Reclamation

803 ADI

Water sloshes in the buckets at either end of the pole that sits on my shoulders. The pressure compresses my stiff back, causing jolts of pain with every labored step.

Why did I ever agree to live on a hill so far from the water?!  

A patch of loose earth crumbles under my foot, and bone grinds against bone inside my bad knee. As I nearly collapse from the agony, water spills from the right bucket, landing on the barren hillside. I grunt with pain and anger and stare at the wet spot of desolate earth.

What a waste! 

Muttering curses under my breath, I finish my climb, favoring my now-worse knee.

Atop the hill is a small stone house surrounded by a rock fence. It sits at the end of a long, cracked roadway littered with homes on either side, shoulder to shoulder, all unlivable, many hardly recognizable. Our home was the least damaged, with a few piles of rubble on the floor, and some cracks in the walls. Nothing we couldn’t fix.

A small garden grows in the backyard, its vibrantly colored stems, leaves, and flowers a stark contrast against the grey and barren wilderness. Nothing grows on its own up here. There are no trees, no vines, no flowers, only forgotten structures, remnants of the old world. The only things that grow by themselves are by the water’s edge. We would have built a home closer to the river if not for the threat of greedy Twilight dwellers or aggressive animals. 

Slowly, I bend down next to the garden and set the buckets on two large stones. Straightening my back is agony, it causes my jaw to shudder. And my wrinkled hands are claws, locked from gripping the pole during the long trek. 

“You’re the lucky one, you know.” My voice is strained from lack of use; it sounds strange. I look at the long bed of stones marking my brother’s grave. He never got the chance to grow old, not like this. I remember protesting at how far we were settling from the river. He insisted that the trip for water would keep us strong. I look at my withering legs. How wrong he was. Only God’s favorites remain strong. We are left out here to wither and rot. I curse their perfect world. If my body wastes away, so be it. I’ll take my little slice of paradise. 

I mutter another obscenity and laugh a hollow laugh that turns into a pained cough. The plants in the garden beg for water, but my back begs me to rest. The day is far from over; they won’t die if I leave them for another hour. A quick nap and I’ll finish my chores. 

Hanging from our home, just above the back side door, is a wooden sign with the carved words: NO TEACHERS. I walk past it into the large room that connects to the main house. The ceiling is high above my head. The space used to house two hunks of metal with useless wheels. We dragged them out on day two. The room is now filled with all of our junk: a one-man cart with a broken axle, several tools, mostly broken, a couple of sharpened spears, a dwindling number of traps, and everything else from rope to cured hides. Through a small doorless archway is the main dwelling, which consists of four square rooms that run in a circle, all connected. I hobble inside and lower my rump slowly into a metal chair in the kitchen. A stone-carved chess board with marble and onyx pieces sits in the middle of the rickety table, the game unfinished. A small red flag points to the onyx pieces. 

One knight’s move and he would have had me. 

I sigh and grit my teeth, running my fingers through my thinning hair and scratching my scalp. Is it by sheer willpower that I’m still out here? There is nowhere better to go. My eyes are drawn to the ancient weapon above the firepit in the living room. A metal box labeled buckshot sits next to it, all preserved in a durable glass case. Jonathan found them buried under two feet of rubble. He said he saw something shiny. Nothing shines out here, so I didn’t believe him. He found most of the things in our small home, the windchimes, metal chairs, stove, even the materials to make the chess set. My eyes scan the home from item to item and finally land on the large bed in the next room. 

I guess napping is better than sulking.

The fur blankets absorb me as I gingerly haul them up over my shoulders. Despite my aches and pains, I’m asleep in seconds. It’s a dreamless sleep, as usual.

I’m only awakened by the sound of muffled voices. My eyes open to a dark room. Lights glow behind the house, shining through the back window, dancing on the walls of the kitchen. Slowly I get out of bed, keeping my head low—despite the protest of my back. I slink to the living room, open the glass case, and retrieve the double-tubed weapon and a handful of small plastic capsules from the box. Cracking it open, I slide two capsules in. 

