In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  Her heart stopped. One betrayal condemned them all. Another betrayal brought life. She had lived this story, suffering through the misery without realizing that there was a hope of redemption.

  She felt her lips part as the reality of his words sunk into her mind. Can it be? She had staggered under the weight of her decisions only to stumble into one pit after another. But, if his words were true, there might be a way into the light.

  “Peace comes at the price of blood.” Elijah Farrows clenched his fists. “Our men are spillin’ their blood even now so that we can have peace. We’ll win but,” his shoulders slumped, “but the peace we’ll gain won’t last.”

  A murmur swept through the congregation.

  “What do you mean, Elijah?”

  A woman’s voice cracked as she spoke. “You mean my boy died for nothin’?”

  “Not for nothin’,” Elijah thumped his Bible. “But war only breeds more war. Only God can truly bring peace—in the heart or to a dyin’ world.”

  The voices died away.

  Peace. Leila ached for it. It was something she had heard about but had never experienced. As a child, her mother’s muted whimpers had filled the night. As a woman, she had fought against family superstitions and an oppressive husband. Now she wrestled with her own guilt.

  “Before we can have peace among the nations, or in our own hearts, we must first turn back to God. He is our refuge. You must be willin’ to say, like David of old, ‘Hide me in the shadow of Your wings.’”

  Understanding streamed into Leila’s mind like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She had known about God, even believed in Him. But she had never made Him the center of her life.

  Fear clogged her throat. But would God want me now? Lies, lust, death: the list of her misdeeds swirled about her mind, each a screaming voice of accusation, each a chain shackling her soul to the abyss.

  “I just want to be free, truly free for once in my life.” Did she whisper the words? She couldn’t tell. Truth be told, she no longer cared.

  Elijah spoke, and his voice made her soul tremble. “You are free; you just don’t know it. God says, ‘though your sins are as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’ His blood purges the bad blood that’s tied you down all your life.”

  A wellspring of emotion broke free within Leila’s chest. She did not hear the sobs that erupted from her throat or know when she stood upright. She was oblivious to the heads that swiveled in her direction and did not notice the tears that slid from her eyes as she made her way to the platform. All she could see was the cross that rose like a beacon of hope, offering the peace that she was desperate to gain.

  She lurched forward and slumped to her knees. Blood. Blood. The word echoed in her mind like the steady drip of a cleansing rain. Her eyes locked on the cross and, in that moment, Elijah’s body along with the entire room disappeared. It was Christ’s broken form she saw, draped on the rough-hewn timbers, arms outstretched.

  Leila drew her shoulders up, jamming her elbows into her sides. She had blamed her ancestor for her misery, but she saw now that she was as guilty as he had been. He had sold their family to a cursed life but, by attempting to control a life that was not her own, she had sold herself as a slave to fear and failure.

  Once again, Christ’s bloodied head, bearing the weight of a crown of thorns, turned slowly toward her. But this time she held her ground, longing, needing, to see in His eyes the promise of forgiveness.

  Blood. The price of her redemption streamed down His side, pooling at the foot of the cross. At last His head stilled and His eyes, beaten and battered, rested upon her. She trembled, seeing the extent of her own unworthiness and the infinite resources of his mercy.

  She writhed, tormented by the power of eyes that ripped into her soul. The lies, the rebellion, the hatred, the lust—everything was naked before the Son of God.

  “I’m sorry!” She didn’t know how the words escaped her trembling lips. Her lungs struggled to suck in air. Her chest heaved as though she were the one dying of suffocation on the cross.

  The weight of her guilt pressed down upon her. Regret, sharp and piercing, stabbed into her heart. How many times had she made decisions without asking for God’s direction? How much had she been willing to sacrifice on the altar of her country’s ambition without even a thought for the God who had made her? How often had she run, pleasure-mad, after illusions of happiness, seeking deliverance from the relentless, gnawing emptiness within?

  I forgive you.

  A ragged sob ripped out of her throat. “I don’t deserve your mercy!”

