The Peony Chronicles

Chapter Three

The boys secret rendezvouses into town remained clandestine and undisclosed to any outside sources that went beyond the limits of Cold Creek, and frankly, that's how Gael particularly enjoyed it. Each day, after the azure pick up faded off down the dusty trail to the inner cities of Alabama, he would arise from the darkness of his subterranean domicile and slink off on an adventure.

Sometimes, he'd run into Cynthia and she'd whisk him off into woods, or into town, or someplace special to the ginger. Someplace the two of them could feel relevant in a long an what-seemed-to-be an uncaring world.
They would sit for a couple hours each day and just talk or play or do whatever little things children could do. Gael was fascinated by her homelife, as her recollections and memories of what she could call the place she went to every evening after dark seemed fuzzily warm and inviting, it felt like there was hope for kindness in the world even though Gael knew nothing of the sort.

One day they set out to catch butterflies with homemade nets courtesy of Cynthia's dear old father. The two spent the afternoon froilicking amongst themselves, the soil and wildflowers smudged right sloppily between their toes. The humidity was mighty fierce within the terrain of their meadow yet they still set onward to capture bugs. The quest of the hunt lasted quite some time until Gael began to become wispy at the idea of taking them home and framing the poor creatures.

"I don't wanna hurt 'em!" the boy exclaimed, releasing the winged beauty from his trap.

"Oh don't be such a baby," Cynthia had hissed at him, teasingly. "It's jus' a lil bug."

"Butterflies have feelin's just as you and I-- All livin' creatures feel sumtin' or another. You should know that! You was at church! I saw yah."

"Ain't that funny!" Cynthia mused, "I ain't never seen you!"

"Oh." Gael returned, "Daddy don't like me tuh get in trouble, so he lets me watch from afar! If he knew I ever left tuh house he'd be right mad."

Gaels ears went red.

"That doesn't sound like the righteous pastor all us Cold Creek folk have come tuh respect."

Gael caught the words in his throat. "W-Well he's a mighty nice fella! But-- He's a lil strict I suppose..."

From what one could assume from the point of view of a residence, the pastor of the small town was a lovable and charismatic individual. Although, from the eyes of a perceptive fellow, Gael's father was not a very caring man. Yet Gael was forgiving, as a boy, as a man, as a woman, and as everything he ever was and would be. Gael forgave his father because he himself never found justice in his feelings of hatred.

He forgave his father because he was human; and as he was human, and so was Gael.

It was not that the pastor wasn't a kind or patient man, it even was not the ideal that he simply disliked children, it was that Peter Mitchell had a personal, negative affliction that had stricken himself unremorsefully and unwillingly discontent with himself and the projection of his persona that placated his day-to-day life. The pastor, indubitably, was more than what the world perceived, what he wanted others to think of him, especially in the eyes of his personal savior.

He had approached God on a pathological whim that had been previously a bitter impulse, destroying his very essence in the world. There was a chain of events that triggered a downward spiral of bad choices on Peter's part, and somehow and some way he fell before the subtle hope of religion; somehow, he found himself basking under its warm light, under the hope that it radiated.
Peter knew he was not good enough for this opportunity although his own devout childhood teachings existed thoroughly through his development. He knew he was a pitiful man, and he also knew, though undeserving of such altruistic chance at rebirth, it was the only attempt a pitiful man like himself would have at redemption.
And so he strayed, he strayed from the teachings and never thought once about it because he knew he was not good enough. He emptied this longing guilt through the eyes of his child and in that guilt he felt red hot anger at not his son but himself and somehow it was projected towards things closest to him.