Back in the bedroom, I pull back the blankets that cover the window and peek out. In the moonlight, I see two men standing near the garden, one is scratching his chin as he observes the plants. They talk quietly to one another and I tilt my ear to hear what they are saying, with no success. It doesn’t matter. They need to leave. Now! I exit through the front door that faces the cracked street; it squeaks the least. I scan for more lights and check patches of the moon-lit street for moving shadows. Nothing. My body might be failing, but my eyes work just fine. I circle the home and the voices become clearer.

“Someone is living out here, Tanner.” The man’s voice is deep but soft and gentle. It reminds me of how women would speak. “Why would they settle here? How far are we from the water?” 

“At least a mile, and it’s all downhill from here.” This voice is similar, but it has more confidence. 

“It’s amazing what they have done with so little. Do you think they are home, Tanner? I wonder if they would mind sharing some water. My canteen is nearly empty.” 

“People out here do not share, Dezmond. They are probably hiding inside, waiting for us to leave, hoping that we are not here to steal from them, or worse, kill them.”

I shift uneasily. I don’t like this. It ends now. 

Rounding the corner and keeping my distance, I level the barrel to the first man’s head. “You have ten seconds to start running, maybe less; my finger gets a bit twitchy.”

The man crosses his arms; the other raises his hands and cowers. I shift my gun to the cowering man. The other scowls and sighs. “We’re not here to hurt you, and you can’t hurt us—not in any way that matters.”

“Tanner,” says the cowering, feminine-sounding man, “now is not the time.” 

My eyes dart between the two. Their clothing is tailored, their large backpacks pristine. These are not Twilight dwellers; they’re from a city. My face tightens with anger. Would it be worth it to lay them both down? Angels would come, and I would die, but they would feel the pain as the tiny pellets poked little holes into their flesh. The one that cowers must suspect I’m crazy enough to shoot.

“What are you doing out here, city dwellers?” I growl.

“We’ve come to start a settlement.”

“A settlement!” I almost pull the trigger out of sheer rage, but I hold myself back.

The cowering man senses my anger and steps back. “We won’t destroy your home.”

“Dezmond,” Tanner scolds. 

“We don’t need all of it, just enough to establish Havenwood.”

“Havenwood?” I ask, still fuming.

“That’s what me and my brother here have decided to call it.”

“It’s Bethesda—not Havenwood.” I hate the name as it falls from my tongue. Why do people insist on changing things—on forgetting the old world? My hatred pulls the gun tighter to my shoulder, causing Dezmond to flinch. “Get away from my house! If I see you again, I’ll kill both of you, regardless of the consequences.”

“You won’t see us, but you will hear us. We start reclamation tomorrow.” Tanner says, before turning and grabbing the other man’s arm. 

“This is a nice home,” Dezmond says.

Tanner pulls him close and whispers something in his ear. I watch as Dezmond shakes his head and yanks his arm free, giving his brother a sad and disappointed look before turning back to me. “We’re going to build nicer homes. You can join us. This doesn’t have to be your life.”

My chest tightens at the words. How dare you?! I look to Jonathan’s grave and then to our home. “Get off my property before I give your lungs extra holes,” I say.

Dezmond sighs. “The offer still stands. You’ll know where to find us.” Dezmond looks like he might say something else, but instead, he turns to leave with his brother.

I go back inside and watch them through the front windows, their lights dancing on the ruined buildings as they walk down the forgotten street.

They don’t return, but I hear them the next morning.

The sound of metal on stone echoes in the distance, an abrasive, “Pink, pink, pink!” Another pickaxe joins in on the chorus. “Pink pink, pink pink, pink pink.” What are they tearing down? What will they build with the rubble? A church? A house? 

“I don’t care,” I grumble to myself as I water the garden in the early morning sun. Too bad Jonathan didn’t find earmuffs in all his scavenging. “I’m not leaving,” I say to the grave. “I have nowhere to go. It doesn’t matter anyways, I’ll be dead by the time they finish tearing down one building.”

“Pink pink.” “Pink pink.” “Pink pink.” The sound continues all day, only stopping for a few short hours. It picks up the next day at dawn, and the next, and the next. For four months, they make noise, day, after day, after day. My only reprieve from the grating sound comes when I fetch water, although this does not make the trip any more enjoyable. How I wish they would leave me to my misery! They’ve got centuries left to live. Go spend the next decade somewhere else! 