  The outstretched arms freed themselves of the nails and wrapped around her in a tender embrace. A part of her wanted to draw back. Her father’s arms had only reached for her to punish. But this... this was different. Though she was a prodigal, the arms of this Man reached out in tender love.

  I love you.

  The voice spoke from within, sending ripples of pleasure throughout her entire being. Leila shuddered, not from fear but from the indescribable emotion that swelled within her. She struggled to identify it. Love? Peace? Joy? No word was capable of encapsulating the power of this moment. She blinked, and the room shifted back into focus.

  Elijah Farrows held her upright, his own arms supporting her weight.

  “Are you alright, Lady Steele?” His voice, gentle and kind, was tinged with concern.

  Leila stared at him then craned her neck around his bulky frame. The cross stood as it had before. Empty. But she was not the same. She was not empty; she was full. Life was full. Full of meaning. Full of joy. Full of peace. Full... of hope.

  She pulled away from Elijah, only dimly aware of the whispers that washed through the crowd.

  “Y-yes Elijah.” Her throat felt raw as though it had been scrubbed from within. “Thank you for...” She shrugged, uncertain of what to say.

  “Lady Steele?”

  She swayed slightly as she turned.

  Greyson stood before her, arm outstretched. “Perhaps it would be best if we left?”

  Leila nodded, grateful for his suggestion. She took his hand and, together, they exited the Commons.

  Leila stood for a moment, sucking in the clean night air. “You were right, Greyson. I understand now what you meant outside Millie’s house.”

  “Ah.”

  She smiled and looked upward. How typical that was of him. One simple word that could mean anything. Stars illuminated the ebony heavens, shining down upon her like fiery prisms.

  “It’s strange.” Leila pursed her lips. “I’ve never noticed how beautiful the stars are.”

  Greyson glanced at her sidewise. “It is difficult to see the light if we allow the darkness to blind us to it. The stars were always there but you couldn’t see them because you were enslaved to the night.”

  She smiled. “Yes. I was.” What was it Elijah had said? I want to live in the shadow of Your wings. The refuge of those wings offered the protection she had often sensed at Northshire but never possessed. What a difference a few, sincere words could make!

  “And now?” The butler shifted his gaze to the distant spires of Northshire castle.

  A spontaneous joy bubbled up within her chest, swelling within her until she could no longer contain it. Like the children that Greyson had pointed out, she could be happy despite the uncertainty of her future. I was always free; I just didn’t know it.

  Leila lifted her eyes to the skies above, laughing as she had never laughed before. “Now? Now, Greyson, I’m free!”

  Part 3

  One year later

  “Then the Lord God called to Adam and said to him, “Where are you?” Genesis 3:9 NKJV

  Chapter 26

  Bray-sur-Somme, France. July 1916

  Sunlight streamed down from heaven and came to rest upon a devastated landscape. Black, scraggly trees protruded upward from the barren earth like the twisted claws of a subterranean monster. Gusts of wind whistled f
reely through the immense graveyard, slicing through the long man-made ravines that scarred the land.

  Sergeant Malcolm Steele collapsed onto the grimy trench floor, sloshing another coat of mud onto the ankles of his already-stained tan pants. On both sides of him, dozens of soldiers sat in morbid silence, waiting yet another call to go “over the top.”

  Malcolm no longer noticed the stink of unwashed bodies nor the clusters of vermin that scurried about his feet for his mind was consumed by one thought. Rum.

  He reached into his belt and withdrew a small aluminum flask then, tilting the vial against his lips, he guzzled down the potent fluid. Finally, he pulled away, coughing and spluttering.

  “The rum won’t make you forget how many you’ve killed.”

  Malcolm shaded his eyes with his palm as he squinted up at the man who stood above him, his head framed by the afternoon sun.

  “Maybe not Will, but it doesn’t hurt either. At any rate, it helps me forget the lice.” Malcom grunted and scratched his head. His body was literally crawling with the miniscule demons. He supposed every other man in the trenches was also suffering.

