and gesturing for Carly to open her door, failed to spot the walking man until it was too late.

The collision rattled teeth, jaws, egos, and craniums. The young man bounced off Will, half turned, and fell to one knee. Will slipped on wet concrete, pin-wheeling his arms in an attempt to remain upright. Coffee cups launched with two sustainable white plastic lids choosing that moment to pop free. A fountain of hot coffee and steamed milk arced overhead and splashed down upon the intertwined men.

What the hell, man!? Why don’t you watch where you’re going? Will was stunned.

Owen Donovan stood and faced Will. Will shook himself of excess post-airborne coffee and cheese danish particles.

Owen, already fuming from his impossible morning, snapped. He swatted Will across the face with his open right hand. Get your loser self back into your eurotrash car!

Without a word, Will swung wildly and connected a glancing blow off Owen’s chin. Owen fell to the sidewalk. His mind swam in irrationality stacked on top of severe circumstances. Something pushed on his emotions, bending his impressions and reactions. He groped with his free hand, finding a softball sized rock fallen free from a retaining wall at the side of the property. Owen gained his footing and rushed Will. He brought the rock down on Will’s left temple as they came together. Will crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Carly flung the passenger side door open and jumped from the car, staring in disbelief at Will’s broken form lying on the walk. Blood poured from the head wound. She screamed, What have you done?

Carly’s shout snapped Owen from his daze, the fist-sized rock dropping to the sidewalk from his fingertips.

I…I didn’t mean to…

Someone help! Carly screamed in the direction of the coffee shop.

Two women sitting at the table nearest the front door witnessed the incident unfold through the picture window. One grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

I’m sorry lady. I… Owen glared at Carly and back to Will, unable to comprehend his actions.

You’re going to be even sorrier when the police get here, Carly said. She tried to examine Will’s head, but was flustered by the sight of pooling blood. Her entire body shook.

A small crowd of coffee shop patrons and passers-by gathered around the scene. An older man knelt next to Will. Let me see if I can help. An ambulance is on the way.

Is he okay? Carly asked the man.

It’s hard to say right now. He’s unconscious and has a sizeable gash on his head.

Will’s condition alarmed the onlookers. Human nature divided the crowd into groups based on learned behavior and inherent character of person. Some assisted in any way they could. Most recognized the severity of the situation, exercised their right to not get involved, and vacated as quickly as possible.

Carly drew near to hysterical. Help him, please.

Owen scanned the street looking for an opening. Sirens echoed in the distance.

Hey, buddy. You better stay right here, one of the coffee drinkers said to Owen. The police are gonna want to talk with you.

A flash of cranial electricity triggered Owen’s flight response. Flee a little voice urged before someone could accuse him of wrongdoing. He turned and sprinted from the scene. He had no idea where he was going or why.

Hey! someone yelled. Stop him!

Owen dodged two good Samaritans who blocked his path. He averted the reaching hands, crashed into a parked Lincoln four door, recovered, and continued running.

* * *

Lungs heaving…

Can’t believe this, was just walking, what did I do to those people?…no way this is happening, what’s that, sirens, what the hell do I do now, got nothing…run!

Owen ran until his chest burned. Pressure pounded between his ears as agitation twisted his thought processes. He lost his way in the panic following the incident. Sidewalks, cars, trees, houses, all were unfamiliar. As the sun obscured by the dense gray climbed to mid-morning altitude, the rain ended and storm clouds cast an ever-mutating gloom over the city. A gust whipped his soaked clothing and tossed his hair about. Slowing to a walk and with the waning gale whistling in his ears, he scanned the urban grid.

Where am I?

Enormous maples lined the streets, arching high above the pavement. Branches knobby and knurled as fingers of beckoning hands trailed, weeping to the ground creating a living colonnade. Shade cast dark by the boiling overcast settled over the neighborhood like an invisible blanket. The hour was peak commute-to-work time, but the streets were vacant. No light seeped through drawn shades. Cars stood idle in a repetitive sequence of driveway-based industrial art. Each observation slightly askew of the familiar compounded toward absolutely creepy.

Owen, pushed along by a feeling he couldn’t shake, something or someone following him, found the nearest intersection. He searched for anything alive, even the smallest glimmer of animation. Darkness closed in around him.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, something moved. He turned toward the source. A shadow lurked among the deeper hues painting the recesses and spaces. The shadow appeared as a man.

Hey! Is someone there? Owen called out.

