Eternal Rest Grant unto Them O Lord...

A Short Story for you on the feast of the Holy Souls.

In November, we pray for the departed

This is one of my favorite times of year, as we near the start of the Advent season, we have Hallow’s Eve (Halloween), All Saints, and All Souls’ Day celebration. All this month, we are invited to remember the examples of the saints and the witness of their lives to us of God’s love, mercy, healing, and grace. We are also asked to pray for all those who have died- not just remembering our loved ones, but intentionally praying for their souls by name, asking for God’s arms to be opened to them in mercy and love in their final moments, as they closed their eyes for the final time in this world, and opened them again in the world to come.

As the days grow darker, we are reminded that light overcomes darkness just as eternal life overcomes death, and we pray for this reality for all people who have embarked from this life.

One of my favorite characters in my fiction trilogy is Cayde!

I’d like to share the chapter from my first book in the series when readers first meet him!

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In Remembrance of the Holy Souls (an excerpt from The Divided Kingdom)

The more one longs for something, the more painful deprivation of it becomes. And because of this life, the desire for God–the supreme good–is intense in the souls of the just because this impetus towards him is not hindered by the weight of the body. That time of enjoyment of the perfect good would have come had there been no obstacle; the soul suffers enormously from the delay.
—St. Thomas Aquinas

Beneath the darkening sky, Cayde walked alone along uneven tree roots. He flinched at the wave of heat that burst through his wiry young adult body. Peering up at the clouded country sky, he could just make out a few lone stars within the otherwise empty heavens. He winced at the feeling of heat overcoming him yet again in a second wave. Even the early autumn air refused to touch his skin, unable to offset the burning sensations that had been coming and going without warning for the past ten months.

Cayde stepped through a low line of trees, their spiraling branches reaching hardly a foot above his head, much shorter than the trees he was used to back home, leading his thoughts to flutter back to a single memory.

When he was not more than six years old, he and his grandmother had walked through a different forest than the one he currently found himself in. They walked through trees that towered seemingly miles above both their heads before they finally stepped into an open field of ripe raspberries.

“These trees are even taller than the ones I’m used to back home.” His grandmother craned her wrinkly neck to where the highest branches spiraled toward the skies.

“I thought this was your home, Grandma?”

Before she could respond, he had eagerly begun snatching plump berries from the lowest bushes and popping them into his mouth.

His grandma set down her gathering bucket. “Not so. I once had a home even before this one, many years ago, back when there were grand cathedrals that made the heart faint with disbelief over their beauty.”

Cayde was hardly listening, closing his eyes in contentment as sweet juices ran down his lips.

“Eh, eh!” His grandma snatched the remaining berries from his fingers. “You’ll grow as red as those berries if you eat like that.” She tickled his sides until he relented, laughing and rolling onto the ground, his small fingers dripping red from the juices.

“My dear boy, it appears I have caught you red-handed!” she laughed.

The memory was there for a moment and gone the next as Cayde stepped through this new line of trees into an open field. But as he looked around at the void space before him, no yellow-flowered fields with bushes overflowing with fresh berries to snack on awaited him. Only a fierce wind rushed through the open rocky space, most likely having sailed down from the mountain looming large to his left. Before him, at the end of the rocky field, was a small hill leading down into a greater valley of rolling, green hills, where a single farm with pastures roped off dwelt.

As he stood alone in the stark countryside, he found himself wishing—not for the first time—that tears would come. But of course, there was only the emptiness. He wished his legs felt heavy from the days of walking, or that his stomach rumbled from lack of food. He wished his eyes would threaten to close in need of sleep. He wished a hundred million wishes, none of which would ever come true.

He had spent that first month alone, atop the same high mountain now beside him, letting his feet swing into the open abyss for days, weeks, before he had finally made his way down from the tallest peak. From the mountain, he could see clearly to the other end of the forest, which was home to most of the farming properties, as he had eventually learned they were called. Barely visible beyond them was the wall and gate leading into the suburbs. The outline of the city beyond was scarcely visible from the mountain.

He could continue walking forever in this rocky valley of death, and no one would ever know. Or he could return to the mountain, equally as alone. It would take him less than a day to make the trek to the mountaintop with no effort.

After several moments of standing in silence, he cleared his throat and screamed at the top of his lungs into the great expanse, knowing no one would hear him. The emptiness was the worst punishment. The worst imprisonment he could think to inflict on another human being. Worse even than death.

When he closed his eyes and looked hard enough, he could see his father and mother staring intently at one another. And if he looked longer still, he could see Lionel coming up from the shore with Boden and Jayr flanking him on either side. And behind them all, he could see his grandmother, her ancient eyes piercing into his soul as she cleaned red juices from his hands before setting a warm yellow blanket down before them for an afternoon in the sun.

Cayde stood in the rocky field for several more moments before running back into the forest through which he had come, running until there was nowhere left to run. He ran until he reached the edge of the trees on the other side of the field, where sporadic farms were positioned, several of which had smoke rising from their chimneys. One hundred and nineteen people were living in the countryside. He knew because he’d had nearly ten months to observe them all.

The smoke rising from the nearest chimney reminded him of the fires back home, the contained, dancing fires around which the elders talked amongst one another as the younger children laughed and listened to old stories upon parents’ or grandparents’ laps.

He debated again, as he had for the past few months, whether to make his way from the countryside through the suburbs and into the city. He had visited the suburbs on a few occasions. The giant wall didn’t deter him, but the number of children present made him think of home, and he would just as quickly turn and retreat back into the countryside. But the city … that was one place he had never been, only imagined from a far distance at the top of his mountain.

In the days, weeks, and months that had passed since he first found himself here, Cayde allowed himself to hold onto the fleeting hope that there was a way to fix all that had gone wrong with him.

Deep in thought, he gasped at the feeling of uncomfortable heat rolling over his skin once more, like a constricting blanket. There it was. That same burning heat. Not unbearable, but insistent and overwhelming—the heat was all he could seem to feel, reminding him of all he still held onto. In the early months, when he meditated in the quiet of night, he felt a calming voice within say: “This heat is a refining fire—stripping away, and cleansing you, as much as you will allow it to, of all that remains still to be surrendered.” Each time the voice whispered to his heart, he tried to let go of everything he felt was weighing him down, yet while the heat within him ebbed and flowed, it remained.

Torn and indecisive, he sank to the earth. Where could he run to escape? Where could he possibly climb to find relief? Nowhere—for everywhere was the same. He moved his long fingers to his face. The wind whipped through the trees, flying over the fields. But him it would not touch. How long would he remain in this state of in between? Caught between fear and desire. Of past and present. Of hope and despair. What if answers lay in the city? What if …

The night cloaked him in even greater obscurity as his mind reached for the remaining threads of light. As the stars and moon bore down upon him, he found a song of ascent birthing from his swollen lips.

“Out of the depths, I cry to thee …

Let thy ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!”

His words were so soft, so feeble, so raw.

“… My soul waits, oh, how my soul waits.

More than watchmen for the morning.

More than watchmen for the morning.”

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The Divided Kingdom

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