2019-09-29 - Fever Dreams

1 Corinthians 3:13 - …their work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each man’s work.

Alexander was on fire, but too weak at the moment to drag himself to the bathroom. August was somewhere, but he couldn’t feel it – his abilities flickered in and out, moment by moment, and even when they were working, he couldn’t concentrate. His fever-addled mind leapt from thought to thought with no discipline, no focus. All his carefully curated mental boxes were breaking down. Catching on fire, letting their contents spill heedlessly into the cauldron of his mind.

This is a test, he heard the strained voice say, like it wasn’t fifteen years gone. The Lord is testing us, Alexander. He remembers the cold cloth in his hands, pressing it to the skin beneath him, trying to keep the burning down as blue eyes focused on his face.

This isn’t a test, he’d responded, dipping the cloth in the bowl. He didn’t ring it out, just let the cool water drip all over the face beneath him like a baptism, and even as sick as he was – as sick as they both were – the pleased groan in response set him aflame in an entirely different way. He smothered the feeling and the flicker of shame that accompanied it, laid the cloth in place, and continued, it’s food poisoning.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

You must really be sick. You’re not usually that cliché. He chilled the cloth again, wiped down the other man’s cheeks, gently. Even here, in this echoing dream, he shied away from even thinking the name that desperately wanted to be said. Just as he shied away from picturing the face in its entirety; only the eyes, or the mouth, or the voice, fading in and out but never standing together to make him face the whole picture. And it’s not mysterious. I told you that deal was too good to be true. You need to let me do the purchasing from now on. That son of a bitch could have killed us.

Language, Alexander. Our tongues may corrupt our whole body. The body on the bed shifted, and Alexander tensed, reaching for the bucket beside the bed. It was waved hastily away, but Alexander didn’t really relax again until it resettled, went almost still but for breathing and speech. We have work to do. The Lord will not allow his servants to come to harm, as long as our faith is true. This is just a test. And a revelation. He reached out, taking Alexander’s wrist in his hand. They were both feverish, but as always, the fingers around his wrist were warmer than his own skin. It is the Lord’s way of showing us a soul who requires correction. What if this man cheats those without the protection of our faith? Do they deserve this suffering?

No, Alexander replied after a moment. His hand tightened on the rag, and water ran like tears down his fingers, falling to splash on the bedsheets. But the town cops won’t take our side against one of their own. They don’t even want us here, most of them.

And yet. those blue eyes stared calmly into his own. There was no malice there, no anger, just the clarifying fire of purpose. A lighthouse for Alexander to steer himself by. The Lord has provided us tools for our work, hasn’t He? And he’d felt it then, the surge of strength and healing that had come through their connection, driving out the illness as Jesus had driven out demons. His stomach stilled. The fever (the remembered fever; the real fever was alive and well, and he could feel it pounding at the edges of the memory like barbarians at the gate) receded.

The faintest shiver of unhappiness went through him. Is it necessary?

The smile from the man in the bed was beatific in the most religious sense of the world; holy and joyful despite the sweat and the pain. Happy is the man whom God correcteth; therefore despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty. His voice gentled as much as it could when the vomiting had made it rough and ragged. The path is rocky. The path is narrow. But now we walk it together. Don’t we?

We do. Always. Alexander wet the cloth again, folded it, and laid it across the other man’s forehead, gently brushing the golden hair out of the way. The sun was just setting outside, and it was the sort of town where everyone would be making their way back to their homes, on their neat little parcels of land with plenty of space so you weren’t bothered by your neighbors’ noises. It wouldn’t be hard to find out which one belonged to the cheat, even this far from Gray Harbor. He stood. I’ll be back soon.

In August’s cabin, Alexander groans and twists on the futon, trying to shove the memories back into their tidy boxes, locked up and sealed and buried. They refused to go, animated by the fever like Frankenstein’s monster had been brought to life by lightning, shambling and crashing into one another. Stumbling out of one, he fell into another.

The water in the basin was tinged in pink, and there were dark splatters on the snowy white cuffs of his shirt. Alexander stood in the doorway, feeling the fear and pain recede in the distance along with the running footsteps of…Susan? He thought her name was Susan. Her face was just a blur. What did you do?

The Lord moved me, came back the calm, certain reply. He turned to face Alexander, warmth and sorrow sufficing his handsome features. Our beloved sister has been lying to us in chapel. She required correction. He sighed. But I fear her faith was not strong enough, yet, to handle the weight of the Lord’s discipline. She must be kept to the path, Alexander. Make her stay.

You should let me do the corrections, Alexander said, quietly, moving forward to touch the bloodstained cuffs. It hurts too much. Let me bear that. Then the last sank in, and he found himself raising startled, dark eyes to meet blue. If she wants to leave…

She won’t want to leave after you talk to her. That warm smile, filled with confidence and trust. It’s the Lord’s gift to you. You can make her understand. The hand, still a bit damp, that lifted to run through his hair with easy affection. We can’t send her out into the wilderness, lost and alone. Just like with the junkies, Alexander. Sometimes we have to be strong, when others can’t be.

A skip. A blur. Alexander’s hands on Susan’s (was it Sarah? Sophie?) back, calmly pointing out that there were no wounds there now, and had she ever known the Reverend to harm anyone? Sometimes prayer and revelation could be intense. Sometimes we needed the pain to keep us on the path. And with every stroke of his hands on her back, with every soft argument he’d made, his mind repeating the message to her mind, reminding her to trust the Reverend, to repent and regret whatever offenses she’d committed, to fear the thought of being on her own again in a world full of heretics and the faithless. Stay with us, he’d finished, softly. And when she’d agreed, he’d fed her joy and certainty, sealing the decision in her mind as the right one. He wasn’t as strong, away from Gray Harbor. But he was strong enough.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alexander mutters into the pillow he’s clutching to his body, his nails digging in so deep that the fabric frays and pulls under the force of it. “Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.” A moment later, “Lo siento.” He needs to get to the bathroom. To pour a tub of cold water and douse the fires on his skin and in his mind. But he can’t move and he can’t wake, and his mind turns to fire.

The compound was burning. Physically, yes. Alexander had set those fires himself, with the gasoline from the supply shed and a lighter from the contraband box. But less physical fires raged in the hearts of the few dozen followers of the Church. And Alexander had set those as well, but he hadn’t had to do much. Rage and betrayal ran close to the surface in every mind he touched, and once Alexander was no longer suppressing it, once he gave them a target and permission…he hadn’t even had to suggest the weapons. There was screaming from the main building. Was it a man? A woman? He couldn’t tell. He’d never heard the Reverend (and he was only going to think of him as the Reverend now, never again as a person, a friend, his only friend, who he is betraying) scream before, so would he even recognize it?

In the here and now, Alexander burns.