Demons

by Heather Frost

  The slow walk through the pasture and toward the church was calming yet invigorating. I felt it was a necessary break from the insanity that was my life. The fresh air, the gentle sun… They kept me from losing my mind.

  On one of the distant hills, a herd of sheep grazed lazily in the field. I was walking with my back to the stone and wood house, my eyes on the church. I may have been calmer now, but I still had a mission. And I had no idea if I was going to actually go through with it yet.

  The ground was surprisingly rocky for appearing so smooth. The long grass swallowed my feet, and the rippling wind created the illusion of waving water.

  I found the dirt path that served as a small road up to the church, and I stepped out of the long grass. The church was taller than I first thought, now that I was getting close. It was whitewashed and plain, but there was something serene and beautiful about it. There was a tall steeple set on the roof, and beneath it was a front door. Three wide steps led up to the closed door, and the foundation was made of gray stone. On the right side of the church stretched a small cemetery, peaceful and quiet.

  A man was kneeling on the ground beside the steps, digging in a small flower garden. He wasn't wearing a fancy robe or anything to mark him as the church's proprietor. In fact, he wore the same style of clothes I'd already seen on his son—brown wool trousers, suspenders, and a plain white shirt with generous sleeves.

  His aura was almost shining, it was so peaceful and happy. Blue contentment and yellow pleasure swam gracefully around his body. There were a few strands of gray, and the couple clouds of green uneasiness let me know that he was quite aware of the uncertain times in which he lived. But he was still content, happy with his life, his family, his faith.

  I was walking quietly, not wanting to disturb him and his peaceful work. But the sound of my shoes scraping on the dirt had him peering over his shoulder. His eyes were similar to his sons’. Not quite so penetrating but still extremely clear. His face was weathered with age, a pleasant sort of wear. His hair was beginning to thin, although his brown hair had retained its color.

  “Um, hi,” I said anti-climactically.

  His smile was wide and friendly as he pushed himself up off his knees.

  I continued quickly, while he slapped his hands over his pants to dislodge clinging bits of dirt. “I'm sorry to interrupt your work.”

  His English was strongly accented when he spoke. “Oh, don't be. The flowers can wait.”

  I reached out to clasp the hand he was already extending. It was warm and rough and slightly dirtied. “I hope you'll forgive my appearance. I wasn't expecting anyone to come strolling by this afternoon.” His head tipped to the side, considering. “Your accent… you are American?”

  I nodded once, the motion somewhat jerky. “Yeah. I mean, yes.”

  He let my hand slip through his fingers, and then he squinted up at the sun. It didn't seem bright to me, with all those clouds, but I'd never been to Ireland. For all I knew, it was unseasonably warm. “We don't get too many Americans in Wexford County,” he mused. “Most stay around the area of Dublin. If we get any at all these days…”

  “But you recognized it?”

  “Yes. I've met with many different missionaries from many different countries.” He looked back at his house, and his expression grew puzzled. “Surely you do not travel alone? Are your companions at the house?”

  I shook my head. “No—I came straight here. I have… something I need to talk about. With you.”

  His eyes were confused. “Have you traveled far?”

  I let a breathless sort of laugh escape. “Yes. Very far.”

  He nodded once—not comprehending, but willing to listen. He looked toward the door of the church. “Well, my child, you look tired. Would you like to sit inside?”

  I bobbed my head, and Patrick's father led the short walk to the steps. He opened the door and I trailed after him into the church.

  Simple windows on both walls let the light stream inside, brightening the simple church. There wasn't a center aisle, just narrow pathways along each wall. Several rows of pews rested in the middle of the room, facing the back of the church, where a modest pulpit sat. Everything was wooden and humble. There was something ethereal and calming about the modest room, and my heart that had been constricted for so long finally began to loosen.

  A large wooden cross—the most glamorous ornament the church had—was nailed to the wall behind the pulpit, and it was the obvious centerpiece of the small building. My eyes went to it immediately and lingered there while I walked behind Pastor O'Donnell. The floor creaked beneath our feet, but it was a comforting sound.

  We crossed down the left-hand aisle, and in seconds we were standing before the pulpit. We stopped moving, and Pastor O'Donnell followed my gaze to the cross.

  “Humbling, isn't it?” He spoke lowly, his older voice a perfect match for this comforting place. “I've walked into this church a thousand times and more, but my eyes never cease to be drawn to that simple piece of wood.”

  “It's beautiful,” I whispered honestly.

  He gave me a small smile, obviously enjoying my reaction. “Yes. It is.” He gestured toward the pew behind us, and we both sat on the hard wooden bench. He twisted toward me, our legs nearly touching. “Now then. What is it that troubles you?”

  My eyes fell from his, and I watched as my nervous fingers fiddled together in my lap. “It's complicated. It's not… easy to say. I'm not sure where to begin.”

  He reached out to pat my unsteady hands. His large palm on my anxious fingers was soothing, and I lifted my face to view his. His eyes were serious, but his smile was still extremely patient and kind. “Many things in life aren't easy.” He nodded at the cross. “But with His help, all things are possible.” He returned his attention to me, his voice incredibly understanding. “Perhaps you would like to join me in prayer first? I've found that prayer makes many complicated things easier to face.”

