Mason Beck Fiction

Happy Friday!
If you’re just joining, check out Parts One and Two!

Stay tuned for Part Four as soon as I can think it through and get it written.

Enjoy!

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The shouts of “Amen!” and “Praise be!” pulled her back to the present. The memory of loss dimmed like a dream at dawn, and her gaze found him again.
He was here. He was safe.
He was her miracle.

The parishioners pressed forward to clasp the hand of the boy preacher, the child spared by God Himself. Eliza stood aside, pride rising in her like a tide, watching him meet each soul with a steady gaze and firm grip, his small shoulders held straight as though he bore the very Word upon them.

One by one they filed out through the old wooden doors, leaving only their footprints upon the dust-grained floor and the faint echo of hymns clinging to the rafters. When the last had gone, his strength went out of him as if drawn away with the crowd. His shoulders sagged, and he sank into a pew.

Eliza hurried to him, gathering him close.
Moments ago, at the pulpit, he had seemed larger than life, filled with holy fervor, but in her arms he was only her son again, small, frail, trembling, his hair damp with sweat. His skin burned with fever. As she brushed it from his brow, she saw a thread of crimson slide from his nose and trace his lip.

“Ishmael!” she gasped. “Are you well?”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed but gentle, and he smiled.
“Just weary, Mother. I guess I wore myself out up there.”

“You need rest. You’ve scarce been home a week after all that befell you. I can’t lose you again, do you hear?”

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll rest soon. But I must tell them. It’s what Father asked of me.”

“Your father would understand if you took your rest first.”

“I promised him. It was the last thing he said, the words must be spoken. I have to speak them.”

“You never told me that before,” she said softly. “You’ve not told me much of what happened, truth be told.”

“I can’t, not yet. I have to do this first.”

She nodded, though worry hollowed her eyes, and held him there in the pew, rocking gently as if he were a babe again.

“Lord, keep my boy,” she whispered.

For a moment, as his breathing steadied and he slipped into sleep against her breast, she thought perhaps her prayer had been heard. 

Beyond the walls, the parishioners’ voices drifted back to life, low and scattered, their talk mingling with the rustle of the evening as they made their way down the dusty road. Yet beneath their chatter lingered the words he had spoken, carried softly on the wind. Of roots, and of fruit, and the soil that must be tilled.

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Part 4 is up!