The Falcon in the Barn (Book 4 Forest at the Edge series) (20 page)

He never took it off, and he frequently found
himself fingering it, finding an unexpected comfort in the grooves
of the soft chain. He still had dreams, but not as fearsome or as
intense as before. And each time he did, he looked at his wrist or
grasped it if it was too dark. It was when he felt it missing that
a slight wave of panic rushed him, enough to jerk him out of the
dream. He’d awake to find himself gripping his arm, clasping the
thin wool, and then encountering a sense of calm.

Perrin noticed Rector Yung looking at the
chain, now a bit darker and dirtier than when Shem first tied it on
to him. Mahrree wanted to wash it, but Perrin assured her he
scrubbed it each time he bathed. Besides, he thought it looked
better a bit worn and soiled.

Perrin released it and tugged his sleeve to
cover it. “Rector, I refuse to believe I was the only who ever
suffered this way.”

“
You aren’t,” Yung said
quietly, meeting his eyes. “With no offense to the memory of your
honorable father, the army
does
know. There were many cases
during the Great War, and have been several since. But you see, the
army doesn’t want to deal with
broken
soldiers—forgive my
choice of words. They want fighters. If you can’t fight, then
you’re ushered out, given a pat on the back, and then it’s hoped
you fade away.”

While Perrin wanted to be shocked at that
revelation, he knew it was true. There had been a couple of men he
heard of over the years that had
troubles
, then no one heard
about them again. He didn’t give them much thought, because the
thought that even he could succumb to such a state of mind was too
terrifying. In fact, that was probably the biggest terror soldiers
faced—not losing their lives, or their limbs, or even their
families, but losing themselves.

“
How do you know this?”
Perrin whispered to Yung.

Yung smiled gently. “It’s never been the fort
surgeons who dealt with trauma. It’s always been the village
rectors. When men feel abandoned, as you so rightly put it, that’s
when they come to the rectors hoping to find the Creator, and quite
often we’re able to help facilitate a most wonderful reunion. But
Perrin, please forgive both Shem and I, but it wasn’t the surgeon
who suggested your bracelet.” Yung squinted his narrow eyes into
mere slits and shrugged.

“
You?” Perrin sighed.
Somehow, he knew. The surgeon never talked to him. In fact, he
acted as if the colonel didn’t even exist. And Perrin had never
sought him out, either. It was an unspoken mutual avoidance, and
while on the surface it seemed to work for both men, it didn’t do
any good at all.

Perrin managed a small smile for the old man
crouched in front of him. “You knit?”

The rector chuckled. “No, not one bit! But I
have a friend who does, and made me many lengths so that I have a
ready supply. You’re not my first victim of trauma, Perrin. But you
have been one of the most deeply affected.”

“
So you’ve worked with
others?”

Yung told Perrin about many traumatized men
he knew of. Perrin’s imagination was captured by the story of a
general during the Great War who suddenly doubted everything in his
life, even the devotion of his wife and son. For weeks he was
confused and angry with everyone. One of his sergeants was the last
to see him, wandering toward the forest. He was never seen
again.

Maybe Perrin’s fascination stemmed from the
fact that he’d considered that possibility a few times: just
leaving. Maybe existing somewhere else would make the horrors of
everything else here vanish. He knew enough of the forest to
survive in there. But he also knew his family and friends would
foolishly try to find him, and then there would have been even
greater tragedies.

So he was left to endure it on his own which,
he realized now, he didn’t have to. Many wanted to help him, but he
refused them. A part of him had feared that they wouldn’t have been
able to pull him out of the pit, but that he would’ve dragged them
down instead.

Yet when he thought about his past year,
honestly
, he wouldn’t have traded any of the experiences. He
had the impression that every moment seemed to work for his good.
Every raw emotion and each tender nerve was exposed to make him
feel it. It was if the Creator looked down and said, “Perrin’s had
it too easy lately. It’s time to test his mettle.”

