The Final Life of Nathaniel Moon

by Shawn Inmon

  The four of them sat up for hours, talking, reminiscing, and remembering the life they had shared. Violet remembered the first day Nathaniel had brought Jon home, how he was so big she thought he must have been a friend of Andi’s. That stirred a whole stretch of memories about Andi—her eternal smile, her proclivity for getting into trouble, and most of all, the love she had for Violet and Nathaniel.

  Jon poured the rest of another bottle of wine into everyone’s glasses, and held up his own. “To Andi, she will never be forgotten.” The clinked their glasses again, and Melissa said, “I feel so sad that I never got to meet her. I always thought Jon might have had a little crush on her.” She turned her head questioningly at Jon, who blushed a bit, but didn’t answer.

  A little after 2:00 a.m., Violet was the first casualty to sleep. She drifted off to lay down in the guest room. An hour later, Melissa gave up the fight and joined Katie in Nathaniel’s room, and it was just Jon and Nathaniel. Just before dawn, Jon said he was going to sit on the couch and rest his eyes for a minute. Thirty seconds later, he was snoozing.

  Nathaniel sat quietly for a few minutes, then picked up the empty wine bottles and put them in the glass recycling. He washed the wine glasses while he put on a pot of coffee to brew. When it was done, he poured himself a cup and stepped out on his porch to watch the sun rise. As soon as he did, there was stirring in the trucks, and a dozen cameras were aimed at him. Overnight, the crowd had swelled.

  It wasn’t just news trucks and reporters any more. Definite factions had sprung up in different areas. The news teams had their spot on the gravel. On one side of the fence that ran along his driveway, people were waving at him and holding signs that read things like, “My little girl needs you!” or “I believe in you, Nathaniel.” On the other side, the crowd was grimmer. Their signs read things like, “Anti-Christ” and “Religion doesn’t like you either, Satan.”

  Nathaniel took it all in, watched the sun rise up over the distant hills, and lifted his cup of coffee in a salute to all of them.

  Chapter Forty

  After enjoying his cup of coffee, Nathaniel checked in on everyone, and saw they were all still sleeping.

  “Good enough,” he said to himself.

  He lifted the coffee pot, grabbed a stack of Styrofoam coffee cups from the pantry, and went back outside. He strolled over to the news reporters. “Morning, boys and girls, it’s another beautiful day in the neighborhood. Any of you intrepid reporters and hardworking techs want some coffee?”

  “Oh, hell yes,” the man closest to him said.

  Nathaniel reached the stack of cups out to him, then poured a steaming hot cup for him. “There you are, sir. This is an odd situation, but we don’t have to live like savages, right?”

  The next woman, a reporter dressed in a gray jacket and skirt, said, “I don’t suppose you have any cream and sugar for it?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “For you, it’s already in there.”

  She tasted it suspiciously, but then smiled broadly. “You are my kind of man.”

  Nathaniel moved down the line, offering a cup and filling it for each person that wanted one. After half a dozen people asked for a cup, the whispers began down the line. “The pot never empties.” One wag said, “Those cups are like the 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. No matter how many he takes off, the stack stays the same.”

  And so it was.

  Nathaniel continued down the line, offering coffee to everyone. One man, a tall, lanky cameraman wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, tasted the coffee and said, “That’s a damn fine cup of coffee.”

  Nathaniel nodded in acknowledgement and said, “Sorry, I didn’t think to make cherry pie to go with it.”

  When he reached the end of the line, he looked back over the twenty or so people who were all drinking coffee and chatting, like they were lined up waiting for a barbecue to start. Several of them even forgot to train their cameras on Nathaniel for the moment.

  Next, he walked over to the line that he had already begun to think of as The Believers. Unlike the news group, they didn’t have a shred of ironic detachment. Their eyes were wide, their lips were smiling, and they all knew they were not only in the presence of greatness, but holiness.

  None of them had the temerity to ask for their coffee in any way other than black, but nonetheless, every cup Nathaniel poured them was exactly to their taste. This did nothing to lessen their belief.

