I never asked for this but it was my father’s final wish to take up his mantle. A promise I had to honor. In doing so, he euchred my brother, his first son, out of his birthright. He never did forgive him even when our father was on his deathbed. Nor me. We went our separate ways, living different lives as fate would have it. I should have been there with him, a liferaft he could have clung to but he lost himself in a hell of his own making. Lost in bitterness, in the darkness.

The last time I saw my brother, he rotted away in a jail cell. He was no longer the brother I knew. Decrepit in body, and withered in spirit, and only carried hatred in his heart. Despite it all, he made me promise to look after his son. In a world of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams, he didn’t want to leave the world with no lingering regret. Or perhaps, when he passed from this world and stood before that man who is all men, that would ask him what good deeds he has done before He passed his final judgment. What’s worse than an amputated spirit?

What destroys a man’s soul is a bad life. And what follows is nothingness. A man’s sufferance meaningless. How does one find meaning in a world where man is marked for death when he comes out of his mother’s womb? Where the race of men is more predacious than any other creature? Perhaps nothing happens to anyone he was not fitted by nature to bear. But suffering incurs indignation within man and he angrily cries for justice. Who comes, God? Or the devil?

The Traveler sat on a bench beneath a willow tree overlooking the river as it ran its course to the sea. The sun also rose and sat east at the edge of the skyline. The Traveler reached into his jacket pocket for a cigarillo and he put it in between his teeth and lit it with a match. He puffed rings of smoke.

A priest came by and seated himself next to the Traveler. “It’s a nasty habit, Michael.”

“I assure you it will not kill me anytime soon, Father Jameson,” he said as he puffed out more rings of vapor. “It’s done. His army smashed and the leader’s no longer among the living.”

“You being alive is evidence as much. I’ll inform them of your success, you did well.” Father Jameson studied Michael and noted he was not making eye contact, looking straight ahead at the river. “What’s wrong my son?”

Michael turned his head and looked into the Father’s small, gray eyes. He stubbed the cigarillo on the bench and leaned forward and sighed. “That man, Hazael, was not like any man I fought before. He was not even a man,” he said, “he was like the leviathan, a creature that can do about anything.”

“How’d you survive, Michael?”

“I don’t know. The last thing I remembered was a flash of lightning and we were separated from the blast. And I was the last man standing.”

“Michael, my boy. You survive and the word is spreading what’ve you done for us. You have your strength and God’s favor. But there’s a corollary, the devil will come after you.” The Priest laid a warm hand on Michael’s shoulder. “On that day, will you be able to stand?

“I will, Father.”

Jameson nods. “Indulge me for a bit? There’s a story I want to tell you.”

“Sure.”

“Back when I was a missionary; a novitiate to the order. I traveled from place to place. They sent me to a village that was devastated by a hurricane. I was to provide aid and guidance. They were tough people despite being disadvantaged in ways of material wealth, they came together and rebuilt what was lost. But this father lost his son to the storm, he stayed inside the walls of a ruinous church and waited for the building to crush him.” Jameson took a deep breath and laced his fingers together. “All of the villagers pleaded with him to come out but he refused them. Clinging to his silent grief. And I came along, he listened to what I had to say, and he broke his silence to ask me why Christ, the son of man, refused the three temptations of the devil in the wilderness.” He leaned forward and wiped tears from his eyes. “And he went on to rant that suffering and loss will follow all the days of a man's life because of Christ's refusal. I didn’t answer him… I didn't know how to answer him. Some things cannot be articulated by the language of man, it wouldn’t be enough. Never is,” he said, gazing at Michael. “I kissed him on his forehead and left him where he was. He never got what he wanted, and last thing I heard he died from a fever a few years later.”

“This world is cruel without a doubt.”

“Perhaps, but through His awful grace comes wisdom from the least of places or creatures.”

“Do you have an answer now? I’m sure you’ve given much thought.”

“If there’s an answer, it has eluded me for the last fifteen years. But perhaps tragedy is a given in life, the people we cherish give us hope to overcome,” he said. “The old man tried to outwit God himself, I imagine his indictment of Him remained on his thoughts until his final breath. Cursed his name but God needs no witness—for or against––through his grace man is warmed by summer, tempered by winter, a world in its making and unmaking. In truth, God bears witness to the formation of man’s identity. Without Him what meaning can man derive? The world’s identity would be whatever man likes it to be. A false notion, a plague.”

Michael folded his arms and tilted his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps so,” he said, “all flesh is grass.”

Jameson nodded and rose from the bench. “Well, I have other meetings to attend to. Oh, on your brother.”

“What about him?” he said with heat in his voice.

“He was arrested for robbery and murder. He was tried,” Jameson paused for a moment. “I’m so sorry. He received the death penalty.”

Michael was stunned in silence.

“I thought you should know. If you need to go to confession or anything at all. I’m here at your behest.”

“I know, thank you… Father Jameson.”

***

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Beneath the jailhouse, dark, reeks of old urine, blood stained stonewalls, lay John Jaeger on his bed with his cellmate Jon Brown, under the same sentence of condemnation and execution. After two days of silence, the two hoods fell into a conversation.

“What you in for, Brown?”

“I killed some cat over a woman.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. A lesson repeats over time that pussy is nothing but trouble.”

“Never a truer word has been spoken, Brown.”

John waited to be asked about his own transgression but he was not asked. After a moment had passed, he said, “They got me on robbery and murder charges. The wrong guy got killed; you know, collateral damage.”

“Damn. You’re a cold bastard,” Brown said.