But some days he had felt it was more like
his
metal
being tested, burned in a fire, trying to slough
off the impurities he didn’t even know were there. He didn’t
realize he could feel so murderous, or so motivated by pride.

But worst of all, he didn’t realize he was so
vulnerable.

In all of his talks with his wife he avoided
going into detail about those times when he was sure she was dead,
and it was his fault. He also tried to forget the night he looked
up from the floor in his bedroom to see his children cowering
behind Shem, holding onto each other. The more he tried to forget
that image the more indelible it became. His weakness took away
their security, and revealed to them that their father was just a
regular man.

Just
a regular man.

He could be destroyed as easily as any
rubbish collector, and just as quickly, if the Creator decided it.
There was no special protection around him, or around anyone. Each
person was in the power of the Creator, or could be turned over to
be battered by the Refuser. Every soul was equal in the Creator’s
eyes.

That was comforting and troubling at the same
time.

And Perrin had been powerless to do anything
about it. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t march into Paradise, demand
to see the Creator, and insist the trials be stopped because of who
he was.

But he had two choices: he could fight the
direction his life had taken, or he could try to learn from it.
There were times, especially in the beginning, when he felt like
surrendering. It was just too hard to face his failures, to see the
looks of distress on his family’s faces each morning, and to
consider going on.

But a quiet voice in the back of his mind
would remind him,
Surrender to whom?
To that darkness that
tormented him? He’d come so close to giving up that night when he
held the long knife just inches away from his chest. But then
what?

There was no end to his existence. If he gave
up, he would’ve been in that horror indefinitely. In many ways the
terror of that thought pushed him to climb even faster, to try even
harder to escape. There
was
no option of surrender. When
you’re in a pit, you intuitively look up for a light; that instinct
is from the Creator. The compulsion to slump to the ground and weep
at the dirt walls was from the Refuser.

He couldn’t abide such an existence.

As obvious as the choices appeared, it took
Perrin an excruciatingly long time to recognize them. For more than
three seasons he was too paralyzed in his world of chaotic
thoughts. So many nights he tried to avoid sleep and what would
happen during it. But avoiding it didn’t solve anything. Many
afternoons he fell asleep at his desk only to be woken up by his
own screaming.

But then there were nights when sleep came so
deeply he felt glimmers of hope again. The only image he remembered
in those dreams was the face of a young child looking up at him,
and himself laughing.

When his family knelt with him in prayer he
finally felt some of the chaos slow enough for him to see clearly.
And now, when he spent each morning in meditation and consultation
with the Creator, he could halt the images in his mind long enough
to face the day.

Studying himself so intently was far more
painful than the beating Shem gave him in that barn on the way to
Idumea. But the pain had a purifying quality to it, showing him how
to rely on the only one true strength in the world that wasn’t even
in the world. Only the Creator knew him well enough to fix him. It
was the Creator who gave him the strength he needed to face the
Refuser that terrible night a few weeks ago. It was the Creator who
loosened his grip on the long knife that he was about to plunge
into his chest.

It was the Creator who won that battle and
turned the momentum of the war—not him. He had to always remember
that.

So when Perrin woke up on the 37
^th
Day of Planting Season, 336, he wanted this morning to be
significant, to be the day he was truly a new man. He had to start
keeping his old hours at the fort again and be sure to be home by
dinner. He could no longer allow himself to be consumed
by
himself. There were too many other people needing him, and he could
no longer remain indulgently weak. He closed his eyes and repeated
the string of meditative thoughts he had established weeks ago.

Who was he? Not a future general, not a
colonel, not more important than someone else, but a beloved son of
the Creator.

Why was he here? Not to take revenge, not to
be important, not to worry about the world’s expectations, but to
learn His will and to pass His test.