  Eventually, he came up on a woman who declined the coffee, but held her child out to him. She said only one word. “Please.”

  Nathaniel handed the cups and coffee pot to the next person in line and reached out his arms and held the young girl, who was no more than four or five, in his arms. Blonde curls framed her pale face. Her eyes had been closed, but when Nathaniel held her, she opened them a bit. Pale green eyes flecked with gold. She smiled timidly at him. Nathaniel rocked her slightly, pushed her hair away from her face, and murmured something so quietly to her that no one could hear.

  The girl’s eyes flew open wide and focused on his face. She nodded. Nathaniel hugged her to him for a brief moment, then handed her back to her mother. “She’ll be fine, now. She’s a very sweet girl.” As he gave the girl back, his hand brushed against the mother. “Oh. You too?”

  Tears streamed down the woman’s face. She nodded. “I’m so afraid. Not of dying, but of leaving her alone. I wish I could be here for her.”

  Nathaniel brushed her tears away, letting his hand rest on her cheek. “And now, you will.”

  He retrieved the pot and continued his rounds. In this group, a different sick person popped up every few feet, imploring him to heal them. He had a brief conversation with each of them, then laid hands on them, and they were well. Eventually, that which is miraculous might become commonplace, but on this morning, it did not.

  Seeing the healings and the miracle of the coffee pot, a few people from the third section moved over to the Believers area. The longer he lingered with the group, more and more people parked up the road and walked up, joining in. The crowd swelled.

  Two hours later, he had done what he could for everyone in the second group and turned toward the waves of hatred and vitriol that washed over him from the other side of his driveway.

  He held out the coffee pot, still half-full, hopefully.

  “Tools of the Devil!” a small woman shouted at him. “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Small drops of spit flew from her lips as she yelled, showering the back of the man in front of her.

  Nathaniel set the pot and cups down in the grass and opened his arms wide. “Do any of you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  An old man, bent and wizened, leaning on a cane and in obvious pain, stepped out from behind a beefy man in overalls. The old man locked eyes with Nathaniel. “I have something for you, Nathaniel.”

  “Hello, Mr. Creech. Thank you for coming. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Far behind him, Nathaniel heard the door to his house open. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Violet step onto the porch. Nathaniel waved to her that everything was fine, but over her shoulder, she called to Jon, who also appeared on the porch, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Violet and Jon fell into a deep conversation, casting worried glances at Nathaniel.

  He turned his attention back to Cyrus Creech, who had been speaking, though Nathaniel hadn’t been paying attention.

  “—and I believed you were one of God’s true miracles! But I know different now. No true creature of God would waste these gifts as you have done. Now I know who you are. You are evil incarnate. You ruined my life.”

  Creech was dressed in his best black suit, left over from when he was a powerful man in his community. The jacket hung on him as though it was on a coat hanger. The lines of the shoulders went halfway to his biceps. The sleeves were past his knuckles, and the pants only stayed up because the belt cinched it tight.

  “Your life isn’t ruined, Mr. Creech. You are exactly where you sho
uld be, just as I am, and just as we agreed long ago, in the time that was hidden from both of us. It will be all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end.”

  Creech’s teeth pulled back, a grimace that reflected both physical pain and an immense pool of anger. “You are clever and manipulative, but I will not listen to you, I know who you are.”

  “We both know each other well, though we have barely spoken in this lifetime. Still, we are of the same family.”

  “Gah!” Creech screamed in frustration. He reached into the front pocket of his suit jacket and extracted the Walther 99. Around him, the crowd spread out. Their eyes grew wide, and they threw themselves away from him, leaving him as an island unto himself. The man in the overalls said, “Holy shit and shinola!” as he jumped back. Creech pointed the gun at Nathaniel’s chest.

  Behind him, Nathaniel noticed that Violet had recognized Cyrus Creech and had broken into a run, calling over her shoulder to Jon.

