Friday, February 1, 2019

Late Term - A short story


Jane’s eyes were heavy. The fatigue from eight hours of labor implored her to sleep, but she could not stop her mind from racing. After a quick assessment of her baby, the doctor had taken him out of the room. At the time, Jane didn’t know what to say. It seemed odd – none of the books she read mentioned them taking her baby away for further tests so quickly, but the doctor said it would be just a few minutes.

That was a half hour ago and Jane was beginning to panic.

She knew it was silly. The entire obstetrics department had been nothing but kind and considerate of her, especially since they learned she would be going through this alone. Though, it was in part their non-stop consideration that made this sudden abandonment so jarring.

Where on earth was her doctor?

Another five minutes passed before her question was answered. Her doctor walked in and her heart immediately dropped. The look on his face was clear as day – something had gone wrong.

“Where’s my baby,” was all she could muster, her hands beginning to shake.

“He’s comfortable,” Dr. Berg replied. “We have a nurse monitoring him to make sure he stays warm and calm while you and I talk.”

“About what?” Jane asked.

Dr. Berg crossed the room and sat on the bed by her legs. He made a show of looking down at the ground and wringing his hands for a moment. Then, with a look of pained concern, he turned to her.

“There’s no easy way to say this. It looks like your child has a congenital heart defect that we were unable to detect until just after birth. I know it’s hard to hear, but…”

“I don’t…” Jane cut in. “I don’t understand. The screening…”

“Can’t catch everything, I’m afraid. We’re very sorry to have to tell you this, but it’s likely the child will never be fully healthy. It is not the sort of defect we can fix with surgery, and even a transplant would not guarantee a healthy life…on top of that, it would be quite costly. I know that you’re on your own in this.”

Jane’s mouth flapped open, but she could not find the words to express her confusion. Her mind flew through a thousand thoughts at once. She was lost, baffled, frightened and, above all things alone.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Dr. Berg assured her. “I know this is hard, so I’ve taken the liberty of inviting someone I believe can help you through this.”

“I…like a counselor?” Jane stammered.

“Like a counselor,” Dr. Berg replied. Turning to the door, he called out. “Doctor Murphy, you can come in now.”

Jane turned to the door to find a slight, brown-haired woman of around forty stepping in. Dr. Murphy smiled at her and approached the bed to place an arm on her shoulder.

“Hello, Jane,” she said. “My name is Diane. I understand this is all very surprising and you probably don’t know what to do, but I’m here to help you with that.”

“Dr. Murphy works for the Women’s Center down the block,” Dr. Berg explained. “We called her as soon as we found out about the heart defect and she came right over. She’s an expert on this kind of issue and she can help.”

“Y-you’re a, carda…cardiologist?” Jane said.

“No, I’m an Ob/Gyn like Dr. Berg,” Dr. Murphy said, “but I help women in your position.”

“Can you fix my son’s heart?” Jane asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” Dr. Murphy replied. “There’s really nothing than can be done for the poor thing. However, there is something we can do to make sure he doesn’t suffer. We can solve this problem for you and you won’t have to worry about going through all this alone. Before we discuss it though, I have to caution you – this is not technically legal yet, but it will be soon.”
Jane frowned.

“Not legal? How can it not be legal to help my baby?”

“Well,” Dr. Murphy said with a sympathetic look, “I ask myself that same thing every day. And why shouldn’t it be legal to help you in your time of need? That’s all I want to do. Luckily, the world is beginning to catch up with the times and soon, I think, these acts of compassion will be commonplace.”

“I don’t understand, doctor.”

“I know,” Dr. Murphy replied. “I’ll explain, but I need you to understand that I’m doing this for you and, while I can get in trouble, I am willing to make that sacrifice.”

“Ok,” Jane said, though she did not understand. Dr. Murphy nodded and turned to Dr. Berg, who rose to his feet.

“This is where I leave you,” he said. “Best of luck to you both.”

Before Jane could say a word, Dr. Berg was gone and she was left with only the smiling face of Dr. Murphy.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re safe with me. Now, I don’t want to get into the details too much. I just want to explain enough so that you understand that this is the best possible solution to your problem. See, the child’s heart defect is quite severe. From what we can tell, it will never be able to have a normal life – not the kind of life a mother would want for her child. We think it’s only fair to explain this to you now, before there are no more options.

