NaNoWriMo 2022
Stormy Weather
American Kingdom: Day 7.2
Previous scene:
Outside there was a hint of storm.
Francis looked at his phone, made a few grumbling sounds.
“We’d best be quick. Trouble on the radar.”
He looked at me. “For the benefit of onlookers, you may pretend to be my latest paramour. Hold my hand, look lovingly into my eyes, kiss me now and then.”
I looked back. He shrugged.
“Worth a shot.”
I wasn’t going to hold his hand or be bought off by a cheap lunch, but I was prepared to play along.
“Make your pitch.”
We four walked through the car park to the riverside road. Beside that, under palmettos, a path followed the river’s edge. Grass covered the pluff mud. Past the marina, across the Ashley, the low woods of James Island marked the far shore.
No shelter along the river bank. If that storm came on, we’d be soaked. Lightning flashed in the distance.
I wasn’t sure why Francis was concerned about onlookers. The river walk was deserted.
Brian and Marion led the way, holding hands. Francis and I walked behind, not.
“If you know your Testament,” he began, “you’ll know that the verse quoted in Matthew is not the only way to get into Heaven. In fact it would be a very rare Christian indeed who thinks that this is the best path.”
“Faith, belief, acceptance,” I replied, outlining the more well-trodden path. “Rebirth, repentance…”
“Yes. In Luke, as Jesus is hanging from the Cross, one of the criminals beside him mocks him, saying that if he is indeed the Son of God, then he should save himself. And those with him. The other says, ‘remember me when you are in your kingdom’ to which our Lord replies that he shall join him in Paradise that very day.
“The man’s a criminal duly judged, sentenced and executed by the State. No mention of good works, and most likely the opposite, given his sentence. No repentance of his crime, no rebirth. But in the last few minutes of his life he accepts that his sentence is just and that Jesus on the cross beside him is innocent, is who he claims to be, and will reign in Heaven.
“For that, he is given an express pass to eternal life.”
I considered this. I’d read the story — of course — but hadn’t given it much thought.
“This wouldn’t work for everybody, would it? You’d have to be personally given divine forgiveness.”
“And what is a prayer but direct communication with our divine King? If you ask, and your heart is full of faith, then where is the difference? The entry to Heaven is surely not given on a whim like some spiritual lottery ticket.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “I’ve never heard that from any man of God.”
“If the Lord can see into our hearts and count up the good deeds — and the bad — then surely He can also see the truth of our faith. Deathbed confession or not, this must be heartfelt and deeply held, wouldn’t you say?”
“All sins may be forgiven if honestly repented.”
“Yes, exactly.”
We walked on in silence for a little way. I glanced behind. The storm clouds were darker and closer. There were rumbles of thunder. I looked up at Francis, wondering when — or if — he was going to turn back.
“Not just sins, Molly. Crimes as well. This was a criminal in the process of capital punishment, remember. It must surely follow that earthly realms established and administered by we mortals cannot hold the same majesty as the Kingdom of God.”
“No, that’s just plain common sense. But, you know, ‘render unto Caesar’. If I get pulled over by a State trooper for speeding it does me no good to say that I shall be judged by a heavenly court.”
“Well put, Molly. Nevertheless, the fate of your immortal soul is evidently not in the hands of any earthly court. Even the Apostle Paul spent time in prison, and he is surely with our Heavenly King as much as the criminal crucified beside the Lord. It is a matter of priorities. We can believe in the Supreme Court but there is a higher power, and if we hold our trust there, then we need fear no earthly punishment.”
I was beginning to think that I might get to find out the fate of my immortal soul pretty damn quick now. We had walked about five hundred yards, the first drops were beginning to blow about our ears and the peals of thunder were almost continuous.
There was a small jut of land just ahead. Enough room for a few bushes and trees, a patch of dust, a park bench. The City of Charleston had not seen fit to provide any sort of shelter; it would have made a lovely spot for a picnic.
There was a limo parked on the shoulder. Francis walked up to it and held the rear door open for us to climb inside.
I had to admit, the man had perfect timing.
“We represent,’ he said when we were settled and the rain was streaming down the windows, “an organisation dedicated to serving our Heavenly King. Your skills, we think, might be better suited to a higher service than riding groups of drunken tourists around Charleston or serving out sandwiches to the poor.”
“Not,” he continued, “that good works do not carry their own reward but surely you must accept that in one’s life one should put God-given talents to their best purpose. Hiding them under a bushel earns nothing but the wrath of the Lord.”
“You want,” I said slowly, afraid that my tongue might blurt out what I really thought, “that I should take my Rangering skills out of the box and enlist in some sort of religious army? Doing what, exactly?”
Marion now spoke. “Nothing that I am ashamed of, nor feel that I am being forced to do. If something does not feel right, then I speak out, and I am listened to. There is no duress; everything comes naturally and with divine grace.”
“It might be something as simple as driving an automobile,” Francis said, and his driver nodded as he pulled out into traffic, “or as complex as drafting bills for State legislators. Flying a helicopter or providing security, delivering a message or collecting a debt.”
“You would be amply rewarded,” Brian added in. “Here and, we all trust, in the hereafter.”
“I’ll leave you to think about it,” Francis said as we pulled up in the parking lot beside the Lincoln Aviator. Thank you for your pleasant company, my Lady Marion, Sir Francis, Miss Molly.”
His eyes twinkled at that. I wonder if he had the same thought that so many others had.
I held his gaze. “And thank you for your kind offer, Sir.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Brian, slipping out and opening the door of the Lincoln. Our chauffeur had materialised with an umbrella, giving us a bridge of dry under the tempest.
Marion made to follow her husband. “Duke Francis, we are in your debt. Next time you are in Texas, you must let us show you how barbecue is done in Heaven.”
“Sacrilege!” he laughed. “It’s a deal.”
I was last out, and I don’t know how it happened, Dear Reader, but I kissed him.
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