Silence. The shadow observed from a block away lingered a moment and faded into the background. The distinct human shape melted into nothingness. Permafrost shot through Owen’s nervous system.

Whoa. I’m losing it.

For the second time and without looking back, he ran. Never having been much of an athlete, his body screamed for oxygen, his eyes bugging out with effort. He drove his body until fatigue threatened him with collapse. With a couple miles behind him, he slowed to a walk.

Finally. I know this place.

Owen recognized the storefronts of the Empire Corner Store and Costello’s Bakery. He leaned against a rusty newspaper box in front of Sonny’s Diner to catch his breath. The headline of the paper displayed in the spring-loaded door spoke of mounting conflict in the Middle East.

A greasy spoon occupying the corner for more than fifty years, Sonny’s fare was decent and cheap. Owen reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled a handful of wadded bills - $12 in all. He dove into Sonny’s and headed toward the counter. A heavy set woman with two dirty kids chowing down on pancakes and bacon in the next booth looked his way. The short-order cook gave him a nod.

BLT and a Coke.

Yup.

Owen dropped onto the last stool. He lowered his face into his hands and released a drawn out sigh.

You alright there, bud? The cook looked down at him from the prep station.

Bad morning.

Had a few of those myself. Here, for your trouble. On me. The cook slid Owen a glazed donut on a worn ceramic plate.

Thanks, man. Owen bit into the donut, staring straight ahead and experiencing nothing but static. His mind ground through emotions.

Can’t keep doing this…my life is insane. I lost Mom and Jess and now I’m falling apart. Dad hates me. I don’t even know my brothers anymore. What happened to me? When did it all get so hard? I need a plan, something to look toward. Something.

He finished the donut and slid the plate to the edge of the Formica. He shot a look toward the cook.

Restroom?

The cook gestured with his stainless spatula toward the rear of the building.

Owen detoured around empty dining room tables toward the men’s room. He pushed on the dark stained door and went in. He ignored the unnamable odor hanging in the air as his hand found the light switch inside the doorway and gave it a flip. The restroom hadn’t experienced a real cleaning in years. Filth encrusted every surface, sedimentary layers laid down through decades of neglect. The single forty-watt hanging over the cast iron sink illuminated in the mirror a purple and brown contusion the size of a boiled egg. He rubbed his jaw where Will’s roundhouse dented his face.

A human form materialized in the corner of the room behind him. Owen sensed the presence.

Sorry I was hogging the sink. I thought I was alone in here.

No response, just muted kitchen sounds – fryers, dishes knocking together, metallic clanging of utensils on the flattop.

Not too talkative, are you?

A deep, accented voice, You have been blessed with a gift from the time of the ancients.

Owen spun around to face the man, racking his shoulder on the paper towel dispenser. His right hand massaged the new injury. His left hand located the lockback blade clipped to his belt. No matter how hard he peered into the shadows, he was unable to see the man’s face. The stranger stood in the darkness in the corner of the room, the incandescent bulb doing little to light up more than the mirror.

What did you say? Owen asked.

Very few since the creation have received such a gift.

Do I know you? Cause, mister, you are freaking me out.

The stranger said nothing.

Uh, it’s been real. Owen took his hand from the knife and left the man back in the restroom. He walked past the counter, shot the short-order cook a sour face and flopped onto the chrome and vinyl barstool.

What’s up with the dude in the bathroom?

The cook flipped an order of bacon onto a plate. Dude?

There’s a weird guy in the bathroom.

In the bathroom?

Man, you hard of hearing or something?

Sorry pal, I don’t know who you mean, the cook said. Gimme a second.

The cook ducked under the counter and stuck his head in the bathroom. He backed out and headed into the back room. Owen heard him talking to the wait staff. The cook returned.

I don’t know, buddy. There ain’t nobody in the bathroom and the gals ain’t seen no one weird come in all morning.

Are you sure? Owen asked.

Yeah, I’m sure.

Owen sat at the counter staring at his sandwich, troubled by the day’s events. There wasn’t a person in the world, including Owen himself that suspected in two short weeks the God of the Universe would call upon him. The plan, an eternal objective defined for Owen Donovan alone, had been established since the beginning of time.

Chapter Two

Carly rested her head in her hands. From the chair next to the hospital bed, the situation remained static. Will lay unconscious. A pattern of endless beeping issued from the medical monitors. Inhuman, uncaring machines. Her heart danced in jittery anxiety, her lungs barely able to hold breath.