“Raising a child like this will be nearly impossible, and would be an immense challenge even if you weren’t all alone. It will take all of your time, all of your energy, and likely every cent you ever earn. And even then, the child would suffer. We don’t want you to have to go through that.”
Jane could feel her heart thumping through her chest, and the rushing blood made her head feel light. She could barely fathom the depth of what she was being told. Every word this smiling woman said was terrifying. And yet…

“He’s already born,” Jane said. “It’s…”

“Let me stop you there,” Dr. Murphy said, maintaining her warm smile. “This…the product of conception at this point is just that. It can barely see or hear, and even if it could it would have no way to understand. It can’t perceive the world around it and it doesn’t know what is going on around it. It doesn’t even know who you are.

“Yes, it’s born. But that’s all. Other than that, what is it really?”

“But…he’s my child…”

“Only if you say he is,” Dr. Murphy replied. “I’m not telling you what to do, Jane. I wouldn’t do that, but this would be nearly impossible to do on your own – and you are on your own, dear. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is. You don’t have to go through this though, and neither does it. Let it go. Continue living your life. And when the time is right, have a healthy family you can find joy in – a family that won’t take away everything you are and turn you into a full time caregiver for the rest of your life. That’s no way for a young woman to live.”

Jane shook her head, but fear began to wash over her. It grew stronger with every passing moment as she thought of everything she had…and everything she would lose.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Dr. Murphy said. “You don’t have to worry about anything. Just say the word and I’ll take care of it all. No more pain, Jane. Once I leave this room, you can go on with your life.”

“Can I say goodbye?” Jane asked.

“It’s best if you don’t,” Dr. Murphy said. “Seeing it will only make the decision harder. And please trust me that this is the right thing to do. This is compassion for you both.”

Tears welled in Jane’s eyes, but she nodded.

“Ok,” she said.

Dr. Murphy placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. Without another word, she left the room and never returned. A few hours later, Jane was dressed and sitting in her car. Tears threatened, but she fought them back. Life would go on, she was certain. Everything would be ok.

Five Years Later

Jane’s eyes followed the cartoon alphabet that circled the exam room as she and her husband, Greg, waited for the pediatrician to return with the results of their son’s exam. Greg squeezed her hand, seeing the worry etched on her face.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he assured her. “At worst, he’s just a little behind the other kids. Everyone develops at their own pace, you know. I was slow for my age in elementary school and I turned out just fine.”

“I know,” Jane replied, leaning against him. “I just worry, you know. I want him to be perfect is all. Everything has been so perfect until now…”

“Everything still is perfect,” Greg said, “and Jason is perfect, too. He’s our son. How could he be anything less?”

Jane nodded and a moment later the door crept open. In the doorway stood the pediatrician alone, a familiar look on his face. In a flash, Jane was dragged back five years to a day she had done everything she could to forget. She tried to shake the feeling away, but her heart plummeted in her chest.

“What is it?” Greg said, seeing the dismay in Jane’s expression.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” their pediatrician said. “I wish it weren’t so, but it looks like Jason’s not simply developing slower than normal. It’s my opinion that your son is on the autism spectrum and it is quite severe. I’m sorry.”

“Oh God,” Greg replied, but Jane remained silent. She could barely catch her breath as waves of terror washed over her.

“I wish there was something we could do, but there’s still no cure,” their pediatrician continued.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. I know this is hard to hear, so I’ve taken the liberty of inviting someone I believe can help you through it. A counselor of sorts.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied. Jane, however, could not shake the intense feeling of déjà vu. She looked up to see a familiar face hovering in the doorway – a woman in her late forties, with a warm smile on her face.

“Hello, Jane,” she said. “My name is Diane.”

“We’ve met,” Jane replied, breathlessly.

“Have we?” Dr. Murphy asked. “Well, then I suppose we can dispense with the introductions. I understand this is all very surprising and you probably don’t know what to do, but I’m here to help you with that.”

“So, you can help us?” Greg asked.

Jane’s grip tightened on her husband’s hand.

“I believe I have a solution to the problem, yes.”

“Ok…” Greg said, looking to his wife. Jane was silent – breathless and growing dizzy from the pounding in her chest.

“Before we discuss the solution, I have to caution you – it’s not technically legal,” Dr. Murphy said with a warm smile.