  They’ll never get here in time. Just as I want it. Sorry you have to see this, I don’t know any other way. But, Cyrus, if you talk too long, you’ll waste your opportunity, and you’ll never get another.

  Behind him, Violet closed in. She shouted something, but her voice was lost in the hubbub of sound.

  Creech pulled the trigger with all his strength and the pistol spit bullet after bullet. The first found its intended target—Nathaniel’s chest, destroying his breastbone and working its way into his lung. The kick of the pistol was too much for Creech and the nose of the pistol danced, dealing potential death in a random pattern. The second bullet also struck Nathaniel, shattering his collarbone and knocking him backwards.

  The third bullet sailed high, harmlessly heading toward the foothills, but the fourth and fifth hit Violet dead center. The impact knocked her off her feet in a spray of blood. She landed on her back, staring up at the blue sky.

  Jon jumped in front of Nathaniel and Violet while still running toward Creech. His goal was to take any of the bullets intended for them, but they danced around him, leaving him unscathed. A moment later, Jon tackled Creech, driving his shoulder into the old man. The sound of multiple bones breaking could be heard in the quiet, echoing aftermath of the gunshots. Jon snatched the gun away from him and turned to look at Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel, improbably still standing, sat down heavily next to Violet.

  “Is this what you chose too, Mother? Surely not. Let me fix you.” He reached his hand out to her, but she shook her head, grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek.

  “You’re not the only one who makes things happen, right, son?” She closed her eyes tight and squeezed out tears. “I don’t have any of your gift of foresight, but if I had known, this is exactly what I would have chosen. I knew you were planning this as soon as you gave that interview. It’s okay. I am ready to move on to whatever is next.” She tried to take a deep breath, but it just resulted in a deep, gurgling sound. “Thank you for choosing me to be your mother. I am blessed by you.”

  “Here,” he said, touching her forehead, “at least let me take your pain away.”

  The tight grimace on her face eased. “Thank you. Will I see you again soon?”

  “That’s a mystery to me, too. My foreknowledge ends here, and I am glad. I’m tired of knowing.”

  Victoria smiled, then lapsed into unconsciousness, and Nathaniel felt her slip away. After she died, he closed his eyes, found her in the darkness, and rejoiced with her there. She hugged him, told him how she loved him, and went on with a happy laugh, to whatever was next for her.

  Nathaniel opened his eyes, looked down at himself and laughed. The bullets had cut through his flannel overshirt and he saw that the powder blue COME AT ME, BRO shirt underneath was now stained red with his blood.

  Wouldn’t you know it? I’m going to die in this shirt.

  Jon was still holding Creech to ensure he was disabled, when he saw Nathaniel trying to rise and rushed to his side.

  “Please, Nathaniel. Don’t do this. Don’t leave. I will miss you so.”

  “You will miss my music. I’ve known you loved it all these years.”

  “That would be the only thing I wouldn’t miss about you, brother.”

  “Every problem brings with it a lesson, and every lesson carries a price. I am happy to pay this price. Can you help me up?”

  Puzzled, Jon did as he asked and lifted Nathaniel off the ground. Nathaniel threw his arm around his shoulder and took a few steps forward until he sat next to Creech.

  “Yes, this is good. Thank you, Jon. You’ve been my warrior, my friend and my brother. I love you. Now, Mr. Creech and I have a small bit of unfinished business.”

  Jon eased Nathaniel to the ground, so he was right next to Creech. Far away, sirens sounded.

  “Come on healer, heal yourself. I should have known you were a fake. They’ll never try me for this, you know. I’ll be dead before they can get a court date.”

  “No, you won’t,” Nathaniel said. He reached out to Creech, who tried to move away, but could not. Nathaniel grasped Creech’s trembling hand. “Thank you, Cyrus. You have been my friend for many lifetimes, and I love you, too, for doing this. Soon enough, you will see that this is best for both of us.” Nathaniel closed his eyes, smiled, then collapsed back into Jon’s arms.

  “No. Noooo!” Creech howled with a strength he hadn’t possessed in many years. He rolled over and stood up nimbly.