Wind blasts over the house on the hill, causing the windchimes to twist and rattle. Tomato stalks whip back and forth and are dusted with plumes of dry earth. They will need water if I’m going to keep them, but my knee has been acting up for a week. I lick my dry lips and look at the almost empty bucket in the kitchen. I’ve only made eight trips for water in the last month. I need to go. Wrapping an old shirt over my face, I head out into the dusty landscape, listening for the sound of pickaxes.

Nothing.

Good. This haul is going to be frustrating enough. 

I grab the pole and buckets and head out. My eyes are on fire by the time I get to the thick green bushes and leaning trees that indicate the river is nearby. A carved path runs through the trees to the water’s edge, worn down from thousands of trips. Some might see this path and use it for themselves, but I don’t suspect they will. It is too far out of the way to be convenient. That’s why I chose this spot, less chance of company. Stepping over a fallen branch in the path, I enter a clearing near the flowing current and find myself face-to-face with a masked man.

Nearly jumping out of my skin, I pinch a nerve in my neck as my head jerks backwards. The bar and empty buckets slip from my grip and tumble to the ground. I start to flee when I recognize the fine clothing. He’s one of them. And this time, I don’t have a weapon to point at his face. 

“Woah there. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. I wasn’t sure whether I should call out or let you see me. Guess I know now,” says the deep but feminine voice under the shawl. What was his name again? Dezmond? It doesn’t matter.

“What are you doing in my spot?” I growl.

He looks around, noting the path. “I’m terribly sorry. I got lost on my way down here. I’ll be right out of your hair. Just gotta fill up.” 

Behind him sit two large buckets. He must be planning to haul them without the help of a crossbar. I can’t tell if he is stupid or just fortunate enough to have working limbs. Pain jets from my neck through my body as I look back up, causing me to grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Woah! You alright?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I said, I’m fine!” I spit, causing another jolt of pain and a noticeable wince.

“You don’t look fine. Do you need help with your buckets? I can fill them up and carry them for you.”

Who does he think I am? I don’t need his help! I can do this on my—where is he going? Dezmond circles and grabs the buckets and pole from the ground.

“What are you doing?!” I protest.

“Helping.”

“I don’t need your help!”

“Well, you’re getting it anyway.” He walks to the water’s edge, fills my buckets and his own, and then hangs them all from the long pole. “I need to get one of these!” he says with a smile and a small testing bounce. 

I grunt a response, too tired to fight. Maybe I’ll shoot him when we get back to the house! That’ll cheer me up. 

“You ready?” he says.

Rolling my eyes, I turn and begin the trek back. The wind calms down as we climb up and down the several small hills. My body feels light without the water weight. I can’t remember the last time I was out this far without something to carry. Apart from the residual aches and pains, I don’t mind the walk. Jonathan would have liked today, wind and all. But he wouldn’t have liked him. City dwellers made his skin crawl. 

“We won’t have to do this for long,” Dezmond says. I stop, turning my body to give him a confused glance. He smiles, breathing heavily under the weight of four full buckets. “Rain’s coming,” he says.

“Why would it rain here?”

“Because we have something that needs it.” 

“Huh? And what would that be?” 

“How about you come by and see for yourself?” 

Grunting, I turn and continue up the hill.

“We don’t bite, you know,” Dezmond calls after me.

“I don’t belong in the cities.”

“Then it’s a good thing this isn’t a city yet! You still have plenty of time to become someone who does belong.”

We continue walking in silence until we crest the final hill and I follow Dezmond to the back yard. “It really is amazing that you grew all of this out here. I can’t imagine how much effort that took. Do you have meat too? I haven’t seen any animals this far in.”

I point to the raccoon hanging next to the doorway. “I’ve got traps by the river,” I say. 

“Traps?” He says nervously. “Any that could hurt a human? I don’t want my leg snapping in two.”

I shake my head, and immediately regret it, as the pinched nerve flares.

“Sorry,” he says. “No more stupid questions.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” I say and head for the back door.

“You’re not getting the shotgun, are you?”

“Hmm, so that’s what it’s called—have you ever had coon jerky?”

“Can’t say that I have. Are you offering to share?” He mocks me with his words like I don’t have a kind bone in my body. I’m just not kind to those who deem themselves Biblically special.