“But it will be soon…”


Brendan Lyons is an author and pro-life advocate. His epistolary novel, Single Candles, raises money for the West Chester, PA chapter of Birthright International.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Dealing with Performance Anxiety (as a Writer)


If you’re anything like me, anxiety has a tendency to crush your tired soul in countless aspects of your life, despite your best efforts to combat it.  The pressure only increased when I took my new job as a Copywriter for my company about two weeks ago.  It’s a position that didn’t exist in the company before then, so we’re all kind of learning what I do together. 

For some, the loose boundaries that come with a newly minted position might relax their anxiety issues, but nothing anywhere has ever made me feel less anxious aside from Chipotle, 30 Rock, and maybe my last girlfriend.  So far, I’ve done ok dealing with the anxiety of NOT having those things; well two out of three.  I’ll let you guess which (hint: it involves 100s of different delicious combinations).  On the bright side, I’ve lost 12 pounds!

Ok, this is a writing blog, my apologies.  So, with performance anxiety being a very real thing in the life of a writer, I thought I’d offer a few thoughts on dealing with performance anxiety as a writer.

I talked about writing about something completely different to get your head straight in a previous post, but what happens if you’re up against the proverbial wall (or literal wall, in my case, as my cubicle is too small to avoid it)?  Maybe you don’t have time to go crazy on something silly.  Maybe you need to get on your article right now.  Well, first off, I wouldn’t suggest thinking about it like that.  If you’re like me, the anxiety of knowing you’re up against it and the thoughts aren’t coming just results in you never getting anywhere; so here’s some things to try.

Manufacture some confidence

I haven’t been copywriting for too long and, outside of the few posts I’ve done on this blog in the past, my library isn’t terribly impressive.  However, if you look up the phrases “original Beatles lyrics” or “inspiration for bassists”, you’ll find my ugly mug right there on the first or second page of Google.  (I’ll talk about Google Authorship another time; you can definitely find more about it plenty of places.)  You may be saying, ‘dude, that’s not really that impressive.  Most of your articles aren’t even close to the front page for search results.’

That’s true, but you’ll notice that the title of this section is manufacture some confidence, not earn it.  Especially early on, you’re going to have to find confidence where you can find it.  Just knowing that my stuff is visible is some encouragement.  Maybe it doesn’t prove anyone has read it, but it’s plausible enough for me to pretend people have.  This is crunch time, remember, you can’t sit around being honest with yourself.

Focus on why you’re writing

Don’t get me wrong, the content itself is key, but we very often find ourselves obsessing over what to put in and not taking time to focus on why we’re writing in the first place.  At my job, I’m essentially trying to bring people to our website who will, in the end, buy something music related.  That means my blog needs to be a) something people would be interested in reading and b) probably related to music.  Other than that and some key words, things are fairly loose. 

As I mentioned before, that looseness causes me anxiety.  However, those basic tenants help me rein it in.  Once I have that more in focuse, I’m able to:

Write something genuine from the ‘heart’

I put heart in quotations, not because I’m encouraging you to use some sort of false sincerity, but because you do have to stick to the script with this sort of work.  However, readers can tell if you don’t give a hoot about your subject.  Writing is self expression no matter what you’re writing for, though, so don’t be afraid to use your voice.  Just read some of my Sonifly posts and you can tell I let whatever was on my mind at the time influence what I wrote.  None demonstrates that more accurately than ‘Vocal Sheet Music for (Single) Ladies’, which has, sadly, not yet been released. 

If none of that works, then I suggest writing a blog entry about how you’re going to calm your writing anxiety.  I actually feel a good deal better than I did at the start of this.  So goes the mantra, when it doubt, shut up and write.

Brendan Lyons is a professional Copywriter and the author of The Book of Iden series as well as a number of short stories.  You can follow him on twitter @theLyonbrary, follow The Book of Iden on facebook, or find updates on what Brendan is working on at Goodreads.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

4 Tips for Getting Over Writer's Block


A few days ago, I attended a writer’s round-table at my local library.  It was a really great experience (my first) and I feel like I got a lot out of it.  Of course, the objective was for the audience to get a lot out of it, but I think it was pretty mutual overall.  They asked a lot of questions about process and publishing, which put me in mind to do a few blog posts about writing in itself, rather than focusing on short stories, which I’ve obviously been slacking on with my books progressing.  That being said, I’d like to start with a problem we all run into: Writer’s Block.