  Jon, still cradling Nathaniel, shouted, “Will someone grab him?”

  Many did.

  The sirens grew louder, just down the road, now.

  “Take me back to Mom, will you, Jon? That’s the right place for me.”

  Jon scooped Nathaniel up and carried him like a child, then laid him tenderly by Victoria’s body.

  “Thank you, brother. You’ll know what to do from here.”

  Nathaniel heard the thundering of heavy paws as Brutus jumped down from the porch and ran at him with the same reckless abandon he always had. He skidded to an ungraceful halt.

  Nathaniel smiled at him and put both arms around his neck. “You need a bath, boy.” He pushed the hair away from Brutus’s face and looked into his brown eyes. He laid his forehead against him and held him tight.

  “I will miss you.”

  Finally, he let go, and laid back on the grass. Brutus whimpered, but only a bit, then laid his massive head across Nathaniel’s wounds.

  Nathaniel Moon closed his eyes and died.

  Epilogue

  Typically, sentencing hearings for criminals in their mid-seventies are a bit perfunctory. When you’re that age, it can reasonably be assumed that anything more than a twenty-year sentence is the equivalent of a life sentence.

  Jon West, who had been named executor in Nathaniel’s will, pushed for the longest sentences possible. He appeared on talk shows, gave interviews, and publically asked the DA’s office not to make any kind of a plea deal with Cyrus Creech. However, he did ask that they not seek the death penalty.

  The outcome of the trial was never in doubt. Two dozen cameras had recorded the multiple murders, and there were hundreds of witnesses willing to testify to what they saw, including many of the reporters and TV people who were there. Cyrus Creech pled “Not guilty by reason of insanity,” but the jury rejected that. They found him to be of sound mind and body.

  In the end, the court sentenced Creech to life in prison with no chance of parole. In the case of a man who had been given a new lease on life, that meant a very long time stretched ahead of him, all of it to be spent behind bars.

  As it turned out, Nathaniel had not only taken away only Cyrus’s illness and granted him long life. Just as he had done for so many he had touched, Nathaniel had also taken the bitterness and anger away from him. Cyrus Creech became a model prisoner, and dedicated his life to assisting others who were incarcerated. He wrote a dozen books over that time, decrying the sickness of dogma and blindly following without questioning. They did not sell well. Most of the world
preferred not to hear his message.

  Jon and Melissa West, and eventually Katie, were Nathaniel Moon’s strongest advocates. They guarded his name, words, and images carefully, giving it freely to causes they thought were worthy, and fighting those they did not. That, along with caring for a dog who never seemed to age, became their life’s work.

  As the recipients of all of Nathaniel’s worldly goods, they established a trust in his name and turned his small house on the edge of the foothills into an artist’s retreat where writers, sculptors, painters, and poets spent three months at a time creating their art. The stays were granted with no strings attached, with one exception: Nathaniel’s music played in the house all day. A few of the more radical artists even came to like it.

  Two years after Nathaniel perished, Jon also published a book: My Life with Nathaniel Moon, the Reluctant Messiah. The book told the story of their friendship, but long sections were dedicated to the life lessons Nathaniel had shared with him over the decades. It became a bestseller and was widely accepted as the gospel of Nathaniel Moon.

  Inevitably, different factions sprang up that worshipped at the feet of the Middle Falls Messiah, but none of those ever got any oxygen from Jon or Melissa, as they knew the idea was anathema to Nathaniel.

  As the years and news cycles passed, new stories came with them—the kidnapping of a judge, a Hollywood scandal, an airplane disappearing off the face of the Earth. With each new story, Nathaniel slipped further and further into the past, until eventually, he was consigned to history.

  Nothing would have made him happier.

  Epilogue Two

  The moment Nathaniel Moon died, he opened his eyes in surprise. He was not in the dark stream where he had frolicked from life to life so many times before. Instead, he was in a dazzlingly white room, filled with white benches. A lovely woman with long, sandy hair and bangs sat beside him as though she had been expecting him.