What was his goal today? Not to be the kind
of man the world wanted, but to be the kind of leader the Creator
wanted him to be. If he was serving others, he was serving the
Creator. He needed to be submissive enough to accept anything the
Creator chose to allow the Refuser inflict on him. And only with
the Creator’s help could he overcome the Refuser’s trials. The
blessings would come some day. Maybe not even in this life, but
most assuredly in the next one. Because he was a son of the
Creator.

Perrin opened his eyes and breathed deeply.
He rolled over to watch his dozing wife. She used to sleep as if on
guard, clinging to her side of the bed with a stiffness that seemed
impossible to maintain while one was unconscious.

But now,
now
she lay softly, and
closer to him. Her hand was even against his side. In the middle of
the night he was aware of her holding his bare upper arm, not
feeling his strength, but giving it. She needed that deep slumber,
almost as much as he needed to watch her. She needed so much that
he hadn’t given her.

When they had first come home from Idumea she
had cried about “too many miracles.” At the time, he had thought
that was funny. Then, just days later, so much that he loved in his
life was destroyed.

Then he in turn destroyed Mahrree’s life.

A few weeks ago during one of their late
night discussions he asked her if she felt they still had too many
miracles.

“
Absolutely!” she said.
“It’s not that I would ever want to repeat this year, but I never
would have wanted to skip it, either. We’ve learned so much.
Besides, there are always more miracles. My father’s last words to
me were, ‘Every story has a happy ending, if we just wait long
enough.’ Having you back is the greatest miracle so
far.”

Her staying by his side was the greatest
miracle, he thought. He knew she loved him, but her sacrifices for
him were
beyond
love, if that were possible. She had pulled
him back out of the depths, day after day, for seasons. She used to
have to dig deep to find him, but now she needed only to nudge him
to make sure he was all right.

Somehow he’d make it up to her. He still
remembered her dream house with weathered gray wood and window
boxes filled with herbs that she told him about on their second
wedding anniversary, the dream he told her was nonsense.

But perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps there
was
something he could do, when he was sure he was solid and
complete again. In another year or so, he decided, he would set
into motion the next big miracle in her life, something she never
would have dreamed possible but Perrin suspected could be.

He felt guilty as she began to stir. Her eyes
opened slowly at first, then popped open in worry. “Are you all
right?”

“
Yes, yes.” He stroked her
face as if he could pull both strength and softness from her
cheeks, and he craved both. His hand slid down to her throat and
rested there a moment. The movement served two purposes—to show his
affection, and to subtly check her pulse. “It was a good night.
All’s well.”

Although she never said anything, he was sure
she knew why his hand rested on her throat. She twisted her head
slightly to kiss his arm. “It’s just that you’re up so early—”

“
Well, I have to be
today.”

“
I know. I remember.” She
huddled up to his chest. “Let’s see, one year ago I was about right
here . . .”

Perrin closed his eyes in sheer contentment.
For too long she didn’t dare get that close to him in bed. He
wrapped his arms tightly around her as if he could have absorbed
her into his body.

“
Yes,” Mahrree muttered
into his chest, “and one year ago you were right there, holding me.
Hmm. It’s much better on top of the bed than under it, don’t you
think? Quieter. And no squirrels.”

He chuckled as she kissed his chest, sighed
deeply, and placed her cheek against him.

“
I have an idea,” she said
dreamily. “How about we just stay here all morning, just like
this.”

“
Mmm, tempting,” he
murmured, kissing the top of her head. “But not today,” he said
sadly. “How about tomorrow? We could really get into a great
argument.”

They’d fought plenty during the past year.
Plenty of shouting, screaming, even throwing things . . .

But very little
arguing
, the kind that
first drew them to each other, and sent them upstairs to “resolve
the issue” while their children frowned, trying to figure out why
that involved the bedroom.

But they were arguing again, and he hadn’t
realized before how desperately he needed her warmth and softness.
Before, he was pushing her away while paradoxically trying to save
her. In the confusion of his existence there wasn’t room for her in
his life.