Ma’am?

Carly jumped in her chair at the unexpected voice. Her head snapped to the doorway.

We need to take your husband for an immediate CT, the doctor said as he entered the exam room. He spoke with some urgency. He may be bleeding into his brain. We won’t know for certain until we take a few pictures.

What? His brain? Oh God.

She stood, turned a circle, and stared out the window without seeing a thing. Carly shook her hands out at the wrists. The jittery feeling did not depart.

Mrs. Brakken. Mrs. Brakken? Your name is Brakken, right?

Carly found her focus and again faced the doctor.

What? Yes, Carly Brakken.

And your husband’s name? The doctor asked.

Will.

Carly, we’re still determining Will’s condition, the doctor explained. He has a serious blunt trauma injury to the head. Most certainly a concussion and possibly a skull fracture.

Oh Lord, Carly said. She looked back to the window.

I know it sounds severe, but we’re going to help Will.

Two orderlies came to wheel Will to Radiology. The senior of the two shot the doctor a questioning look before moving the bed. The doctor nodded and the two went about their business.

The smell of ammonia mixed with a musty funk sent a wave of bubbling nausea through Carly’s gut. She followed the orderlies’ progress through the closing door ignoring her own condition.

We’re the most advanced trauma ER in Central New York. We’ll give Will the best care possible.

Carly said nothing.

The doctor opened the door to the exam room and looked back toward Carly. We’ll be done with the procedures in an hour at most. We’ve got a decent cafeteria down the west wing if you’re hungry or a chapel if you need some time alone.

The doctor followed the orderlies down the hall. The top-mounted door closer rotated the heavy wooden door back into the steel frame with a dull thud.

Carly sat in a chair in the corner. She examined the tops of her shoes while her thoughts pushed against the stuff of nightmares. Sadness settled upon her like mist into a river valley on a cold fall morning.

Oh Lord, what should I do? Carly muttered her prayer. The answer came as a subtle pulse of energy. She felt the urge to move, to occupy herself with something other than the empty hospital room. She stood and opened the door. Sunlight from the windows lining the hall flooded the small space. She covered her eyes until they adjusted.

She wandered the first floor. The display cases in the gift shop window offered only subtle distraction. Artwork featured in the main lobby meant nothing. The bright colors of the furnishings and the floral arrangements did little to pull Carly from her somber mood.

She searched for the chapel. The wood trimmed doorway leading to the small worship and prayer space was a short distance down the hall from the emergency room. Carly paused for a moment with her hand on the door handle. She took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts and entered.

Five rows of pews marched downhill toward an empty pulpit. Toward the front of the room in the first row, an elderly African American man sat with his head down. Carly found an empty seat second pew from the back on the common aisle. She set her purse on the varnished oak and folded her hands in her lap. She muttered a silent prayer for Will as tears streamed down her face.

The man in the front of the chapel stood and walked the aisle toward the door. He noticed Carly crying with her head in her hands. He gestured to the empty space next to Carly.

Ma’am? he asked. May I?

The man sat with enough empty space between them to park a heavyset aunt. Carly wiped the tears from her face. Embarrassment over her vulnerability dislodged the undercurrent of despair. She examined the visitor. The man was more than elderly. He had to be in his nineties. And he was tall once, well over six feet. A pronounced stoop dominated his posture, although he carried himself with the strength of a man who had lived a life of self-confidence and honor. His face was wrinkled by time and untold laughter. His hair was bright white and close cropped.

You don’t worry about me, ma’am, the man said. You go on crying. It’s part of the healing.

I’m sorry. I’m not myself. My husband, he’s in here. This place. Carly waved her hand in the air toward the chapel door. He was attacked this morning and…I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.

Ezra, ma’am.

Huh?

My mama called me Ezra.

Sorry. Carly Brakken, Carly extended her open hand. Pleased to meet you Ezra.

Likewise, Carly. Ezra grasped Carly’s hand in both of his. His hands were worn from infinite days of hard work, but soft and gentle, surprising Carly with unspoken compassion.

She searched for a tissue, feeling awkward about her own obvious need. Carly wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of another’s sympathy.

If you don’t mind me imposing for a moment, Ezra said.

No please.

Your husband’s hurt bad and you’re feeling alone. Am I right?

Carly nodded and inspected her own restless hands holding the tissue in her lap. Lost.

