The Brave

Chapter Three: Pt. 3

 “Hm, where was I? Oh yes! After my team and I split up, I tried to find a way to get out of Russia. I was in the city of Saratov, right along the Volga River at the time. The only way I had a chance of getting out of Russia was by water. Any air tansportation was shut down because Pachnev was in the process of overthrowing Ukraine and invading Belarus. They didn't want any commercial jets being shot down in the sky by accident. I asked for work on a fishing boat near Saratov. They hired me, and we went down the Volga to the Black Sea through the Volga-Don Canal. I left the fishermen in the city of Novorossijsk. From there, I sneaked aboard a ship. I was found out a few days later. The Captain was furious and most of the deck hands wanted to kill me. There was one man aboard the ship who convinced everyone on the ship to let me live. To let me stay aboard until we got to America. He saved my life.” Old Man Seely's eyes are resting somewhere far beyond me. He has escaped back into that memory. He doesn't speak again until I can't wait any longer.

“Who was he?” I inquire, completely surprised at the story. Old Man Seely looks up from his daze, eyes focusing on me again. He gets up, and travels to back room. When he emerges, he has the picture of the same soldier I stared at, in his hands. He hands the picture to me gingerly, then moves over to the fire, setting a pot of tea on a metal barbecue grail. When he settles back down on his stool, he continues with the story.

“The man who kept me alive was named Oliver. Oliver was an American News Journalist. He was very well liked by the crew and captain. Oliver had traveled on this ship many times, going back and forth between America and Russia. What the captain and crew didn't know was that he was a spy for the American army. In fact, he was part of the Brave. Back then it was a special forces team. He had been bringing intel on Pachnev back to America for years. We were the same age, and although I was more grave, and angry at the time. Oliver was different. Different than anyone I have ever met. He always had a positive look on life, even when things went wrong. So, one day I asked him, 'Oliver! What makes you so different?'. I was jealous. I wanted his positive attitude. He didn't let his worries get to him; how I wished I could control my worries! You know what he said to me, Archer? You want to know what has changed my life? What gave my life direction and purpose? What made my worries and fears vanish?” He looks at me, eyebrows raised, pouring some tea into his cup.

“Um, yes!” I look back at him like he's crazy. Of course I want to know.

“Oliver,” Old Man Seely says, pointing to the picture in my hand. “Told me about the Creator.” The old man smiles fondly.

The Creator? Long ago, before Darce and the other Dictators, when everything was normal, I had heard of such a being. But my memory of it is fuzzy. Nowadays, when I hear such talk, the Creator only exists in myths and stories. I feel dissapointed. Old Man Seely's trust has been put into a myth?

Just to humor Seely, I ask, “The Creator?”

The old man chuckles. “To you, He may seem like a myth. I'm here to tell you, He's not.” Old Man Seely smiles at me then leaves his stool and walks across the room to a book shelf in the far left corner. He pulls down a worn, black, book and blows the dust off of it. He walks back over to me, and makes and exchange, taking Oliver's picture and replacing it with the book. Seely's eyes are shining. He sets Oliver's picture down on my cot. Then reverts his attention back to me. I grasp the book in my hands and stare at it, it's heavy and old, but something about it radiates power.

“Son, let me tell you about the Creator.”