Lifting a hand, I wave him in and he follows. It doesn’t take long for his mouth to start flowing about all of the little trinkets and doodads that decorate our small home. Thankfully, I have not lost the ability to block out rambling fools. I find the jerky drying over the counter at the back of the kitchen and pull two pieces from the small hanging hooks. Dezmond stops talking and I turn to find him sitting at the kitchen table, fingers scratching his chin as he looks at the chessboard. Panic rises in my chest as he reaches for a piece, but I don’t stop him. Gingerly, he grabs the knight and makes the next move, the move that Jonathan would have made.

“It’s not checkmate, but I would be amazed to see how someone would recover from this!” he says with pride, looking up. 

I’m too stunned to speak. With one simple act, a piece of my brother fades away and I feel… free. I’ve been living with his ghost for two decades. His spirit clings to the items on the walls, not letting me forget all that he did for me, and how much I owe him. He is always present, but in this moment, I don’t feel him. Guilt washes over me at the thought of letting him go, and I scowl.

Walking over, I hand the piece of meat to Dezmond and move the knight back to its spot. “For the road,” I say bluntly.

“Would you like to have a game?”

“Don’t make me shoot you.” My words are light but the threat is real. 

“Alright, alright. I get it.” He takes a bite of the jerky and tilts his head in surprise. “That’s not half bad.” He pauses. “I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name. Could I by chance have that as well before I go?”

I consider the request, trying not to like him, pushing away the comfort that his conversations have brought. If I tell him, he’ll come back. I’m not sure how I feel about that—but right now, I need him to go. “Thadius,” I say.

“Well, Thadius, it’s been a pleasure. If you don’t mind, I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Do I mind? I don’t figure it out before he is up and out the front door. I watch him go, and I hear him whistling as he walks the long cracked road out of view.

“Rain’s coming…” I say to myself. “Hmm…”

There is no pinking sound the next day. Sun high in the sky, Dezmond returns, as promised, this time with an extra two buckets of water. I insist that his kindness is unnecessary, but he does not relent. Every day for the next month, I find two full buckets next to the garden. Some days he stays to talk, others he leaves the buckets without a word. Those days feel empty. I hate him on those days for giving me someone to talk to, for giving me something to look forward to. I was comfortable being alone. 

The more he visits, the more I look forward to our next interaction. Stimulated, my mind starts to dream again, mostly about chess. With a bit of coaxing, Dezmond convinces me to reset the board and quickly shows that he is a skilled player, with a mastery of the end game. I shake off the rust and squeak out a few wins of my own.

 I went to bed last night imagining the board in my mind, considering my next move, and I awake to the sound of pitter-patter coming from above. Becoming lucid, I hear droplets twanging on metal in the kitchen and feel a heavy wet splash on my forehead. Looking around, I find that the roof is leaking from several spots. When we were fixing up the place, we didn’t bother fixing the roof. Who needs a roof when there’s no rain? Is it really raining?! 

With weeks of rest, the pain in my neck is mostly gone and my joints don’t hurt with every step, at least not enough to be noticeable. I practically spring out of bed before running to the back door. The ground is a deep brown. Currents of water flow, creating small rivers in the vast desolate landscape. The buckets next to the garden are full and running over. The plants happily accept the well-needed shower. It’s really raining! I can’t remember the last time I saw the sky open up. I was so young. My hand stretches out and I feel the downpour on my skin. A smile crests my lips and tears well in my eyes. Without a thought, I step out and let the torrent wash over me. 

When I was a young man, I didn’t need rain.

My eyes are drawn to the water flowing through the stones of my brother’s grave. We had our strength, our resolve. No one could tell us what to do. We made our own path. But now… Now it pours and I don’t feel rage. I don’t curse the clouds. The rain falls on the just and unjust alike.

“What is just? Who are they to say who we are?” my brother’s words resonate. Did I ever hate the teachers as much as he did? I look to the sign hanging with the words: NO TEACHERS, the one he carved when they wouldn’t stop bothering us. I was amazed that it worked. I haven’t seen a teacher in over forty years! Rain drenches my clothing. If Jonathan was still here, would he have opened his arms to the sky? No. He would have shot the two men and accepted the consequences. Do I lose him if I refuse to do the same? 

