.

 

There are moments, ever so slight, ever so scarce, moments that can
disappear in the blink of an eye...

He whispered to the stars. 'Please protect her.' He gathered his meagre
belongings and wandered out towards the night, the sound of the factory
pistons and valves working hard against the blood red sky. He had not
slept well. Each night the same dream. Upon a moonlit night, his feet bare
to the cooling moisture of the grass, he would venture toward the top of a
deformed ridge. His breath heavy from the effort, he would stare out across
a dark, ashened horizon, the distant pine trees black demonic silhouettes.
They sent the same chill down his spine. It was at this same exact moment
that he would hear her voice, a voice telling him, 'Protect her'.

His gaze moved swiftly to a movement in the shadows below. A young girl
walked slowly toward a young elf tree. She reached out and gathered
something in her hands. He strained to see what it was. It glistened as she
rolled it over and over. Suddenly, the sky was lit with blue-white light.
In dreams passed, the light had been unbearable to watch and he had awoken,
tears in his eyes. But this night had been different. He had forced
himself to watch. He found himself floating in front of her. Her face was
all too clear and beautiful. It was his sister, only older. Her eyes
intent on the object in her hands. He followed her gaze. There in her
hands was a beautiful locket and then as though she was made aware of his
presence, her gaze fixed upon his. Again the voice, 'Protect her.' And then
it was all gone.

He wiped away the tears from his eyes, his right hand finding its way to
the cross hidden beneath the fold of his shirt. He kissed it. The white
collar around his neck felt stiff, a sharp reminder of his faith. He
swallowed his tears; it was unfounded for a priest to feel such attachment.
But despite himself, the tears flowed more freely. The voice from the
dream echoed over and over. 'Protect her...Protect her..' It was a voice
that haunted him. The voice of his mother. He recollected their last day
together. They had picked strawberries together in the fields along the
farm road, across the creek near
the house. All three of them, his mother, sister and he would carry large
wicker baskets at the ready. Often mother would send him back to the house
with baskets full of ripe, red strawberries, whilst she stayed to find his
little sister who had wandered off into some distant field.

His father would greet him, a dimly lit lantern in his hand as dusk began
to settle in. He would help his son carry the baskets through to the
kitchen. It wasn't long before mother and sister would follow. They would
enjoy a sumptuous Sunday supper with strawberries and cream the fitting
finale. They would laugh and joke all through early evening.

But that day, those memories washed away. He was walking towards the house,
baskets aplenty with strawberries. No lantern greeted him. He called out
to his father, but there was no reply. Something was wrong. He started to
jog, then run, strawberries tumbling to the beaten grass.

The kitchen door was wide open. He walked in to find his father a
collapsed heap on the floor. He dropped the basket. Tears began to swell,
he choked on his breath. 'Father', he gasped, as slid to the stone floor
and rolled over the figure. 'Father! Father!', he shook vigorously, but to
no avail. His father was gone. His mother and sister returned. Their
screams were distant, vacant, the shock overwhelmed him. It was the last
time they collected strawberries.

He had planned on college, but each day brought revived guilt. He had
found that after the funeral he could not live with his mother and sister.
He chose a life of Christ and became a clergyman. He refused to accept
forgiveness, resigning himself to the Bible. In the early days, his mother
persisted to bring him back to the house, talking with his elders. But
despite her pleas he could find no reconciliation within himself, leaving
her in tears.

In time, he learnt through others that his mother had fallen gravely ill.
He found courage through discipline and duty to visit the old house, but
never entered its doors. He would say prayers and read from the bible near
her bedroom window. His mother would arise from her bed and venture close
to the window sill despite the pain and protests of her carers. He would
end with the Lord's Prayer at which point his sister would run to him and
place a daisy in his lapel. He would kiss her forehead and hug her,
turning to walk the beaten grass to the road, never once did his eyes find
courage to look upon those strawberry fields.

After the news of his mother's passing, he learnt that their family estate
had been seized by the town's bank claiming that his father had owed
substantial loans. Though friends encouraged him to contest the claim in
courts, his faith demanded detachment from material gain. Instead, he
wrote a letter to the bank asking that provision be made for his sister at
a private boarding school, to which the bank's manager agreed in exchanged
for his written consent for the bank to wholly own the family estate. He
duly agreed. He would receive a letter fortnightly from the school's
mistress informing him of his sister's progress. He would send written
reply, with a small note and sweet parcel for his sister. Six months
passed. One day he received news that the Church required him to move to
another town as pastor. He sent word to the boarding school that he would
see his sister before departing. But he was to learn on arrival that his
sister had never been admitted, that the letters he had received from the
boarding school were falsified. The news pierced his heart. For the first
time since the passing of his parents, he shed tears. So many tears.