For your consideration, I present 4 strategies for beating writer’s block.

1. Change Your Focus

If you’re having trouble with one part of your book, try moving to another part of the story.  This can be especially helpful if you’re unsure about your character’s motivations.  I had a similar problem with one of the characters in my second book.  I’ve had to press on a little to get a better picture of how she should react to things early on.  Once you’ve gotten to know your characters, it’s easier to know how they’ll respond to the action of the book.  

This is also a good way to explore where the story is going.  If you’re like me, you just like to write and see where it goes.  It doesn’t allow for too much hopping around, but developing later scenes won’t hurt.  In the end, you can always change that part when you get to it.

If time travel isn’t your thing, you can always just work on a different character.  For my current project, I bounced around between a few characters in different parts of the world as they came together and broke apart.  This helped to change things up for me while still keeping the story moving forward at a steady rate.  Of course, if that doesn’t work, you could always:

2. Write Something Else Entirely

If just diverting your attention to another part of your story isn’t enough to get you going, consider putting it aside for a while.  If you’re like me, you don’t like the idea of taking a break from writing, for fear you might get rusty.  Instead, write something totally different.  Old vaudevillians and a lot of comics throughout the years used a little joke called the Aristocrats to psych themselves up before a performance.  I do something similar, but considerably less horrible, when I’m feeling stuck.  

This can work for any sort of block.  I recently started doing blog posts for my company on various aspects of the music world.  When I’m feeling stuck, I tend to start writing either ridiculous nonsense about the subject (often times bands) or just making fun of them for a while.  I do the same thing when they have me compose a marketing email.  I’ve written a few joke emails to clear the cobwebs when I’m feeling iffy about the subject.  

It can be a little tricky with a novel.  I don’t like to walk away from that for too long, but sometimes putting out a quick, insane short story really hits the spot.  It helps you think in ways you might not have while working on your big project.  Diversity is a friend to innovation.  

3. Take a Break to Clear Your Head

As I sort of alluded to earlier, I don’t care for this strategy too much, but some people swear by it.  I can see the reasoning behind it.  Some call this the ‘Shower Principle’, as referenced in an eponymously named season 6 30 Rock episode.  When you turn your attention to something else, it allows your subconscious to work on the problem without you.  This may result in a sudden eureka moment in which you realize what needs to happen next (or I suppose whatever other problem you’re working on.  

4. Talk it Out

This is just a good policy in general.  If you can’t seem to bust through the wall, try chatting with someone who knows a little about your story or just a little about stories in general.  They might just have a comment or question that you never thought of.  I was an education major, so I learned a lot about how to lecture, use slide shows, and the like, but nothing was quite as conducive to learning as some good old question and answer.  Figuring out what someone else wants to know about your story is, after all, half of writing.  Why not just ask?

Another great way to go about doing this is to join a writing group.  I go to a monthly group of about 5-10 people who spend two hours just talking about writing and whatever they happen to be working on.  I’ve spent quite a few meetings just listen to other people talk about the problems they’ve run into, how they’ve gotten past them, and what they get out of/put into writing.  A little camaraderie can do a lot for your writing.

Got a question about writing?  Don’t be afraid to ask!

Brendan Lyons is the author of The Book of Iden series as well as a number of short stories.  You can follow him on twitter @theLyonbrary, follow The Book of Iden on facebook, or find updates on what Brendan is working on at Goodreads.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Getting Back at it

Rewrites on The Traveler are long since finished, as you might have guessed, and you will notice that I have posted the first two chapters here on my blog.  You will also notice I reposted all three short stories from Iden and the rest of Dying.  All those stories are available to buy on Amazon if you would like to take them with you. The Traveler is now available in print on Amazon as well as for Kindle and for Nook on Barnes and Nobel. 

