More than It Seems

Going thousands of miles away from a people I have come to love was a difficult step for me to take as I came home. It's easy to feel helpless here. But isn't prayer where all of the real work happens anyway?

More than It Seems

            Shadowy gorges crisscrossed the woman’s face as her eyes closed in concentration. A book lay open in her lap. A cat leapt on top of it, purring and unabashed by the heavy scent of mothballs around the rocking chair. The woman’s eyes remained closed, her lips twitching as she stroked the cat’s back and rocked, rocked, rocked.

He threw down the cigarette and ground it with his foot. His neon skater shoes scuffed the cold cement floor. Light slanted in through the high windows of the abandoned warehouse, highlighting the streams of dust flowing in the air. The letter crinkled in his pocket. He felt it and muttered, “Pop will always hate me.”
            He picked up the rope he had brought and jerked it with both hands to test its strength. The rough bristles scraped them. He winced.
            “Feels good.” He squinted up at the rafters, “See if I can remember those Boy Scout knots.”

            

             “You can’t have him, Snakeson,” the warrior said, his eyes locked on his opponent. He held a drawn sword which gleamed blood red in the predawn light.
             “Really? And what makes you the noble one?” Snakeson gripped his hooked blade, a sound like rusty chains erupting from his throat as he laughed.
            The warrior nodded at his red sword, “Only this.”
            Another rasp of rusty chains. “So I should cower before you because of a little sword?” His eyes flickered toward a gap in the heaving bodies around them. Metal clanked and fighters swore as the sweat of battle poured on every side, but they faced each other as if alone.
          “No,” the warrior replied, “you should cower before the One who gave it to me. You can’t have him, Snakeson.”
          “And why not?” Snakeson clenched his weapon more tightly, ready to spring. “I’ve worked hard to get him to this point.”
         “He has been bought.”
         “Oh?”
         “He has been paid for.”
          “Is that so?”
          “Yes.”
          “He doesn’t seem to think so,” Snakeson jeered. “If you’re so confident, why don’t you just come and take me down? You know you want to. Or have you lost your courage because nobody on Earth cares for your pitiful human?”
          The warrior’s eyes flashed, but he did not move. “May I?” he said to the air. He nodded, and a shield materialized at his side. A smile broke his face while Snakeson’s disappeared.
          “She cares!” he declared. He leapt forward, red sword swinging.

            

             His phone had been ringing, but he ignored it. He hunched his shoulders and tightened the rope around the rafter, not daring to look down. His phone beeped a text in—maybe he would look before he did it. He slid it open and read three words: Pop: I’m sorry.

            

             The gorges flattened on her face as the woman opened her eyes, nodded, and smiled. She shooed the cat away, closed the book in her lap, and eased out of her rocking chair. Setting the Bible on the kitchen table, she put the kettle on to boil. Tea sounded nice after a morning’s work.