Fear No Evil

Jet stood silhouetted by the setting sun on the narrow dirt path. Gone were the carefree days of his youth, hot summer afternoons spent swimming and fishing in this very river. How fast things had changed, both mother and father gone two months now. Less than an hour away, the city hummed with activity, its lights beginning to glow in the distance. With the toe of his boot he sent a pebble over the path’s edge, watching as an arch of ripples fanned the surface, disturbing a glass-like reflection of cliffs and clouds.

He considered the winding river as it cut through ancient lava-flows, bluffs, and low hills once topped with cattle and crops. A scene so tranquil, so deceivingly serene. Some sixty feet above him, a flat rock jutted out over the river’s bend bathed in fading light. Jet inspected the rock face, mapping a path to the ledge. The jagged basalt stood generously supplied with foot and hand-holds, but like the promises of the new state, they could easily crumble under the slightest pressure.

He’d learned to recognize the counterfeits, unlike his closest friends now absorbed into the greater good, his own parents executed for opposing it. Fingers gripping a narrow ledge, he pulled up, testing the strength of his next step with his boot. Thirty feet from the table-rock, he swiped a hand over his pants before searching cracks and crevices for fine dirt to powder sweaty hands. A fall from this height wasn’t likely to kill him, but the last thing he needed was a broken arm or ankle.

Though certainly hunted, an enticing bounty on his head, he’d managed to escape the city undetected. A tightness built in his chest. Alone with nothing—nowhere to go, he’d sought the shelter of childhood memories. The river—a measure of comfort—but memories couldn’t fill his empty gut. If caught, he’d pay for his attempt to escape. They’d make an example of him, like so many others; the greater good unyielding in its unholy pursuit of total allegiance.

Combing fingers over unseen openings, Jet felt along the narrow ridge above him, listening for the tell-tale sound of a startled rattler before trusting the hand hold. An eagle landed above him on his intended destination, squawking its opinion of his accent.

“Listen, you carcass munching menace, I’m not backing down.”

Another five feet closer, Jet took a careful inventory of the hooked beak squatter. Sharp claws gripped the rock edge like a barbarian’s war weapon.

“Scary human … getting closer.”

At the sound of long flapping wings, Jet threw an arm over his head and hunched tight against the cliff, expecting an imminent plunge of talons, but the eagle swooped past him.

That was too close. Jet turned to watch it glide effortlessly over the shadowed river. The bird, in all its freedom, sent a shrill call echoing through the canyon.  

Dipping below the hills across the river, the sun took with it the days warmth, the mid-November night ahead, promising a layer of frost. In his aching muscles weakened from three months of cramped confinement, Jet felt the chill. Almost there. Ten feet to go. He drew in a deep breath, his throat dry.

Like so many others, friends, neighbors, people he’d known all his life; people he trusted, he too could have claimed allegiance. Sign it Jet, his uncle had pleaded, For Christ’s sake, Jet, just sign it. You don’t have to agree with it. For Christ’s sake—did his uncle even catch the irony in his own advice? It was for Christ’s sake he’d refused to sign the Declaration of Unity; all borrowed words and phrases twisted and torqued to sell the greatest evil to rule America since the vote ten years ago.

His shoulders burning, Jet pulled up onto the ledge, a fresh scrape on his wrist. With his back against the rock wall, he welcomed a hint of the days warmth lingering in the dark basalt. “Have you left us?” he whispered, breath beginning to slow to its normal pace. “These troubles—are they our own doing, Lord? Consequences of hardened hearts, or have you sent this on us; persecution to try the saints?”

He swiped the back of a hand over parched lips. At first light, he’d climb down for a much needed drink. Arms pulled free of his thread-bare jacket, he tucked into the cleft of the rock and laid the thin-green coat over his chest and chin, trapping frayed edges beneath his shoulders.

Tired yet unable to sleep, he watched the shifting sky reveal the heavens. This rock—a safe table prepared for him in the presence of his enemies. Temporary respite. He a sheep surrounded by wolves. A verse came to mind, I will never leave you nor forsake you. Somewhere on the hills above the canyon, a coyote cried out a mournful howl.

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.” He shifted, wrapping arms tighter around his waist. “For thou art with me.” Was he really? “Please, Lord, help me believe it.” Remembering from his elementary days, the scriptures stayed with him. They’d been censored when the church was boarded up nine years ago; a year after the vote to annul the Constitution.

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Image: by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash