peace.”
“No one will pass away. God will not allow it.…”
“Don’t you see? Are you blind to what has happened? You have killed us.”
Morgan shook his head, too dispirited to argue. The place was near, he knew. The lord of all creation would not permit his servant to come so close, only to let him die. This was the ultimate test of strength, of belief. Morgan was determined to reject all sense of personal misery in order that he might acquit himself in a worthy manner. God would forgive Sylvie’s capitulation to despair if only Morgan stood firm, even as he faced death.
The Kindreds had fallen in the shadow of an earthen wall, the southern side of a small ravine that bore the signs of once having channeled running water between its crumbling banks. Morgan imagined a sudden return of that blessed moisture, an opening of the ravine floor, a great spewing forth of water, a rushing torrent to ease their agony. If God could create a dry pathway through the Red Sea, then could he not, for the sake of His emissary and his family, produce at least a rivulet of life-giving liquid?
For the first time, a sliver of doubt entered his thoughts. Could Sylvie be right? Was he guilty of leading two precious people on a fool’s errand? He dismissed the temptation to think that way. Satan was whispering in his ear, dribbling his filthy skepticism into Morgan’s brain. Suffering was his righteous lot for the moment; there might even be worse to come; the test of his endurance most likely would be bottomless, from Morgan’s purely human perspective. He might even have to face losing his wife and child to prove himself. That would be the harshest test of all, but he would confront it if need be. To be resolute at such a time was difficult, but to his own surprise, Morgan achieved it.
The sixth day passed in hellish torment. Morgan watched his family dying. He expected Sylvie would be proved right; Drew would be the first to go. They were still within sight of the wagon, hadn’t even attempted to continue on foot. Morgan supposed they must all be weaklings, but he couldn’t have reached the wagon without assistance, let alone walked in search of civilization. There were no buzzards overhead, to his disappointment; the creatures were an integral part of death in the wilderness, according to the illustrated periodicals.
Where was God? Where was the desert place? He lacked the strength even to crawl on hands and knees over the next hill. It might be waiting there, resplendently empty, a hallowed spot where the spirit of God met rude earth, but Morgan wouldn’t see it now. Keeping his eyelids raised was more than he could accomplish. He slept.
In the evening an angel came. Morgan saw it standing above him on the far rim of the ravine. The angel’s hair was long and white, its clothing loose, stirring slightly in a rare breeze. A peculiar package was cradled in its right hand. The light of the setting sun was behind the angel, preventing a more detailed inspection of its face and form. It was enough for Morgan to know that mercy had arrived.
He watched the angel disappear from view, then suddenly materialize at his side. Morgan felt water pass between his parched lips. The angel was older than expected, an ancient soul with wisdom in its eyes, but where were its wings? He asked the angel to give water to his wife and son. No words passed from Morgan’s mouth, but the angel understood, and moved across the intervening ground in a distinctly earth-bound lope to administer life from what appeared to be a leather bag. Morgan had been anticipating a silver flask, but was in no condition to voice a complaint.
The water, far from reviving him, sent Morgan into a deep sleep from which he did not awaken until the morning of the seventh day. Where was the long-haired angel? He turned to his wife, and was devastated to find her dead. Scrambling to Drew’s side, he saw the boy’s eyes open. If Morgan and Drew had survived, why had
“No one will pass away. God will not allow it.…”
“Don’t you see? Are you blind to what has happened? You have killed us.”
Morgan shook his head, too dispirited to argue. The place was near, he knew. The lord of all creation would not permit his servant to come so close, only to let him die. This was the ultimate test of strength, of belief. Morgan was determined to reject all sense of personal misery in order that he might acquit himself in a worthy manner. God would forgive Sylvie’s capitulation to despair if only Morgan stood firm, even as he faced death.
The Kindreds had fallen in the shadow of an earthen wall, the southern side of a small ravine that bore the signs of once having channeled running water between its crumbling banks. Morgan imagined a sudden return of that blessed moisture, an opening of the ravine floor, a great spewing forth of water, a rushing torrent to ease their agony. If God could create a dry pathway through the Red Sea, then could he not, for the sake of His emissary and his family, produce at least a rivulet of life-giving liquid?
For the first time, a sliver of doubt entered his thoughts. Could Sylvie be right? Was he guilty of leading two precious people on a fool’s errand? He dismissed the temptation to think that way. Satan was whispering in his ear, dribbling his filthy skepticism into Morgan’s brain. Suffering was his righteous lot for the moment; there might even be worse to come; the test of his endurance most likely would be bottomless, from Morgan’s purely human perspective. He might even have to face losing his wife and child to prove himself. That would be the harshest test of all, but he would confront it if need be. To be resolute at such a time was difficult, but to his own surprise, Morgan achieved it.
The sixth day passed in hellish torment. Morgan watched his family dying. He expected Sylvie would be proved right; Drew would be the first to go. They were still within sight of the wagon, hadn’t even attempted to continue on foot. Morgan supposed they must all be weaklings, but he couldn’t have reached the wagon without assistance, let alone walked in search of civilization. There were no buzzards overhead, to his disappointment; the creatures were an integral part of death in the wilderness, according to the illustrated periodicals.
Where was God? Where was the desert place? He lacked the strength even to crawl on hands and knees over the next hill. It might be waiting there, resplendently empty, a hallowed spot where the spirit of God met rude earth, but Morgan wouldn’t see it now. Keeping his eyelids raised was more than he could accomplish. He slept.
In the evening an angel came. Morgan saw it standing above him on the far rim of the ravine. The angel’s hair was long and white, its clothing loose, stirring slightly in a rare breeze. A peculiar package was cradled in its right hand. The light of the setting sun was behind the angel, preventing a more detailed inspection of its face and form. It was enough for Morgan to know that mercy had arrived.
He watched the angel disappear from view, then suddenly materialize at his side. Morgan felt water pass between his parched lips. The angel was older than expected, an ancient soul with wisdom in its eyes, but where were its wings? He asked the angel to give water to his wife and son. No words passed from Morgan’s mouth, but the angel understood, and moved across the intervening ground in a distinctly earth-bound lope to administer life from what appeared to be a leather bag. Morgan had been anticipating a silver flask, but was in no condition to voice a complaint.
The water, far from reviving him, sent Morgan into a deep sleep from which he did not awaken until the morning of the seventh day. Where was the long-haired angel? He turned to his wife, and was devastated to find her dead. Scrambling to Drew’s side, he saw the boy’s eyes open. If Morgan and Drew had survived, why had
Similar Books