  Will dropped to the murky ground with a sigh. The constant bombardment of British artillery on German positions meant that every word was actually a shout.

  “Here, you can have my ration.” He withdrew his own flask and tossed it to Malcolm.

  Malcolm snatched up the bottle. “How come you don’t want your share?”

  “I’ve never drank alcohol in my life.”

  “That’s because you’ve never had a life.” Malcolm emptied his own flask and then started on Will’s. Life. What had his life been like before the war? His mind rolled back to the night that Leila had first approached him. He closed his eyes, for once letting the memories wash over him. The vibrant red of her dress, the alluring curve of her smile, the raw audacity of her approach had all blinded him to what she really was—a deceitful harlot.

  His eyes flew open and he spit out the rum that had turned sour in his mouth. He had vowed to never think of Leila again.

  “Something wrong, Sergeant?” Will pulled out a small, worn book from his breast pocket and began flipping through its pages.

  Wrong? Everything about my life is wrong.

  Aloud, he asked a question. “How do you deal with it?”

  Will lifted his eyes from the book in his hand. “You mean the fact that I’ve killed forty-two Germans?”

  Malcolm nodded. He knew his own count as well. In less than a year he had snuffed out twenty-nine lives. There may have been others; in the chaos of battle it was sometimes hard to tell if a man truly was dead. But he preferred to think that he had less blood on his hands than more.

  “It doesn’t get easier.” Malcolm guzzled down more of the amber fluid. “At least, not for me.”

  Will held up his book and it was only then that Malcolm realized that he was reading the Bible. “It’s easy for me now. I just remind myself each time that I’m doing God’s work.”

  Malcolm waited for a short break in the artillery bombardment before shouting, “God’s work?”

  “‘O daughter of Babylon, who will be destroyed,’” Will’s sonorous voice roared over the exploding bombs. “Happy shall he be, that does to you as you have done to us. Happy shall he be, that takes and dashes your little ones against the stones.’”

  He put the book down. “Each time I ram my bayonet into a Hun’s gut or crush his skull with the butt of my gun, I recite those words.”

  Nausea swept through Malcolm as he stared into Will’s frenzied eyes. The war had twisted him. It had deformed a man of scrupulous honor into a killer.

  “Their bombs crushed my little one under the rocks.” Will pushed himself onto one knee. His knuckles went white as he gripped his Bible. “And I swear that I’ll carry out God’s justice.”

  “You would kill their children?” Malcolm’s forehead puckered. He had turned his back on God but some part of him rejected this perverted logic.

  “Do they deserve anything less?”

  Malcolm stared at him. A snarl tugged at Will’s lips. His rigid arms gripped the Bible between stiff claws, holding it aloft as though he thought it had the power to wipe out the entire German race in one blow.

  It was then that Malcolm knew that he had to confess. His heart rebelled at the thought of admitting his lies, but Will had saved his life. He owed the man at least that much.

  He had seen men vaporized in an instant and knew well the havoc that war wreaked upon the mind. Each day, he thought of his mother’s face, kind and gentle, and reminded himself of the moments they had shared. It helped to keep insanity at bay.

  Now as he looked at the human animal before him, he knew Will’s only hope for redemption lay through his love for Eleanor.

  “What about your wife?” Malcolm shoved himself to his knees. “Eleanor?”

  Will blinked several times. “What about her?”

  “Would she like what you’ve become? I doubt she’d want you to go around wishing you could kill little children. Even German ones.”

  “And how would you know that? You only met her once.”

  Malcolm flushed. He had to tread carefully. “Any woman who could act like she did when her baby had just died wouldn’t like what you’ve become.”

  The echo of distant explosions began again. When another pause swept over the barren landscape, Will spoke in a quiet voice.

  “She’s dead, Malcolm. She’s got to be dead or she would have written.” He slumped against the dirt wall. “It’s been a year without even one word! I just... need to face facts.”