“It's an asset to be one in my line of work.”

John looked out the only window in the cell, the sun was at its meridian, and the sky was cloudless. “In a few hours, I’m going to die, my child fatherless,” he said. “I was meant for more but it was denied to me…”

“Hey, man, I didn’t ask for your life story. I’m not interested to know it. Be a man, make your peace, do what you have to but I don’t want to be any part of what you’re selling.”

Heavy steps came down the stairs into the corridor to the holding cells. The figure loomed over the cell in a sneer of cold command, in the vein of John’s father, his eyes filled with cold judgment that haunted him since the days of his childhood. His bronze gaze made him small. John was made aware of how haggard and sunken he was.

“What are you doing here, Michael?”

“I came to say goodbye to my brother,” his voice was low and distant.

“Well, bye.”

“John…”

“Now you want to be my keeper? Now you want to be a good brother after all this time? When you’re off galavanting and slaying dragons, I had to scrap by to survive.”

Michael did not answer and remained steadfast.

“You’ve always been an arrogant son of a bitch since we were kids. Always trying to be like father, he picked you over me in the end. Ain’t that some shit?” John said bitterly.

“I never asked for this but that was the way Father wanted.”

“You always say that. Spare me, and admit that you always wanted it.”

Michael's eyes widened with shock and fury, his voice was not his own but his father’s. “And this what you wanted, John? Robbing, and killing folks to line your pockets. What do you take life exactly for John?” he said. “And what about your son, Desmond? The boy you’ve abandoned.”

“Desmond…” he trailed off into thought.

“Sure sounds like you’ve got your priorities straight, huh, John?” Brown said.

“Mind your business, Brown,” John said with thick irritation in his voice.

“He speaks truer than you know, John. Hear me––”

“No. You said your goodbyes. Now, get out of my sight.”

Michael did what his brother wished, he vanished in the dark of the corridor from once he came.

“Hey man,” Brown said.

“What is it?”

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The evening sun sat boiling westward and flushed the sky in colors of red and orange. Pulsing and malevolent as the darkest hour approached. John leaned against the wall, his arm folded, and Brown kneeled at the edge of his bed, quietly praying.

Jon Brown carried the blood of carpenters and artisans. He inherited his trade like so many men of his generation. His profession decided for him whether he liked it or not. He was engulfed by it; he lost himself in the subtle movement and dexterity within his hands, as his work sprang forth and took shape and form in reality. He eventually married a woman and was blessed with two sons. Brown’s life was a dream until he woke and his world was taken.

He found another man in his bed. In a blind fury he broke off a table’s leg and went to wail on him until his skull shattered into pieces, his bed caked in blood and brains. He turned his head to his wife’s shock, her face an amalgamation of confusion and fear. Brown knew he lost it all.

Brown looked up and turned his head to the cell bar and there was a priest, Father Hosea Jameson dressed in his liturgical robes with a red sash, he held his Bible in his hand. He spoke in a warm and comforting voice.

“If you like to make your confessions,” the Priest said, “this is the time to do so. None is above absolution.”

John went up to the priest, he whispered in his ear, and the Priest nodded. “I’ll let him know your final wish,” the Priest said quietly.

“I’ll take you up on your offer, Father.”

The Priest unlocked and slid open the door to the cell. Brown emerged, he was a foot shorter than the priest, yet he stood tall and dignified as he had done for all of his life and would follow him into the end. The Priest laid a warm hand on Brown’s shoulder as they walked to the confessional. The air was still, the light was obscured by shadows as they entered and sat forward.

Brown bowed his head and folded his hands. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it’s been too long since my last confession,” he said. “I killed this man, this son-of-a-bitch…”

“Language.”

“Right. Add it to the long list of my many sins, Padre.”

The Priest smiled faintly. He suppressed the slight chuckle in his throat. “Levity is good.”

Brown briefly smiled then his face turned grim as he continued to confess. “I saw him in my bed. I lost it, I beat this man to death. I blamed him. I blamed him and my wife for ruining everything.” Tears began to welled up in his eyes as the redness set in. “I was so angry with her for so long but only ‘til now I realized how much I drove her away. How absent I was in our boy’s lives. My pride was the noose around my neck.” He bowed his head, weeping. “I didn’t mean it…I didn’t mean it…”

“You carry a terrible weight on your soul and it's just that you suffer. None is beyond redemption if they seek it. I absolve in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

***

The night had arrived, it was cool, and the moon lit the lilac sky. John Jaeger was in manacles and escorted by two prison guards. He walked up the stairs to the gallows, each step taken was slower and heavier. Time had become imperceptible to John, he failed to notice the noose tightened around his neck. He oversaw a crowd and among the faces in the crowd was his son, Desmond with his younger brother next to him. Thank you, Father Jameson.

The barrister began his recital of the charges. He spoke loudly and clearly, quieting the crowd’s murmurs. “John Jaeger stands among you today and is guilty on the accounts of robbery, murder, theft, and destruction of property. A criminal thrives on the indulgence of society's understanding. But for society to thrive and prosper, the barbarity of this magnitude cannot be tolerated nor indulged. For this and in accordance with the laws, he shall be hanged by the neck until he is dead. May God, in his final judgment, have mercy on your soul.” The barrister nodded to the hangman holding the lever. The light in John Jaeger's hazel eyes snuffed out like a candle flame. Painless.

It weren’t soon enough, Desmond said, his face cold and pensive.

Michael placed a cool hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “We’re heading home,” he said.

“I don’t have a home.”

“You do now. I’ll show you the way.”