Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

Phantom of the Age

Monday, 27 Tishrei, 5694

In the comfort of his own living room, Martin Dennihy had thrown off his suit jacket and removed his tie. It was after a long day's work that he was free to recline on his sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table and his wife curled up beside him. They had put the children to bed and the darkness of the outside world was eradicated by the warm light of the fireplace.

So much had happened over the course of a few months... ever since the ascension of Freitag and his men. The laws had been altered, justice suspended, parties stripped of their rights, and Martin himself had been transferred to another office on account of his well known political views. He had never had a reason to hide his passion for freedom and his favor of the democratic state. He was, at his core, a lover of liberty, and always had been. This had in recent times, however, begun to cause some trouble for him. As the republic fell into shambles, he and many others were being crushed beneath the weight of a world gone mad.

It wasn't bad for him to have been transferred. In fact, it could have been considered a sort of promotion for him. He was the first aid to the Minister of Justice, Harold Francis Gertner, a man whom he had rather learned to like. Although he had found his favor of Freitag disturbing at first, he had since come to realize that Gertner's love for the Association grew colder by the hour. So, he would wait out in quiet the days of his discontent while he and Gerter worked to stay the violent hand of the Good Fellows' aggressions.

He would have liked to set all of that aside and simply enjoy the pleasant company of his wife, but he had never believed in keeping anything from her, no matter how painful. To him, they were one — one flesh, one spirit, and one life, forever bound, inseparable.

He held in his hands the book he had been reading to her, a green hardback whose cover sported golden print. It was just some old political nonsense, the kind which could hardly be considered relevant under their present conditions, but it was enough to have gotten them both thinking on the unappetizing topic.

Martin sat the book down open on the arm of the couch, leaving it open to the page, and turned his attentions to his wife. Ruth had long had her head resting on his chest, her feet tucked up underneath her skirt as she had nestled in by his side. He had his arm draped over her and moved it now to pull her in closer to himself as he leaned his head back and closed his weary eyes with a satisfied sigh.

"My dear, sweet lady, I am so very grateful for you," he breathed as his slender hand caressed her delicate shoulder. "All of this would be so impossible without you by me."

His wife sighed and nuzzled up against him. She did not have to speak a word for him to know she loved him. There was something special between the two of them, something which the world and all of its cruelness could never erode.

His eyes opened up like slits as he cast his adoring gaze down on her. "My darling you..." he whispered as he contemplated the woman whom he cradled in his arms. "Do you remember what I told you when I returned home after my first meeting with Freitag?"

Her beautiful brown eyes gleamed up at him as her long eyelashes parted. "You said, 'The man is mad,'" she recounted, giving her best impression of her beloved spouse.

With a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Yes. 'The man is mad.' And he is absolutely mad. And what will become of the country — of the children?"

Ruth lifted her head, putting her face nearer to his, and he reached out his hand to cup her cheek in loving consideration.

"What of you? My darling angel, what ever could I do for you — for all of you... you and the children? I want to help... I want to help make this a livable world for you — for all of you — again." His eyebrows furrowed and even the sight of her to whom his soul cleaved could not cure the feeling of a swirling numbness which had developed deep down inside of him.

She stared deep into his fraught eyes as she leaned herself forward and touched her gentle fingers to the smooth skin of his troubled countenance. "And what of you, my heart?" she asked him. "How will you live in this world when all has become so cold, and you have always been the warmth of summer for us?"

He smiled as his heart warmed at her touch. It was a kind assurance of her undying devotion towards him. "Well, we will have to find out; but this winter cannot last. There will come a day when spring will break for us again, by God's good grace. And, until that day, may that same Lord sustain us."

"My good, beloved husband," — Ruth pressed her forehead against his, her breath descending on his lips — "no cold of winter could ever freeze a heart so lovingly kindled as yours. There is no need for you to fret over any of it! Whatever is done, I will share it with you. The path that you walk, I will go on with you. Whatever may come, we will bear it together... and then the weight is not so much amongst two."

Martin embraced his wife and kissed her. Her words were comfort to his soul, and he felt himself falling back into courage from the fear that had begun to take hold on his spirit. It seemed to be the phantom of the age, this fear which would grip a man's soul with icy fingers until his heart was hardened, and it was a dreadful thing to witness for a man with a heart so tender as his. If God had given him one major fault, it was this: that he had given him no armor around his heart. Whereby, then, may he be numb to these afflictions?