Mason Beck Fiction

Check out parts one through five, linked on the homepage.

I hope you enjoy!

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Ishmael sat before the pulpit, gathering his strength to speak once more that night. Eliza busied herself sweeping the floor and wiping the pews, giving him space as best she could.

He still leaned on her arm when he walked, his body weakened by his ordeal and the sermon the night before. She had pleaded with him to wait, to rest, to speak another night. But he would not yield.

He must speak his father’s words. Tonight.

The congregation soon began to gather, drawn by word of his return and eager to hear him preach again. As the people arrived, something in Ishmael stirred, or at least, he made it seem so.

He stood tall once more, clasped hands firmly, offered kind greetings with steady eyes. And when the hour came, he stepped to the lectern with quiet resolve.

For a moment, he looked so much like his father. A man more than a boy.

And when he spoke, perhaps something more than either.

“… and he told me, ‘Son, you are the seed and the field, the root and the vine, the laborer and the fruit. You do not merely reap what you sow; you are the fruit of your planting…’”

Joseph had been a devout man, steady and faithful, reading scripture by firelight and weaving its lessons into the work of each day. He spoke often in such parables, especially when tilling the soil with his son.

As grateful as she was to have her boy returned to her, Eliza still mourned the man she had lost.

“When I was lost in the woods, and feared I might never find my way,” Ishmael said, “he bade me to be strong. To not let fear be the well from which my field is watered, lest the fruit grow bitter and tangled in thorns…”

The utterances felt so familiar. In moments, she could almost hear Joseph’s voice in his, the same cadence, the same quiet conviction.
But the words were not right.

She cast her gaze around the congregation, searching their faces for recognition or unease. But none came. They sat still and spellbound, every eye fixed on her son.

“… and also ye are the fruit of my sowing, from my seed whose roots are watered by my blood in the Umbreth’uun. And from Umbreth’uun have ye grown, a harvest near ready for the sickle…”

Her stomach twisted. Her eyes locked on the boy at the pulpit, the face she had kissed and cradled now speaking with a voice she did not know. These were not the words of Christ.
She heard the pews creak beside her. Turning, she saw the others begin to sway, men and women rocking slowly, hands clasped or trembling in their laps.

“… and when the fruit hath borne its seed, to Umbreth’uun it shall return…”

“To Umbreth’uun,” they whispered in reply.

A cry built in her throat. She wanted to rise, to scream, to run. To fetch the reverend or the physician.
But they were already here.
The reverend. The doctor. Rocking. Watching. Whispering.

There was nowhere to run. No one left to call.
So she looked to the floor, clenched her hands in her skirts, and rocked with them.

She did not know whether it was hours or mere minutes that passed while she sat and rocked. Only when a hand touched her shoulder did she stir.

She leapt with a cry, heart pounding, and turned to see the smiling faces of those around her.
Grateful members of the congregation.
Their expressions were serene, their eyes wide with reverence.

They offered their thanks.
Spoke blessings for her and her son.
And one by one, they drifted away into the night.

She turned to him then, still at the pulpit, upright and composed as he bid farewell to the last of them.

But when he closed it gently behind them, he took only two steps forward before his knees gave out beneath him.
And he collapsed to the floor, unmoving.

She ran to his side, her hands rising to cover her mouth. She reached out to touch him but drew back, trembling. The terror gripped her too tightly. The words he had spoken, the way he had fallen, the fevered flush of his skin all churned within her. She shook and wept, her mind searching desperately for something firm to hold on to.

But this was her son. All that she had left. If there was to be an anchor, it would have to be him.

She closed her eyes and drew a long breath, just as Joseph had taught her in the worst moments when the fear took hold. Breathe in. Hold. Let it out slow. Again.

When her hands steadied, she rolled him over and gathered him close. His skin burned beneath her fingers, but his chest still rose and fell.

She could not do this alone.

Rising, she ran to the door, threw it open, and cried out into the night for aid.