  I was biting my lip, but I found myself nodding, grateful for the distraction and delay a prayer would give me. “Yes. I think I would like that.”

  He took my hands in his and bowed his head. I mirrored the action a second after, and then he began to pray.

  I honestly couldn't concentrate on the words he said. I found myself focusing on the feelings he inspired inside me instead. The amazing comfort that suddenly seeped into me was like nothing I'd ever felt before. He spoke so confidently yet so respectfully. He never hesitated. The words seemed to pour out on their own accord, and though I can't remember any of the specifics, I knew that they were words I needed to hear.

  Before I'd entered this church, I was still unsure. How could I go through with this mission? How could I doom so many to so awful a fate?

  But now, feeling wrapped in a warm cloud by his heartfelt prayer, I knew what I had to do. What I needed to say.

  He ended the personal prayer, and though I hadn't stepped foot inside a church since my parents’ deaths, I murmured my own thankful amen.

  He continued to hold my hands, but I felt his eyes on my face. I took a deep breath and raised my chin until I was looking at him. Though he'd been attentive and kind before, there was more caring in his eyes now. His aura was even more at ease than before, and there was a strange new light brightening his face, as if the prayer had had an unexpectedly powerful effect on him too, not that he quite understood why yet.

  He waited for me to speak, and finally I did. I trusted my calmly beating heart to pick the right words, grateful for the warmth that lingered in the room. It helped me decide to tell him everything—I was sick of keeping secrets, depending on lies.

  “I'm not from this time, “I began, watching his expression carefully. “I've come from the future. I was forced to come here. I'm supposed to put something into motion. Something that will bring you great pain.”

  He stared at me, his eyes tightening just a little. Would he think I was crazy? Would he throw me out of his church?

  Despite my
many worries, the surprising calm remained. I simply waited for his reaction, assured that somehow everything would be all right.

  When it was apparent I wasn't going to continue right away, he spoke slowly. “I have been feeling uneasy of late,” he fairly whispered. “Worry for my family, my country… it has taken me to my knees many times. Yet my answers have been fractured. Distant.” He glanced over at the cross on the wall, and his shoulders fell. “He answers in His own time, but… I began to fear that I was somehow unworthy. And then, three nights ago, I had a dream.

  “It wasn't a visual dream. It was just… a feeling. A feeling of intense peace. That all would be well again, despite the growing fear…”

  He turned back to me, and his fingers squeezed mine. “It was the same feeling that I feel now, that I felt while we prayed. I think I am supposed to listen to you, supposed to help you. Somehow, you are the one that will make everything right again.”

  His words were a little overwhelming, but I took the responsibility with a thin smile. “I hope you're right.”

  His eyes scanned my face, tried to memorize it. “What is your name?”

  “Kate. Kate Bennett.”

  “Kate Bennett.” He gave a tentative smile. “Tell me of the future.”

  I took a deep breath and shifted on the hard bench so I was looking straight at him. I decided to speak quickly, so I could just get everything out. “I know this is going to sound really insane, but… in the future, I'm in love with your son—Patrick. The only thing is, he's… immortal where I come from.”

  “Immortal?” Despite his previous statement of faith—faith in me—he sounded a bit unsure of that word used to describe his son.

  I pursed my lips, trying to salvage the peace I'd just barely experienced. “Yes. He's my Guardian. Like… Like an angel, sent to protect me.”

  He blinked, and his voice was unsure. “The place you come from… it is the distant future?”

  I nodded once. “A good two hundred years in the future.”

  His eyes widened, but to his credit he managed to keep his mouth from falling open. “I see.”

  I sighed, frustrated with myself. “I'm sorry—I'm not explaining this well… When a person dies, they're given a choice. To go on to heaven or to remain here on earth as a Guardian. Once a person chooses, there is no going back. Each place is separate and eternal—different planes of existence.”

  “And Patrick… he chose to be an immortal Guardian?” There was pain in his voice, but he was fighting to conceal it.

  “Yes. The choice wasn't easy for him, but… he did it for Sean. To protect him.”

  “Protect him from what?” A defensive edge was entering his accented voice.

  I tried to keep my words as calm and considerate as possible. “Patrick and Sean… they join the United Irishman. Patrick will die in one of his first battles, but Sean will survive. Patrick will make the choice to become a Guardian, so he can watch over Sean and keep him safe.”

  Their father swallowed with difficulty, his eyes wandering back to the cross. “Patrick will give up heaven for his brother. He will give up forever with his family… to save Sean's life?”

  I tightened my grip on his hands. “I know this is hard, but… he made a promise to Sean. That he would get him home alive. He couldn't bear to break that promise, no matter the cost.”

  He turned back to look at me, his face guarded. “My sons… they are good boys. Patriotic boys. But joining a rebellion, the war… that is not like them. Why would they do such a thing?”

  This was the hard part. I took a deep breath before starting. “You force them into the rebellion. From what I understand, you give them an ultimatum, and they choose to fight rather than dishonor you.”

