NO RIGHT PATH

 

In fleeing a future that only wishes to take from him 

(not too different than our present, right?)

Richard Blaine is flung into a fiery limbo ... wbere up is down and wrong is right ... not unlike our present politics.

NO RIGHT PATH

“War breaks more than lives. Itbreaks minds.

 I have seen too many officers trapped in thegrasping responsibilities of their unrelenting command.

Observed too many officers drawnand quartered by opposing needs that demanded immediate gratification.

Years of such punishment breaksminds. General Eisenhower’s was one such mind.”

 – Rabbi Lt. Amos Stein

 

The world was suddenly flame.

I smiled with a face I couldn’tfeel. In fact, once again, I couldn’t feel my entire body. The cessation ofpain from my throbbing wrists was more than welcome.

Sentient certainly knew how toshow a guy a good time. I expected a curt come-back.

But like so often in my life, Idid not get what I expected. Perhaps she was busy getting us the hell away fromthe Harvester and its hellish future.

I wasn’t complaining.

‘For once. Now, hush! I amconcentrating.’

Easy for her to say. You try tothink of nothing. Not a thing. Can’t be done this side of death.

I focused on the icy flamesswirling about my body or mind or soul or whatever it was that made up my perceptions.

Flames.

They look like objects but arereally processes.

Humans are like that as well. Nohuman actually is complete. He or she is in the process of becoming.

But becoming what? We answer thatquestion with our choices.

We all write the script of themovie of our life “on the go” so to speak.

That endeavor is tricky. We don'tget the luxury of time to reflect, muse, or ponder at leisure.

Life is a harsh mistress. As westruggle, she flashes us that "beauty-queen" smile: all sharp teethand no heart. And in her games of chance, the House ultimately wins.

We plan and prepare. Lifegleefully throws her monkey wrench into our preparations.

We must write our lives in thecrosshairs of illness, accidents, wars, dysfunctional humans, and our own innerdemons.

We are all in Life's crosshairs,and none of us know when she will pull the trigger. We just know that she will.

OOOF!

I went from standing up tositting down. Hard!

‘Next time, I will ask you tothink non-stop, driveling nonsense since you seem compelled to do the oppositeof what I ask.’

I blinked my eyes to clear them.

‘Where are we?’

‘On the stone bench in front ofthe dreary hospital in which I have placed the illusion of you laying neardeath’s door. Do not worry. On this bench, you are clothed in the uniform you wore aboard the Rocinante.’

‘I don’t know about death’s door,but I was certainly in her neighborhood back there in the future.’

‘Oh, just so you know: in thatfuture, the Third Reich won this conflict.’

‘What?’

‘Do not let your ego becomeinflated. Your absence merely prevented you from being the needed catalyst forthe progression of certain events necessary for victory.’

‘At least I know I serve apurpose. There are many in this damn war that do not know even that.’

‘I believe you are mistaken.’

‘Both our opinions are rooted inour experience. Both of them are true. It's just that we've had differentexperiences.’

‘You have no idea. At least, Ihave been spared your constant maudlin yearning over that Helen Mayfair.’

“This time, you are mistaken. Sheis in my heart like music at the edge of silence.’

There was a bellow of outragedistant from us. It roared from the front of the hospital. I grinned crooked.Leave it to the Army to make a building grimmer and more utilitarian thanseemed possible.

It had the oddest portico overits yawning porch. But then, you should never judge a porch by its portico.

‘You think such things toirritate me, do you not?’

‘No, I’m just me.’

‘More the pity.’

Two men stormed their way to mybench. Both of them I knew. One from news reels and the other from sailing intoHell beside me.

Former MI6 operative JamesCloverfield had once left me to die alone, but then, thought better of it ---and for that I thought better of him.

He had charged into certain deathwith me on board the Rocinante. He was family … at least an orphan’sdefinition of the word.

When everything goes to hell, thepeople who stand by you without flinching -- they are your family.

Winston Churchill, fuming as Ihad never seen him do on the news reels, stopped directly in front of my bench.He looked as if he didn’t even see me as Cloverfield tried to calm the man downto no avail.

‘He does not see you. I have nudged you atiny layer back in time.’

As an orphan, I had sympathy forhis unhappy childhood, redeemed only by the affection of Mrs. Everest, hisdevoted nurse.

Reading his adventures with awandering Texas Ranger, Samuel McCord, in 1895 Sudan fired my youngimagination.

He married the beautiful LadyLucille Wentworth in 1910.

 It was a marriage of unbroken affection thatprovided a secure and happy background for his turbulent career.

“Turbulent” was the exact wordfor his mood at the moment.

“How dare those MilitaryPolicemen deny me access to Major Blaine’s hospital room?”

He pounded his massive chest. “Iam the bloody Prime Minister!”

Cloverfield sighed, “They weremerely obeying the direct orders of General Eisenhower, the Supreme Commanderof the Allied Forces for Overlord.”

“And I am the ruddy PrimeMinister! I have half a mind to charge up those steps and dare those cretins toarrest me!”

Cloverfield sighed, “You know howunstable Eisenhower is when it comes to Major Blaine. Besides, my friend is noteven conscious.’

‘Sentient, would you nudge meback into reality and have my voice sound like King George VI?’

‘I am not your servant! Yet … Iam curious as to just what your devious mind plans to do.’

My whole body tingled as my footmight have done when going from being asleep to becoming fully awake.

”Prime Minister.”

He jerked in place as if beestung. He wheeled around. “Your Majesty, I ….”

He froze as Cloverfieldexclaimed, “Bloody Hell! I just left you, looking like Hell’s Vomit not aheartbeat ago. No, wait! That was a savage trick whipped up by your DarkPassenger, was it not?”

“Yes,” I answered and turned my eyes tothe still shocked Churchill. “Who was the sorriest at the return of theProdigal Son?”

The Prime Minister shook off hisshock as a washed dog might have done to the unwanted water. “I seem to beunaware of that particular verse of Holy Scripture.”

“The fatted calf.”

As the two both snorted, I said,“Please do not be the Fatted Calf in this scenario.”

“You are lecturing an elderstatesman, young man!”

“Yes, sir. But I learned the hardway in New Orleans that anger is just anger.”

I sighed, “It isn't good. Itisn't bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anythingelse. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the proper choice,choose the right path."

“Constructive anger," Churchillsaid, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“Sometimes called resolve,"I said softly.

"Resolve has overthrowntyrants and freed prisoners and slaves. Resolve has brought justice where beforethere was savagery. Resolve has created freedom where before  there was nothing but fear."

I tried to reach him somehow. "Resolve hashelped souls rise from the ashes of their horrible lives and build somethingbetter, stronger, more beautiful.”

Sentient sighed within my mind asChurchill’s face hardened.

‘A man who believes he knowseverything can learn nothing.’

‘I had to try.’

‘Last time you did that, you lostyour hands, remember?’

‘I never claimed I was a fastlearner.’