In the torrent of rain and emotion, Dezmond’s words echo in my mind. “Rain’s coming.”

“Why?” I say to myself, reliving the distant conversation.

“Because we have something that needs it.” 

What have they been doing for the last four months? The question crawls through my old bones causing me to wriggle with curiosity. I need to know. Next to the buckets, I find a small carved cane. Dezmond made it and gave it to me as a gift. I still don’t know why he does these things. Who am I but an angry old man? I grab the smoothed handle of the cane.

It wouldn’t hurt to have a look.

Rain streams over my eyelids as I reach the fork at the end of the roadway. Down the hill to my right, past a few dozen buildings, lights shine under the darkness of the thick clouds. I head towards the glow, using the cane to move more steadily over loose earth and debris, but I still trip a few times on the wet terrain. Walking around a final pile, I see it, not a home, not a church, but four small fields of tilled earth surrounded by rubble heaps. Behind the fields sits a tent. A small fire flickers inside, illuminating three men. Confused, I step out and walk between the fields.

Dezmond notices me from within and runs out to greet me, a smile stretched over his excited features. “I told you it would rain!” he shouts over the downpour. “Please, join us! Come inside where it’s warm and dry.”

“Who is he?” I say coldly, looking beyond.

Dezmond looks back. “That’s the king.” 

I scowl, regretting my decision to come. He won’t allow me to be here; I’m cursed, he is blessed, we don’t mix. Turning, I start to leave.

“Where are you going?!” Dezmond says with a laugh. “You just got here.”

“I don’t belong out here.” I look to the tilled fields with a conflicted sense of pride for their hard work. “Congratulations on your garden; I’m sure you’ll have plenty of food for you and your brother.”

“Oh. It’s not just for us. More are coming. We’ll need all the food we can get. You could help us.”

More people? More pickaxes? More noise?! I now know where I stand; I don’t belong here. They can have it. All of it! They can even have my home, but not until I’m gone. I’ll die out here, like my brother, as their God intended—and they can thrive over my dead body! “When they come, tell them to leave me alone! And while you’re at it, find a new charity case,” I say, throwing the cane into the field. 

“Thadius,” Dezmond pleads.

I wave a frustrated hand, dismissing him. I’m done pretending that life can be any different. He needs to understand. He needs to leave me alone. For his sake. “Forget my name. Forget me.” I take a deep breath. “If I see you again, I will shoot you.” 

He doesn’t say another word and I do not look back. I return home and begin plans to fix the roof. I can’t stop the rain, but I can make sure it doesn’t ruin the little that I have left. 

Six more months pass and more people come. The cacophony of pickaxes rings from dawn till dusk and I craft earmuffs from animal skin to block out the sound. I do not leave home for weeks at a time, surviving entirely on the produce from my garden, which has now tripled in size. Grass and vegetation sprout between the long abandoned structures, coating the wilderness with green and speckles of color. I see people from time to time, dressed in fine clothing. They look to my house on the hill but they keep their distance. Dezmond must have listened. Good.

Day after day, I fight the urge to end it, even going to the extent of hiding the shotgun under a pile of discarded tools. One particularly beautiful day, I consider digging it back up when I hear a knock on the front door. Enraged, I go and open it, expecting to see Dezmond, but my anger quickly fades when I’m met by a beautiful stout young woman with soft features. Her hair is a vibrant red and her face is speckled with freckles. In her arms is a covered basket; the aroma of freshly baked bread finds my nostrils. 

“May I come in,” she says bluntly.

“I told Dezmond…”

“That you would shoot anyone who came to visit?” She finishes. “Well then. Are you going to shoot me or are you going to invite me in?”

She acts like those are the only two options. I could slam the door in her face. Would that scare her off? She taps her foot with resolve. I don’t think she is going away without a fight, and I’m too tired to make an effort.

I walk inside without a word, leaving the door open. She follows and immediately makes the place her own. She sets the basket on the kitchen table and takes a seat. “I love what you have done with the place,” she says.

“I didn’t do it,” I say.

“Well, I love what someone did to this place.”

“Why are you here?” I say, trying to avoid the small talk.

“To bring you bread and to see what all the fuss was about. You’re the talk of the town, you know.” 