  His face crumpled. Pain, disgust, anger, doubt… “Why?” he rasped. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  I swallowed hard. “I think I make you do it. I think… I think it's the right thing to do.”

  “When? When does this happen?”

  “Patrick never gave me an exact date. He just told me that he dies in the year 1798.”

  The pastor struggled to breathe. “That's in a year,” he gasped. “Just next year…” He looked to the wooden cross, searching for comfort.

  “I'm so sorry,” I whispered, my voice wavering with sincerity.

  I let him stare at the cross in peace for a few long minutes. Watched as he came to terms with the realization that his firstborn would soon meet his death. And not only that, but also that Patrick would be forever separated from his family, because of a single choice.

  I waited until he finally looked back to me, tears glistening in his eyes. “But he is alive. In your time, he still lives. You know him. You… love him. Does he love you?”

  My stomach clenched. “Yes. Yes, he does. He tells me every day.”

  The corner of his mouth quavered into a slight smile. “I am glad of that. Is he… happy, then?”

  “Yes, I think so. He misses you, but…”

  He nodded once. “Patrick was always special. I knew he was meant for something great. He has such a unique spirit…” His voice faded to nothing, and then he straightened his shoulders. “You are asking much of me. You wish me to force my son onto a path that will lead to his death.”

  “I know.” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him about Sean—about Far Darrig.

  The same warm feeling that had been prompting my words so far gave me an almost imperceptible nudge, and the words came with surprising ease.

  “You need to know that Patrick isn't the only one affected, if you agree to do this. Sean… something will happen to him.”

  Pastor O'Donnell looked to me, concern wrinkling his brow. “But you said that Patrick protects him.”

  “Yes. And he will. Sean survives being a rebel. I don't know every detail—and you probably don't need to know everything. But eventually, Sean will change.”

  “This change is for the worse?” he looked decidedly wary.

  “Yeah, it is. By the time Sean dies, he won't have the choice to go to heaven. He will have a corrupt heart, and he will become a Demon—an immortal being that is an enemy to Guardians and humans.”

  “A Demon? Sean?” A disbelieving, frightened laugh burst out. “That's not possible. His heart is pure. He would never become a monster.”

  “I'm sorry.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  Pastor O'Donnell suddenly stood, his hands pulling away from me as he walked toward the closest window. I stayed on the bench, knowing that he needed some space. He stood at the window, shoulders tensed as he gazed through the small panes of glass.

  He bowed his head, and though he didn't utter any words aloud, I knew he was praying. I closed my eyes and bowed my own head, offering a silent, wordless prayer for his sake.

  I don't know how long we stayed like that, but his voice pulled me from my thoughts. “I do not want to help you. It goes against every instinct I have.” I looked to him, but his back was still to me, and I couldn't see his face. His aura was surprisingly calm, leading me to believe that his prayer had been heard and answered.

  His body shifted, and he stood facing me, his eyes fierce. “I do not see the wisdom in this. But I cannot shake the feeling that it is right. Impossible as it seems, this course… it is right. You are a stranger to me, Kate Bennett. But this feeling I trust. I know that if I place my faith in you, all will be well. I trust the lives of my sons to you, because you will be the force that saves them both.”

  His words gave me strength, but they still seemed incredible. Maybe I could take care of Patrick. But Sean? What could I possibly do to save Far Darrig? Wasn't he about as lost as a soul could get?

  I probably should have said something reassuring, like Yeah, no problem. I've got it covered! But I was feeling too honest in this moment to tell a lie.

  So I let out a shaky breath. “I wish I could share your faith. In my world… things are pretty hopeless right now.”

  “Where love is
, hope is never lost.”

  He paced away from the window, coming to stand in front of the pew. He extended a steady hand, and I reached out to take it. He pulled me gently to my feet, and suddenly I was throwing my arms around him. It was a little spontaneous of me, but I needed the contact. I felt a connection to this man I'd never met before this moment, and I think he felt it too. Because it wasn't a one-sided embrace by any means. In fact, Pastor O'Donnell gave a huge bear hug that made it hard to breathe. It felt wonderful.

  “You are special, Kate,” he whispered. “Patrick…” His voice faltered, and then he patted my back firmly. “He is blessed to have you, I think.”

  We pulled apart mutually, and he cleared the emotion from his throat. “So. What will you do now?” He pushed his hands into his pockets, and I smiled at the familiar posture.

  “I guess I go back. I try to do what you said—save Patrick and Sean.”

  His head bowed. “And I will do as you have instructed. Trusting that both of my sons are in good and capable hands.”

  The door to the church suddenly burst open, and we both turned quickly to face the newcomer.

  My heart virtually stopped. It was Patrick.

  He looked faintly younger than the Patrick I knew, and his cheeks were flushed from running. He held a familiar leather book clutched tightly in one hand and his brown hair was windblown. His smile was wide, but it faltered when he saw me. The door was open, the bright sunlight framing his tall form. He stood just inside the church, and he looked so healthy. Not at all what I was used to now.