The Pilgrim

"What is this place?"

"The place you need to be."

"What are you talking about? Talk sense!"

Al Fisher was many things in this world: plumber, dock worker, husband, father, brother, son. But the one thing he wasn't was a patient man.

The Pilgrim didn't seem to care. The Pilgrim just stood before him dressed in perfect black and white, a dour expression on his gaunt face.

Al still didn't know where he was. The last thing he remembered was going to sleep the night before. Today was Thanksgiving, so the Pilgrim made sense as part of the weird dream. But the edge of the island they stood on with the massive jungle sprawling out behind it, didn't.

Al didn't care anymore. After five minutes of this jerk watching him and never giving a straight answer, he just wanted to haul off and punch the guy.

So he did.

The Pilgrim simply stepped back, out of the way of the wild swing. His expression never changed as he stared at Al.

"What are you?" Al asked.

"I am a simple Pilgrim, as you guessed. And I saw your guilt. And I saw your need, Alfred James Fisher."

"My need for what. To punch out some whackjob on an island?"

"No, your need for release. You live in a land where they give thanks for what they have on this day, but you aren't thankful at all. You mourn everyday. You lament your decision and the fate that it caused. It eats you up inside. It consumes you."

"Look, pal, I don't know what you're talking about. I—"

"You left your lover behind, isn't that right, Mister Fisher? Many years ago, when you met your wife. Say your lover's name, Mister Fisher. Say it."

Al's mouth opened. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how this man could guess any of this.

"Frank."

The Pilgrim nodded.

"You have denied yourself that for too long, Mister Fisher. You denied it once, you walked away and betrayed him with the woman you now call wife. And Frank killed himself, died because the man that once said their love would be forever walked out the door for some righteous sense of normality."

"You don't understand. Back then it wasn't like today. It wasn't accepted. It was—"

"Excuses, Mister Fisher. Excuses."

Al held back tears. Tears of anger and rage, and tears of heartbreak and loss. He wouldn't have this man make a mockery of him or his feelings.

"Why are you bringing this up? Where did you take me?"

"We live in a strange world, Mister Fisher." The Pilgrim cocked up an eyebrow as he said the words as if acknowledging his own appearance. "And in that world, sometimes strange things happen. Sometimes the past echoes into the future. Sometimes it creates a land where those echoes gather."

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

The Pilgrim turned and pointed into the jungle. Three figures emerged from the brush. He didn't recognize the young black woman or the Middle Eastern man. But he recognized the third.

He wore the same Army fatigues he wore when Al first met him, though they were now soiled and tattered. He held a spear over his shoulder like some great African hunter. His body was even tighter and tauter than Al remembered. But somehow the man stood before him, a vision of beauty carved from pure obsidian.

"Frank?"

His voice cracked as he said it, but all three turned to face him with their spears. Frank took only a step forward before he said, "Al?"

Al nodded, but Frank was already running to him. A moment later they were in each other's hands, hugging and kissing like decades and a death didn't stand between them.

Al didn't even notice the Pilgrim was gone.

***

Gertrude Fisher counted the final thousand dollars into the man's hand.

"You promise they won't find the body?"

The assassin stood in the shadows, where he always kept his face away from her view.

"I'm a professional, Miss Fisher. When I'm done, nothing remains but ash. Your husband is very much dead and will never be found again. No one will ever know any of this happened."

"I will know what has been done." The voice echoed through the room.

Gertrude and the assassin saw only the flash of black and white. Then the burning fire washed over them as the Pilgrim consumed them in his righteous flames.

Al Fisher was safe, or at least his shade would be. And his justice was done.

The Pilgrim walked off into the night, in search of another soul to save. And avenge.