The Red Ledger Part 1

Chapter 9

ISABEL

The air, weighted with three hundred years of desperate prayer, smells of old wood and the soot of scented candles. The heavily painted figure of the Messiah stands at the center of the church, silent and still, offering his open arms to the devout. The needy. The desperate.

The half-blind priest bolts the front door and gestures to the back of the church. "Me siga."

I offer him a weak smile, ready to follow him to the only place I thought to hide when Tristan sent me off. With no hesitation, Padre Antonio agreed to give us shelter here tonight. He asked for nothing in return. Even as I am growing to distrust nearly everyone, I have faith in his genuine kindness.

Seeming to sense my somber mood, he pauses and touches my arm gently. His skin is dry and warm to the touch. The simple kindness wraps around me, threatening to unravel my quickly fraying emotions. I blink back tears.

He hushes me and speaks softly in Portuguese. "Rest here, Isabel. Come back when you are ready." Without another word, he walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the empty hall.

I haven't stepped foot in a place of worship for years. Not since Grace's funeral. My parents all but turned their backs on Tristan's tragedy, and in turn, I turned my back on the traditions of our faith.

Still, something faint rings inside me. I can't remember a time when I've needed hope more.

Careful not to disturb the silence, I move up the narrow aisle. Whatever drew me to the church gate yesterday with Tristan on my heels compels me now into the pew and onto my knees. I lean forward, anxiety tight in my belly. The lacquered wood is warm under my palms and against my forehead. A small comfort. I exhale heavily, racked with worry and fatigue.

This unexpected journey with Tristan, fighting for our lives and more, has turned me inside out. It's made me raw and weak and aimless. Yet even as I long for the safety and security I took for granted every day before, I can't deny wanting to save Tristan from this nightmare too. I have no idea how I can, though. I've never felt more powerless in my life, flung from place to place, kept in the dark by the lover of my past.

How can the broken man I still care for beyond reason be the one to save me? Can he even save himself?

I'm miles from Tristan, but I pray he hears me.

Please.

Please come back to me. Please live.

Please fight for us... Survive for us... Remember us...

Over and over, I whisper my deepest pleas. All the while, visions of the horrific acts I witnessed earlier consume me. I grip the back of the pew tightly, refusing to believe the same fate could come upon Tristan. He's too strong. Too determined. Too broken to let them win...

I squeeze my eyes against tears. He's not dead. I'd feel it if he were. I'd know. There'd be an earthquake in my soul. Some kind of sign.

I look up at the cartoonish figure before me. No change in his peaceful countenance. I don't bow my head again, because this is no longer a quiet prayer. I'm as desperate now as all the troubled, poor, and sick souls who've passed through these doors and bruised their knees on the crude floor.

"Help me save him," I utter amidst the quiet crackle of candles. "Tell me what to do."

A door slams in the back. I grip the pew with knuckle-whitening force. My heart stutters and then launches into wild beats. Then I hear his voice mingled with the priest's.