In other news, I finished the first draft of another book, not affiliated with the Book of Iden series.  This one is called Nukular Wars in Space and is a Science Fiction Comedy.  I hope to have that ready for public consumption soon and will be posting some chapters.  You will probably not be seeing many short stories for a while as I have a lot of long projects in the works.  Thanks for bearing with me and reading my work.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

-BL

The Traveler, Chapter Two

2. The Dark Forest


            A cry like thunder erupted from the coal black steed as it reared back onto its hind legs.  Its rider, clad in shining green armor, fixed him with a menacing stare through the narrow eye slit in his gilded helm.  The gargantuan knight loosed a guttural snarl and lowered his lance, pointing it directly at the young wanderer’s heart.  Quaking in fear, he tumbled backward away from the charger as it kicked at the dirt.  The knight loosed a sinister laugh.
            “Just a boy,” he growled, his voice heavy with disdain.  “Lord Buxton must have been sick or drunk to let a whelp like you put ‘im down.  No matter, you’ve come up against a real man now, Lott.  Your debt is settled today.” 
            The young man shuffled frantically away from the knight until he stubled to the ground.  Over the years, he had learned to suppress his anguish and fear, but at once, it all came rushing back.  He had run so far, but it seemed he could never outrun his debt.  The day would inevitably come when he would have to pay back what he owed in his own blood, but it need not be today.  He swallowed his fear and reached for his sword where it lay in the grass.  The knight’s spurs flashed against the black of the horse’s flanks and it surged forward like a bolt from a crossbow.  The young man climbed to his feet and raised his sword.  Then, pausing a moment to picture his own death, he smiled…
            The traveler’s eyes snapped open to reveal a hazy, unfamiliar world.  An eerie presence hung in the air and pressed in around him until his breathing became labored.  Shadows danced across the snow, blurred by the sleep still clinging to his eyes.  A dark horseman on a black steed lurched up before him.  He fumbled for his sword and lashed out at his attacker.  An earsplitting cry wrenched him back into reality.  The haze cleared and the wasteland congealed back into focus.  The black steed became the chestnut brown horse.  The traveler’s stomach turned at the sight of the cut he had made across the horse’s side.  It was shallow, but he cursed himself just the same and rushed over to the animal apologizing, even though he knew the horse had no idea what was happening.  Much to his surprise, however, the horse replied with a bregrudging nod. 
            After binding the creature’s wound, he sat down by his knapsack and gazed up into the sky.  The black clouds had cleared once the traveler left the village, drawing back the mask that shrouded night and day.  Calmed by the gentle warmth of the sun, he turned his thoughts to food.  Opening his sack, he rifled around in search of something to eat and was rewarded with a loaf of bread and a canteen of water.  Cold bread and warm water would have seemed less than appetizing had it not been so long since he had last eaten.  The traveler wondered if perhaps different rations might prevent any further nightmares.  However, as he had no other choice in fare, he put the idea from his mind for the time being.  His options limited, he decided avoiding sleep was the best way to avoid dreams.
            He paused for a moment, food hanging out of his mouth, and tried to remember what exactly he had dreamed.  The dream was quite terrifying, he recalled that much.  However, try as he may, he could not remember anything specific.  At any rate, he was not interested in reliving the terror.  Turning to his horse, he let slip a facetious remark:
            “If it’s all the same to you, I think we’ll be moving out now.”  The traveler allowed himself a light-hearted chuckle, but his laughter was cut short when the horse shrugged and stood up.  The traveler gaped for a moment, the horse’s reaction leaving him befuddled.  Deeply disconcerted, he resolved to avoid any further such moments by keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself.  He gave the horse a suspicious look which was returned with an unconcerned grunt.  Side by side, the companions plodded on Northward.
            It made sense to the traveler that if the old man expected him to reach the woods in four days, and he traveled both day and night, he would make it there in only two.  However, three days passed with no sign of the woods of which the old man spoke.  The traveler was fairly certain he was headed in the right direction, and unless his horse was intentionally letting him go astray, which he wouldn’t put past it, he should have arrived at his destination.  He was beginning to wonder if it had been unwise to trust a strange man he met in an empty town, but he seemed to remember something about remaining brave in the face of uncertainty.  So far it seemed the only danger was the night’s chill.  He pulled his cloak tight and soldiered on toward the horizon.