>From that day, he had forsaken his newly awarded post as pastor and had
journeyed from town to town to find his her. The bank had since found new
management and could provide no indication of his sister's whereabouts. And
so it was, time passed.

He whispered again to the stars, 'My Lord, please protect her' feeling the
empty lapel as he walked. Each night and day brought new faces. Each day
a new church, shelter from the harsh truth that bore on his heart. But he
grew weary despite the solitude of prayer. For seven years he had searched
for her, but with no success. He could bare the dreams no longer. His
mother's voice haunted him. He had never allowed himself the chance to
embrace his mother whilst she lived. Not once had she asked anything by way
of Will or letter. But since that day he had learnt the true fate of his
sister, his mother's voice echoed each dream.

He walked and walked. He ventured into the outskirts of a town and saw its
church steeple from a distance. He grew weak with every step. This last
dream he had seen his sister's face so clearly. So radiant and beautiful.
She had looked into his eyes and he into hers. Each step brought him closer
to the church.

Each step, his heart grew weaker. The church loomed ahead. He drew himself
towards its steps and there he collapsed upon them, exhausted. He wiped
his hand across his mouth. His throat was parched.

He fell asleep upon those steps dreaming...

of picking strawberries..

with his mother.

..

........

'My child, to your feet.' He awoke to a bright morning sun. It took a few
moments for him to realise a pain in his lower back. The stone steps had
proven uncomfortable. He widened his eyes and blinked. 'It seems the Lord
has shown mercy on not one, but two strays!', said a soft, calm voice. He
looked up to see the face of a gentle, old man.

'Father?' he said, instantly recognising a fellow clergyman.

'Come, my child. I think some porridge should help straighten your vision'
chuckled the old priest. They walked the yard to the kitchen hall. There
the old priest started to prepare breakfast. Conversation was light until
the priest again referred to the other 'stray'.

'There is another here also father?', he asked.

'Yes. my child', confirmed the old priest, 'In fact it seems you shared the
same steps last night!' The priest chuckled to himself again.

'Where are they?',he asked.

'Ah! Well! 'She' is still dreaming of angels no doubt!' said the priest.

He frowned. The priest glancing at his face, moved into the dining area and
brought forth a crib. He looked inside and to his surprise he realised that
the other 'stray' was a baby girl. He gazed into the crib. He smiled at
the angelic face, eyes closed and breathing softly. The priest made for the
main hall, explaining that time waited for no one and that there were
chores to be done before breakfast. The priest gestured to him to watch
over the baby.

He smiled. He waited, watching the little angelic face. She moved and
stretched her eyes still closed. And then he did something that surprised
himself, he gathered the baby in his arms and hugged her close. Tears
began to fall again. He thought of both his beloved sister and mother. He
understood all at once, the vulnerability of Love and life. It tore at his
heart that he had had not the courage to be with them in their time of need
- that his own sense of loss had blinded him. He walked with her in his
arms out of the kitchen, across the hall and into the small chapel. He
muttered a small prayer of repentance to God, his eyes on the Virgin Mary
and baby Jesus, asking that God protect and love this orphaned child. His
hand once again reaching for the cross, tears streaming down his cheeks,
his eyes now closed. And then he heard a gurgle. His eyes opened to the
child in his arms.

She yawned and opened sleepy eyes. Those eyes looked at him then examined
their surroundings, then came to rest on his, a broad smile on her rosy
face. He had seen those eyes before. He could not breathe. He raised her
to his chest hugging her snugly, unable to think. As he did so he heard
something drop to the ground. He looked down. Something oval caught the
light that streamed through the glass stained windows. He reached down and
picked it up rolling it over and over. A locket. Just then a gust of wind
blew open the chapel's doors, he was momentarily blinded by the blue-white
light that entered. He walked towards the open doors, baby in arms, he
opened the clasp to the locket. What he saw stunned him, for it was not
photos, but a small flower...

a daisy...

 

And all at once he understood. Through tears he placed the locket in his
pocket and held the daisy up to the sun. It was fresh, fragrant. It was
only then that his gaze came to rest on his surroundings, for the chapel
overlooked fields.

Strawberry fields.

But there was no fear in his heart, just the overwhelming sense that he was
home. With one hand he pushed the stalk of the daisy into the empty lapel.
He gathered his niece in his arms and sat on the steps of the chapel
entrance...

..*

....*

there they sat...

.*

amongst strawberry fields...

....*

..*

a new day just beginning...

 

This beautiful story was created by Whitehawk