I sigh. “I’m nothing more than a grumpy old man waiting to die.” I speak the truth, no longer concerned about being subversive. 

“You can’t be that old,” she says quizzically. 

“I’m pushing eighty, don’t know which number exactly, stopped counting a while back.”

She laughs and I give her a confused look. 

“I’m ninety-seven, and I’m the youngest one out here,” she says.

My brow furrows and I remember that people don’t age the same in the cities. Still, she looks good for ninety-seven! Really good. Watching her laugh, I feel worlds apart, disconnected from the life I once lived, from the people like her. Were they really as evil as I remember? “And what do you make of all this fuss?” I say, leaning against the counter.

She looks me up and down, and shrugs. “You don’t seem that scary to me. I’ve seen meaner cats.”

This puzzles me. “Are you calling me a cat?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pulling a roll from the basket. “If you start batting this around on the floor, I’ll know for certain.”

I can’t help but smile and grunt out a laugh.

“See,” she says. “Someone who laughs at my stupid jokes can’t be that bad.” 

Her eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but stare. For a moment, I feel young again. I feel light. Looking to my wrinkled hands, I’m pulled from the delusion. She will live for centuries, I’ll be gone long before she has her first blemish. 

“Thank you for the bread,” I say, trying to hide the sadness of my words. 

“Deborah,” she says with a gentle nod of her head. “My name’s Deborah.”

“Thank you, Deborah. My name is…”

“Thadius,” she says, getting up from her chair to extend a hand in greeting. I take it gently, and bow. Her skin is like silk against my calloused hands. Her smiling eyes meet mine and, if I’m not mistaken, I see her blush before she looks away. “I can’t stay long, but I really hope you enjoy the peace offering.” 

“I’m sure I will,” I say, forcing myself to let go of her hand. “Will you come back to visit?”

“No,” she says quickly. My heart sinks. “But, you can come visit me!”

The thought pulls me away, but I hold onto the moment. I don’t want her to leave. “I’m not sure my old legs can make it that far, you might have to pick me up in a cart.”

Her laugh warms my soul like hot soup.

“There’s a young man hiding in there, you know. You can’t fool me with wrinkles. Besides, I’ve got a decade on you. Does that make me old? Should I be all grumpy like you,” she says, mocking my demeanor. 

“No,” I say back, taking her in. “I like you just the way you are.”

“Then come visit. The king wants to talk with you.” 

“But…”

“He’s a good one. They’re all good—but him…” her face lights up, “you are going to like him.”

It feels like a trap. Did they send her here to win me over with her gentle whims? I look at her soft smile. What if this is genuine? I can’t let her care for someone like me! Something deep inside pushes me to chase her away, to cut this off before it grows into something that can lead to more pain. But I don’t push back. Something closer to the surface wants this.

“Okay,” I say, allowing myself to trust her words, wanting more than anything to share more moments like this. 

“Now. Before we keep talking and I miss my appointment, I’m going to go. Don’t you say another word, Thad. I really can’t stay, so don’t tempt me with a good time.” She wiggles her finger towards me and heads for the door. I obey and let her leave, although everything inside me screams, begging me to ask her to stay.

The next day, I wake early, although not from sleep. I couldn’t even close my eyes last night. My mind danced back and forth between beautiful Deborah and the third man in the tent. The “king.” He will see through me. He will know how I have rejected his God’s rules. I chose to leave, I cursed their King of Kings! What does that make me? 

“You are going to like him.” Deborah’s words play in my ears. But could he like me? I shake my head and slip on my sandals. What’s the worst that could happen? I dare not entertain the thought, but I have to know. I have to see her again, and Dezmond… I’m ashamed to admit how much I miss him. Standing, I resolve in myself to see it through. I don’t leave through the front but walk out the back, pulling the NO TEACHERS sign from its hook and throwing it from the hillside. “I’m sorry, Jonathan,” I say to the grave, and head off towards the sound of pickaxes. 

Dozens of people fill the now-cleared streets, piling rubble from half-broken-down buildings into horse-pulled carts. They stare as I pass, but not in a rude way. They are curious. As am I. Several more fields surround the original four. Women walk across them wearing beautiful summer dresses, sowing seeds. I see Deborah among them; she looks up with the most vibrant smile and points me to the tents on the other side of the field. There are at least thirty of them now in the large clearing. Jonathan used to scavenge here. I joined him once. There was an old destroyed school with a plaque on the side of the building that read. “Alice Deel Middle School.” I look for it beyond the sea of tents and realize that they are covering it with rubble.