Lost, you say? Little girl, you are in the right place, Ezra said. If you are in this house of worship, seeking the Lord, you are doing exactly the right thing.

I’m hoping God will help me.

He will, child. You can bet the farm on that, Ezra said. Tell me what happened. To your husband.

It’s all a blur, Carly paused to recall the incident on the street in front of the coffee shop. A perfectly good morning broke down under the weight of unexpected distress, shattering the secure confines of her routine.

You take your time. I’m right here when you’re ready, Ezra encouraged Carly. He produced a Bible from his belongings and flipped through the pages.

After a few minutes of wrestling with images in her mind, Carly pictured again the scene in total. Staring straight ahead, she recited the sequence of events.

Will and I were having a pleasant morning. We went to a coffee shop, like we do often enough. Will went in for the coffee. On his way back to the car, this…this person came out of nowhere.

Carly struggled to continue.

It’s alright girl. You tell ol Ezra what happened. It’ll help. I promise.

Carly lost herself for a moment in the depth of empathy reflected in Ezra’s ebony eyes. A man walked down the sidewalk. I didn’t pay much attention to him. He was like any other guy you might see downtown. But…his eyes.

What about his eyes? Ezra asked.

They were on fire. Do you know what I mean? Burning. If burning is the right word.

I know what you mean.

Will came out of the coffee shop right as this man walked past. I don’t know if the rain kept them from seeing or what, but the man ran straight into Will, as if they couldn’t avoid each other. They both fell to the sidewalk. Coffee was everywhere. Will was upset and snapped at the man. The man hit Will in the head with a rock. I think it was a rock. Oh, I don’t know.

Downright upsetting, Carly, Ezra said. I am sorry. So, your man’s here getting fixed up?

The ambulance took him straight here. The other man ran off before the police could arrive.

Your man’s going to be just fine. Seems bad, but it really ain’t.

How…how could you know that?

Don’t know a lotta things. Know this though.

The room tilted and righted itself. For a moment Carly felt her sanity deviate from its rigid alignment. She sat for a minute with an awkward line drawn between the old man and her.

Ezra cracked the frozen ground with a quiet request, Tell me some more about the one who did this to you.

He was about Will’s height, medium build…

Sorry, girl. What you felt about him. Ezra concentrated on Carly’s face as she spoke.

He was…intense, Carly continued. Troubled. Like something was hurting him. His eyes were deep. Reflective.

Mm-hmm. Ezra thought for a moment about what Carly described.

What is it? she asked.

You may not take much of a shine to what I need to tell you, Carly, Ezra said. You need to find this man. You need to talk to him. His problem – the thing he’s fighting – is also your thing. Maybe Will’s too.

I don’t know what you mean.

There is something special about this man. He may have done you wrong, but God has placed him in your life for a reason. There is a plan behind your encounter.

A plan? Carly asked.

Don’t know for certain, child. Lord reveals things in His time. I knew you were coming into the chapel this morning. I was waiting for you. It’s not normal-like for me to see visions of any sort when I talk with God, but this time was different. I saw you. Sitting right here, hurting.

Carly got up from the pew and paced the aisle. Her mind struggled in disbelief.

You were wha…? I don’t even know you. If you don’t mind me saying, sir, this is kinda crazy.

Don’t I know it, Ezra said. He reached out toward Carly. Carly watched the old man’s hand for a second, fingers extended, palm to the ceiling in kindness. She sat back down.

I know you got no reason to go on after a stranger like me. Be that what it is, gonna tell you a bit a history. My own story. Listen good now.

Why not? I’ve got nowhere to go. Carly felt helpless. Irritation and stress soaked through her buttoned down exterior and shaded her responses, her attitude. Ezra appeared not to notice or care.

I’ve been around on this earth for a century and two years. I was born before the War to End all Wars. My grandpappy was raised in a slave family in Georgia. He and some of his people found the Railroad and took that ride north as far as it would go. Followed the drinking gourd, they did. Ended up in a small town east of here and put down roots. Solid roots. They had to duck the slave catchers more than once and were hidden by some fine folk, the abolitionists in their town.

Carly found she was interested in Ezra’s story. Were you born here?

I sure was, child. Born free of the chains. My daddy leased a plot of land owned by some white folks from Rochester. Nice enough folks for the time that it was. He built us a four room house out in the middle of the land that wasn’t ours. I was brought forth right in the front bedroom. Lived and worked on our farm until I wed my Lyla. As it was back then, we married young. I was nineteen and Lyla seventeen. Love is love though, Carly, and there ain’t no stopping it when it’s sunk in right deep. Ezra laughed.

