Unrelenting Devotion

The Father

Pray for the dog, and whatever it is doing.
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The Hinderlands
Time:
08:23

“When the world seems bleak and cold,
When your bones feel tired and old,
When wind is howling through the trees...”

A haunting, but strangely alluring voice echoed through the sparse woodland. It cut through the damp morning air and bounced off of the groaning trees, carried by a breeze that seemed intertwined with the quizzical song. Was it a beckon? Or was it a warning? Surely whoever was making such a racket knew better than to recklessly call out alone in the Hinderlands. Between the wildlife and potential bandits, it wouldn’t be far fetched to guess that sooner or later, the man would be confronted by something.

But he was not, else the song would’ve been cut short. Calm words would’ve been replaced with shrill cries and the sounds of a struggle, or even the lethal ring of gunshots. Instead, the song persisted with intense dedication.

“There’s a shelter from the storm,
There’s a fire, burning warm,
You’ll find it if you follow me.”

Closer now, one who was perceptive enough to notice small details about their environment would see and hear the most minuscule of changes. Local fauna, most notably the birds, were echoing the tone that continued to fill the environment around them. Like a choir following in the path of their leader, quiet and roughly unified chirps accompanied the primary voice. The grass was without question more lush, and freely swayed with the ever growing breeze. Trees themselves were more pronounced with large leaves and healthy bark, which was comparatively different to the molting and decaying variants that were observed further away. Was this the work of the voice? It’s unlikely, after all, words matter little to plants and non-domesticated animals.

Perhaps there was a higher power at play? The only way to know would be to draw closer, and cross the threshold of almost unbearably thick vegetation.

Perfection is thought to be unachievable by many, and rightly so. One man or woman cannot identify perfection through their own senses, or the senses of those around them. Sure, someone could explain that there are things such as a perfectly drawn circle, or a perfectly cut diamond, but those things are only perceived to be perfect by the eyes that view them. Others will understand that perfection implies being as free as possible from defects, not completely free. Man cannot determine what is absolutely perfect without fault, because absolute perfection can not be achieved by man, even in their judgement. They can only speculate and label things as close enough to being perfect. With this in mind, the barrier to the haunted voice is crossed.

What waited in the center of the thick flora was beautiful, and could be deemed as so by many. A crystal clear stream that was teeming with aquatic life surged around the base of a gently sloped hill. Rocks of all different sizes and colors littered the ground just outside it, accompanied by a roughly assembled wooden chair with a steel cup of some steaming liquid sitting atop it. While the rolling stream was not perfect, it was good.

Above the stream, brushing against the base of the hill was a flat, open ground covered with flowers and sprinkled with insects that were traversing the terrain with purpose. On the outskirts near the trees sat a lone canvas tent, pitched up alongside a smoldering fireplace that had a carefully prepared stew suspended above it in some type of metallic pot. The scent of cooking vegetables and meat wafted up into the air, as if it longed to meet the rising sun. A few feet away from the serene campsite sat a tree stump, freshly cut with a sturdy wood and steel hatchet buried into it. The reflection in the well worn steel showed the gently sloped hill. Although the scenic campsite was not perfect, it was good.

The sloped hill that was reflected sat at the center of it all, at the center of the indisputably peaceful scene. Atop the hill was a tree like no other, for it bore leaves of pure white in the sea of green surrounding it. Clinging to its barely swaying branches was an abundance of healthy, vibrantly red apples, barely blanketed by the sight of marble glazed leaves breaking free from their home and seeking asylum within the morning breeze. Some leaves however, did not continue with the breeze. Instead, they descended with no regard for the winds pull, seemingly sentient without reason. As these unique leaves fell, rays of early morning light shone through onto the base of the great tree, and onto the roots below. Pillars of sunlight that descended from the bed of white above were almost solid rays in appearance. These rays of radiant sunlight focused down onto its great roots, as well as the source of the ghostly prayer. Although the lone marble colored tree was not perfect, it was good.

Mere inches away from those large, sturdy roots knelt a man, hands outstretched above and in front of him. His attire consisted of a white button up flannel shirt with rolled sleeves, a black dress vest loosely buttoned, gray cargo pants with suspenders, and a pair of black combat boots. His hands were calloused and worn, covered in the earth that he knelt upon. In his right hand, he grasped a necklace of silver, bearing a cross that danced along his arm with each movement he made. In his left hand was nothing, it was open and outstretched towards the white tree, longing for its touch. To the right of the man, at the base of the tree was a well maintained, clean and engraved handgun that sat propped up against a dark gray plate carrier. To his left, away from the roots was a light gray cavalry hat, adorned with a golden lace and paired golden sabers, challenging the sun in an attempt to be the brightest. Underneath the hat was a brown book, devoid of writing or markings. What it contained within its pages may mean little to others, but it meant everything to John Duggan.

“Oh, the bliss will set you free...”
He called out to the tree, his voice echoed by a chilling choir of mimicking sounds deep within the forest.​

Slowly rising from off his knees, John was met by the rays of sunlight that kissed his bearded and scarred face. He stood with grace and strength, raising his gaze to meet the apples on the marble tree. Behind his dark, circular glasses, two brown eyes fixated on one fruit in particular. It was an apple, no different from the others if held against another, but something about it called out to John. With his left hand, John reached out to it and gently clasped it, pulling it free with a light tug.

Am I worthy? Is this a sign? Or a test? How am I to know the difference between the two?

John pondered deeply on this. He hadn’t received guidance from his Lord in a while. He didn’t know if there was something he missed, or if there was a path he had yet to see. It’s possible he had strayed, as though he was devoted, he was not perfect. But he was good.

Tightly clenching the necklace and apple alike, he brought the fruit up to his face and turned his back to the sacred tree. Looking out into the morning glow, he whispered.

“...Oh, the bliss is gonna make me see.”

He took a bite, the crispness interrupting the usual forest sounds, breaking through the chorus of birds. All at once, his facial expression changed from one of loss and worry to one of immense relief and understanding. He knew that he was still with God. He knew that he still had the connection, and he knew, as tears trickled down from beneath his glasses and onto his dusted face, it was the sign.

For man does not know what perfection is. Only the Lord does, and he told John that the apple was perfect.
 
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