“Why are they doing that?!” I ask myself, walking towards the tents. 

“They’re building a mountain,” a gentle voice says, and I turn to find Dezmond.

He pulls me in for a firm hug. “It’s good to see you again, friend!” 

“Don’t get too excited,” I say, allowing the affection, but not reciprocating. “I’m here to see the king.” 

“Oh, I know,” Dezmond replies, and holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length. “He has been expecting you.” I look around, anticipating to see him standing behind me, but he is not. Instead, I find Tanner leaning against a cart across the road. He gives me a grin and a nod. I nod back.

Dezmond leads me through the tents and we enter one on the backside of the field. It doesn’t look special, no fancy decorations, no throne. It’s like all the rest. Inside is a small cot and a desk. A thin but muscular man stands in the middle of the space. He is wearing a simple tunic with a belt and an empty leather sling on his hip. His hair and beard are white, his skin aged. He extends a hand.

I hesitate before grabbing it. 

“Thadius? Am I right?” His voice is deep and gentle, yet it commands attention. 

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling small in the already small space. 

He smiles and the walls push away. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Dezmond has taken a kinship to you.”

“I’m not sure why,” I say, looking back at my friend.

“How long have you been out here?” says the king.

“We left before my sixteenth birthday. I’m not sure how long it’s been since then.”

“Long enough for you to feel what life was like before.” He looks to his aged arm and clenches his fist. “I remember what it’s like to be old in a cursed world.” 

Does he not feel it still? Do his bones not creak? How can he look this way and say such things? It’s been so long. I don’t remember how all of this works—just that it didn’t work for me. “Why did you want to see me?” I ask. 

“Because you want to be seen,” he says in return. 

“I’m not made for this world, for your rules, for your God.”

“But, Thadius…” the king laughs, “this world was made for you.”

Was it? It’s always been your world, not mine. We never belonged. I strain to remember what life was like all those years ago. It all feels so distant. I try to recall the face of my mother, but find nothing. Is she still alive? It doesn’t matter. We didn’t belong; that’s why we left—why Jonathan left. I had to follow him. He knew what we needed. Right? I didn’t need God, I had Jonathan. Were we the same, or did I learn to reflect his hatred? It all blurs together. I need to know the truth.

The king stands in the silence, patiently waiting for a response.

Finally, I speak. “Tell me this. Why me? Why do I get such kindness? Why did I live long enough to get a second chance at a beautiful world?” Emotion swells within me.

This isn’t right. If Jonathan can’t be here, I shouldn’t be here. If he can’t have this, I shouldn’t have this! The thoughts drown me.

“I know your pain, but this was never for your brother. His death is not your fault. The light did not hide from him. He chose to walk into darkness.”

“So did I!” I yell. “What of me? Why do I live? Am I any better than him?”

“No,” the king says. “But if he were here, neither of you would find life.” 

The torrent of rage and guilt drenches me, and my eyes dart for a way of escape. There is no escape. If I run, it’s over. Tears stain my cheeks as I fall to my knees. Trembling. I can’t let him go; we did this together. Who am I if I let our vision fall to the wayside? 

“His death was not without purpose,” the king says, kneeling with me. “He died so that you could live; God can use anything for good. I’m so sorry that Jonathan is gone, but if the roles were reversed, he would not be here today.”

How does he know that? He didn’t come to visit us. Who is he to say he knows my brother?! No teacher ever came to visit us after we put up the sign—we were alone.

“You don’t have to be alone,” says the king.

“How do you know me?” I beg. “How can you know that he wouldn’t have come here with me?”

“Because my God knows all and he walks with me. I do not know your days beyond what he tells me. He knew you would be here today. He placed Dezmond in your path. He made Deborah brave so that she would seek you out. It is all by design. But,” he adds, letting the tent breathe with the silence, “you chose to come. It is by your free will that you are here, and by your free will, you can choose to turn in your burden for riches. You don’t have to let your brother’s memory go, but you should not live in his shadow.” 