I don’t mean any disrespect, but how does this relate to the man who hurt Will?

Getting to it, child, Ezra said. I know patience is a precious jewel rarely uncovered these days, but my telling’s got no value without a bit of reminiscing, if you know what I mean.

I think I do.

"I’m old, Carly. Older than I thought I’d ever get. I seen a lot of things in my years. Seen God’s love flowing through people and seen His hand blessing folks beyond what you or I could ever imagine. Not material stuff neither. Real fine blessings from His word, His promises. Sad enough to say, with them blessings comes plenty of badness. The evil one’s been making mischief down here since the beginning and I’ve been witness to my fair share of his wicked doings. His workers are at it continual. Shooting their fiery arrows toward believers and unbelievers alike. It’s my feeling that men, at the enemy’s prompting, are capable of doing horrible things to other men. For sure. Some are drawn in by the devil’s schemes where others don’t even know they’re under his spell.

Opposite the devil’s own are God’s messengers, His warriors. They number far more than the fallen ones. The Lord Jesus tasks the holy ones to minister to us for His purposes.

Ezra stopped talking for a moment as if he was choosing the right story to illustrate his point. A muffled clock chime hidden behind the closed door of a nearby office called out the time.

Nervous energy crept up Carly’s spine. She didn’t know why, but the old man’s story gave her the willies.

He continued, "Year was ’24 or thereabouts. There was a young man used to come around about harvest time. Slight, little man. Helped with the picking. Lawrence was his name. Now Lawrence pretty much kept to himself. He wasn’t no trouble and worked a long hard day for what it was worth. Lawrence came to meeting with us on Sunday mornings and enjoyed worshiping the Lord as much as anyone, near as I could tell.

"Come a day when Lawrence up and disappeared. Not a body could find him for two whole days right in the middle of corn picking time. Now everyone knows you don’t disappear on my daddy when there was work needed doing. Didn’t sit well with him. He’d tell you to your face, too. Lawrence knew this and knew my daddy’s ways well enough.

"We finally ran across him roaming the woods, frozen to the bone, and scared out of his wits. His eyes were big as saucers. Another morning and evening before my daddy could get him to say anything at all about what he’d been through. He wouldn’t say a thing, as if his words were scared right out of him. When he did start in, he told a tale would send a shiver straight up your neck and back down. Scare your family clear in the next county.

"Spoke of the dark ones. Came to him in the night. Near as anyone could tell, the dark ones were Satan’s own. Lawrence swore he could see them. He could see right into the realm of the spirits, the angels, and the devils. Called it the Sight, we did. Heard tell of it from grandpappy’s old tales. Never knew I’d run right smack into it.

He ran from them into the forest but couldn’t get away. We may never know how the dark ones knew Lawrence could see them even as they passed through their world. They did though and tormented him something awful.

Carly sat and listened without saying a word. She wrung her hands as Ezra continued.

He told us the morning we found him was the morning he prayed for the Lord’s help. God sent a mighty angel to do battle for Lawrence. Was three or four months before he was even close to passable. He could always sense the presence of the dark ones and the holy ones no matter the place or the time. Lawrence said he was granted sight into their world like the time in the forest. Come last days of picking, he never returned to our farm. No one ever saw him again.

Were you there when they found Lawrence in the forest? Carly asked.

Child, not only was I there, but to this day I remember the poor man’s face. He was crazy mad with terror. Let me tell you something, Carly, I ain’t never told no one before. The shadows around the grove were moving. The evil one’s workers were there. I perceived their shapes, felt their coldness. No one else could see them as far as I could tell. Just me. Never witnessed anything like it since.

Ezra, I know you mean well, but what on earth could this man and your story have to do with Will and me?

The one who hurt your husband…the Lord told me about him, too. He’s got a special gift. Like Lawrence. You need to find him, for the Lord has something for him to do and He’s got you helping. I don’t know. But, God ain’t in the habit of leaving people in the dark. He’ll show. For certain, He will.

This is unreal, Carly said, shaking her head. Show? Show what?

Carly, right now, we don’t know. He wants obedience, plain and simple and then and only then, He’ll show us a little more of His plan.

Why me? Why Will? Carly wondered aloud. "We’re trying to live our lives the best we can. We go to church. We work. We give to charities. We’re good