  Malcom pulled back, his neck burning. Time and time again, he had sworn that he would tell Will the truth. But with his promotion had come new responsibilities and he relied upon Will’s reckless courage more than he wanted to admit.

  The lie that had slipped through his own lips in a fit of jealousy had ripped Will’s world apart. Eleanor thought her husband was dead while Will now believed that his wife had been killed in London.

  To confess that he had seen her in Etaples would be to transform a good soldier into the bitterest of enemies. Will had become a killer. On the battlefield or while Malcolm slept, he could slit his throat as efficiently as he would that of a Hun.

  Malcolm swallowed as guilt gnawed at his conscience. Knowing that his wife was alive and waiting for him at Etaples could grant Will a renewed sense of purpose. Then again, Will had saved his life. He owed him the truth out of gratitude if nothing more.

  With a sigh, he let his head loll against the wall, closing his eyes. He was caught in a web of his own making—a web from which there was escape.

  The path to redemption is long and often difficult to perceive but those who have eyes to see will find it.

  He frowned. Those words. He had heard them before. They echoed in his mind again, pounding his skull like the blasts of detonating shells. His mind wandered back to a time before he had abandoned Leila, a time before he had left Northshire, back—

  His eyes snapped open. Greyson. The butler had said the words just before he had been expelled from his home. An image of his father’s glowering face floated before his eyes and Malcolm curled up within himself. What would Sir Thomas Steele do in his place?

  He wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

  A wave of self-loathing washed over him but, at the same moment, an idea slipped to the forefront of his thoughts. Perhaps he could bypass his own guilt with a carefully woven story.

  “Will.”

  The sound of explosions overpowered his voice.

  Malcolm cleared his throat. “Will!”

  The soldier pulled his hands away from his face and stared at him through bleary eyes.

  Malcolm took another swallow of rum. “About Eleanor. You remember those reinforcements that just arrived from Etaples?”

  Standing, he scratched his head and began to pace. “Well, maybe you don’t, but one of the men assigned to my command told me about a woman—”
>
  “Sergeant Steele!”

  Malcolm pivoted as a junior officer, whose blood-stained khaki uniform, jogged up to him and saluted. “Lieutenant-Colonel James Stewart wants you to join him. At once, sir.” Again, the stiff salute.

  Malcolm shot a cursory glance at Will. The soldier was hunched over eyes fixed on him as he waited for the conversation to end.

  “Lead on, soldier.” He clapped the messenger on the back.

  “Malcom.” Will straightened and came forward, a strange light in his eyes. “What were you saying?”

  “Nothing.” Malcolm shrugged. “Just something that occurred to me but it’s not important.”

  Malcolm turned to leave but Will grabbed his arm. “Malcom, if you know something about my wife—”

  “Stand down, soldier!” Malcom shook his arm off.

  Will backed off but his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

  Malcolm sighed. “Really, Will. There’s nothing to be said. It was just a slip of my tongue.” He pointed to the empty flask that lay discarded on the ground. “Too much rum.”

  “Sergeant Steele, the Colonel is waiting.”

  Clapping Will’s shoulder, Malcolm turned to follow the messenger.

  Small clusters of men, new recruits mostly, saluted as he filed by. Malcolm touched the small brocade sewn onto his shoulder. He had done well for himself. The decoration was visible evidence of his successes.

  He was alive after a year in the most brutal conditions, he had single-handedly slowed an enemy advance and saved a fellow soldier’s life at risk of his own. But the hollow ache in his heart made it all seem petty. What would Father think?

  He stumbled as the unexpected thought flashed through his mind. “I don’t care,” he said aloud.

  “Sir?” The messenger eyed him.

  “Nothing. I was just saying that... I don’t care... what the Huns do. They’ll never stop us, right?” Malcolm forced an awkward chuckle and slapped his compatriot on the back.

  “Right you are, sir, um, the Colonel is waiting just inside.” He pointed toward a wooden-roofed rectangular room that had been dug into the muddy walls, saluted Malcolm once more, and disappeared.