My soul shatters. Kneeling with the king, I begin to weep. I spent so much time running, I never thought to consider what I was leaving behind. How could I be so blind? I was going to shoot them, just to watch them bleed, just to watch kind men suffer! Lord, forgive me, for I am evil. Do not let me run home to die! “I want to come back!” I beg.

“Then rise; your God is not done with you yet,” the king says, standing and extending a hand. 

I reach up. My shoulder is stiff from bracing against the ground, but the moment his hand locks to mine, I feel the purest energy rush into me, not through my hand, but down my head and through my spine, as if I’m touched by something else. The wave washes through every nerve of my body. It is warm and it overtakes me with peace. Drifting from myself, yet completely lucid, I watch as the wrinkles on my arms fade and I feel my skin tighten across my chest and back. The atrophied muscles in my legs regenerate. Strands of thinning white hair draping my eyes regain their golden brown color. By the time I’m standing, I’m a new man! Everything rejuvenated, all except for the subtle pain and stiffness in my right knee. Is that for a reason?

Dezmond is smiling at me, and I can’t help but smile back. “You look good, brother,” he says, wrapping me into a tight hug.

I’m stunned by it all and lost in the clarity and comfort left behind by the flood of energy. What was that?! The power of God? I look to the king, who stands with a smile of his own. Reaching to his left, he takes my cane from the table, the one I threw to the fields. Dezmond releases me and I take it. “Do not forget the life you leave behind. Your deliverance will carry others from the darkness,” the king says.

Humbled, I begin to bow and he stops me by the shoulder. 

“I am no greater than you. I grew old once,” he says, showing his wrinkled hands. “I wear this to remember how far I had to crawl before our God pulled me from the mud.”

I see it now, behind his sorrowful eyes. He was like me. This isn’t an all-powerful being who deems me as less. He was redeemed too! I will not turn away again. “Thank you,” I say, not able to find better words.

“You’re welcome,” the king returns. “Now, for other matters. I believe Dezmond has something to show you.”

Puzzled, I look to Dezmond, who is unable to hold back his excitement. He leads me from the tent, which is now surrounded by several dozen men and women. Their eyes are filled with joy as they examine my renewed form. I hardly notice the stiffness in my knee as I use the cane to push through the crowd, ecstatic with how good the rest of my body feels. Beyond the tents and far from the growing rubble mountain, stands a large block of stone covered with a thin cloth. Tanner stands beside it.

The typically stoic man beams at me. “Good to have you back, brother.”

“Brother? Why do you call me that?” I ask.

“You may not know this yet, but you were family the moment we laid eyes on you,” Dezmond says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “You just needed a little push to see it.”

Without another word, Tanner pulls the sheet from the stone. Etched letters adorn its face: “BETHESDA. Not all new things need new names.” Below the carved letters is a small bronze plaque with the words. “Founded by three brothers who broke ground and proved that even dead soil can sprout new life.”

Tears sting my eyes.   

Who am I to be considered their brother? I didn’t grow a garden for them, or for any of these people. It was for me so that I could live! My intentions were selfish, yet they consider me a ground breaker? They consider me… family? Emotions flood me. A tiny part of me wants to reject all of this. No. I’m done rejecting their gifts. I put my hand on my mouth as tears flow.

The crowd now surrounds us and the plaque. This moment is not just for me. It is for them too. They share in my freedom, like it is their own. These are my people. I look at each of them, bonding them to my heart. This land is theirs—no, ours. I find Deborah. She looks at me in the same way as when we first met. It’s like she always saw me this way. I want to know everything about her. I hope she wants the same of me.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I weep, looking to the brothers.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” Tanner says. “But that does not mean there is not work to be done.” He reaches behind the monument and pulls out an axe. “You grew a garden out here; do you think you could grow some trees? These people need homes.” He scans the crowd. 

I wipe the tears from my face and grab the sturdy tool from his hand, feeling, for the first time in my life, a sense of purpose. If they need trees, they will have trees! Whatever they need, they will have it! The dust of this land will not take one more life. 

I laugh.

“What is it?” Dezmond says.

“I’m just happy!” I look at my new family and joy fills my heart. “I get to do something I love, and this time—I don’t have to fetch the water!”

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