A Thousand Lives (Short Stories)

Divine Intervention

Rain fell heavily and relentlessly when a weary traveller roamed the land. The next pub and town were miles from him doing little for his encouragement to carry on. His coat was already drenched and it wouldn't be long until the rest of his clothes would be dripping wet as well.

'Shelter would be a very fine thing,' he thought as the drops ran down his face, making him shiver. Mud stuck to his boots and he had difficulty not to slip on the wet ground. Pleadingly, he looked towards the grey sky. He had been raised to honour and respect the Lord above, yet he had spent his life without paying heed to the bible. And thus, instead of uttering a prayer he turned his eyes back to the road in front of him. Lost in thoughts about the miserable situation of his life he almost oversaw a big building concealed behind the trees. Drawing near he recognised the stony structure to be an abbey. Soft candle light flickered behind the stained glass of the windows. Doubts crossed the young man's mind. Doubts about him being wanted by the Lord. Suddenly a cold gripped his stomach he hadn't felt before. On the other hand, the Lord's house was supposed to be open to everyone. The man shivered anew under the impact of the cold water, which had started to soak him to the skin. Cold creeped into his tired bones as the longing for shelter grew stronger. Perhaps they would even have a slice of bread for him. He hadn't eaten in a long time nor did he have coin to buy some should he stumble across a market. Pushing away superstitious thoughts and regrets he approached the big, wooden doors. He didn't quite grasp what happened next, all he recalled was how he had opened the door. And before he could enter, deafening thunder roared and a bright flash blinded him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still standing, which was strange for he had felt his body lose balance. The abbey was gone, so was the forest and the rain. Bright white mist surrounded him. Not the sinister foggy kind one could see in the morning. It was a welcoming, inviting scene. Still in awe of the purity around him, the man started walking forward. After a while he saw a table, but it was too high for him to reach. Like a child desperate to get a glimpse at the grown up's business he stretched and wrenched. But it was to no avail. A soft tapping sound emerged from above, assuming someone must be writing up there, the man called out.

"Hello?"

An old face emerged as the one behind the table got up to look down. Beard and hair were long and grey and he wore a long white robe. For a few seconds the old man stared at him with grey, keen eyes, before sitting back down.

"Name," was all the old man said in a bureaucratic tone which tolerated no unnecessary talk. The somewhat harsh voice made the man answer straight forward, "James O'Sullivan."

Silence followed, giving James the opportunity to ponder on what was happening. Out of habit he wrung his hands to keep warm, realising that he didn't feel cold anymore. With horror he noticed he didn't feel anything related to his physical body. Fear was what he felt right now, fear and confusion. For he started to guess who the old man was which had towered above him mere minutes ago.

"Hmmm," came the slightly puzzled sound from the man, James thought to be Saint Peter.

"You are not on my list. Must have taken the wrong way."

"I certainly did," James said with a weak smile.

"Don't worry. He will come for you." St. Peter said without any empathy. The missing compassion made James swallow hard, he assumed whatever would happen next wasn't going to be pleasant. And indeed a few moments later another man appeared in the mist. It was a tall fellow with black hair and a costly suit. A top hat rested on his brow through which the face was concealed by shadows. Yet two red eyes seemed to penetrate James' very being, making him shudder without a body. As the devil approached, the torn wings became visible. The black feathers were dull giving him the appearance of a bird in the moult. Not that it made him look less intimidating, in contrast. Would James have met someone like this in his life, he would have made for the next town.

James drew back a pace when the devil looked at him full of expectation. The seriousness of the situation hit him like a rock.

"But, I can't die now. I've... my wife, my son." He pleaded at both entities in front of him.

"Do I have to drag you to hell?" The devil asked with the voice of a tired parent, whereas St. Peter seized him with a stern look.

"You left your family," he boomed in anger.

"I went to look for work," James defended himself vainly.

"I wouldn't be here, if your efforts were solely good natured." Satan cut in with a slightly softer voice but the same stern gaze. Seeing there was no way out, James averted his eyes. The words were true, he had lost his farm due to selfishness and thus doomed his family to endure hardship. Drinking and gambling had led to his loss of the only means he had to make a living. And in the end, he had left them, not sure if he would ever return. His shame threatened to overwhelm him as he stood there in front of his judges. The devil grinned sinisterly as he raised his hand, the fingers in position to snap.

"You are enjoying this far too much," St. Peter commented with a frown. But the devil just replied smugly, "king of the wicked."

"Wait," James shouted before his soul could be dragged into the dark pit. "I'll make a deal."

"You're dead," Satan said amused but his eyes gleamed with interest.

"If I go with you now or in ten years, it's the same to you."

"Very well, what do you propose?" The fallen angel asked, lowering his hand.

"Give me ten years to make arrangements for my family." James spoke with a straight back. Whatever prize, he would pay it. He might deserve hell, but his family didn't. St. Peter glanced at him with something that might have been approval. The two entities communicated silently by exchanging a look before turning back to the man in front of them. A faint smile showed on St. Peter's lips, and the devil tipped his hat in acknowledgement. James felt his vision go blurry. When he opened his eyes, a ceiling came into view.

It was the abbey's ceiling. On his back he felt the cold, stony ground. The abbot's face appeared, looking down with concern in his eyes.

"You are far from home, my son."

"I am."

"You look lost."

"I was."