            As dawn broke on the fourth day, he began to pass wiry shrubs and bushes.  The thinning snows gave way to a wide grassy field dotted with flowers, short greening trees and other auspicious signs of life.    Soon, the trees began to grow thicker until he found himself in the midst of a sparsely wooded forest.   Four days, almost exactly, he thought, as if the old man knew I would not sleep. 
            “Curious,” he said out loud.  The horse turned to him and shook its head with an irritated growl.  “What is the problem with you?  You have quite the attitude and I see no justification for it.  The old man put you in my service and that means I am your master.”  At this the horse bucked backwards with an indignant snort.  “Defiant are we?” the traveler asked, moving toward it with quick, bold strides. 
            “Perhaps I should climb on your back and show you the correct place for creatures of lesser intelligence.”  This statement seemed to amuse the horse.  Throwing its head back, it erupted in a jovial whicker. Undaunted, the traveler stepped forward to grab the bridle and mount.  Shuffling sideways, the horse kicked its front feet forward, narrowly missing the traveler’s head.  He lurched back in surprise and stumbled over his own foot, hitting the ground hard.  Scrambling back to his feet, he dusted himself off and sighed.
            “It would seem that I have not yet earned your respect.  I guess I haven’t quite done anything deserving of it so far.  I am talking to a horse after all,” he said with a grin.  Unamused, the horse turned abruptly and continued north through the trees.
            An hour later, their expedition came to a sudden halt.  The trees had grown thicker as they traveled until they arrived at a line so closely knit that the traveler could find no way through.  Broad, gnarled tree trunks wound together into a veritable wall of foliage.  Even if he could climb through, there would be no way for the horse to pass.  The young man resolved to walk the tree line until he found a passage inside.  He looked east, then west, then leaned on a tree and sighed. 
            “Any ideas?” he said, turning to the horse.  It looked him in the eye for a moment and then gestured with its head to the right. 
            “Better than any ideas I had.”  Pushing himself from the tree, he adjusted his cloak and turned to the east.  After about three hours of wandering along the tree line, they came to a wide arch formed by two tall trees whose branches tangled high above them.  Running from the arch into the woods was a small dirt path, too narrow for the traveler and his horse to walk side by side.  Instead, he took its reins and led it in behind him, leaving the grassy fields and snowy expanses of the south behind him. 
            At the outset, the sun shone through the tree tops lighting their way.  But as the path began to wind and twist, the canopy grew thicker and the light dimmed.  The traveler began to sweat despite the chill beneath the trees.  It could be no later than mid afternoon and already the light had dwindled to a kind of twilight.  He soon found himself stumbling over roots and rocks as he tried to follow the ever-fading path.  After about an hour of half-blind meandering, the traveler decided to stop for the night in the hopes that in the morning the sun might shine at a more favorable angle and allow him to see the path.  He took two steps into the trees and sat down on what he desperately hoped was a large flat boulder.  The horse was shrouded in shadow but for its glowing orange eyes.  All the same, he could sense the creature’s disapproval.  The rumbling growl that cut through the darkness proved him correct.  The beast’s dissatisfaction with his choice of camping area would have to go unheeded, he decided.  Though it occurred to the traveler that his horse would very likely know this land far better than he did, he had had enough of the attitude he was receiving and deemed it necessary to remind it who was the human and who was the beast of burden.
            The traveler took off his haversack and began to sift through his provisions.  Another chunk of hard bread and a few mouthfuls of water would have to suffice.  The old man seemed to care little for his well being and the young traveler feared he might soon become malnourished.  His current fares, while sufficient for his current purposes, left his sense of taste somewhat wanting.  As he chewed, he tried to remember banquets past and the lush flavors of his youth.  Try as he may, however, nothing came to him.  In his mind he could almost picture a plate of food, something warm and steaming, but somehow the tastes escaped him and left him with nothing but the flavor of stale bread. 
            The traveler sighed and washed down a doughy lump with a swig of cold water.  Try as he may, he could find nothing to dull the haplessness of his situation.  He lay back on the flat stone and surrendered to his unalterable condition.  Then, like a sudden squall descending without notice on a tiny fishing boat, the traveler’s four days without rest caught up with him and plunged him into the darkness of sleep.  As he slipped away, a light wind blew through the trees.  The horse shivered, sensing the oncoming cold.  He too was tired, but he knew that one should never let one’s guard down in the Great Forest of Shadows.  His fiery eyes blazed into the night, always watching for what he knew was never far off.
****
            The traveler bolted upright out of one haunted darkness and into another.  Soaked in cold sweat, he stumbled to his knees and listened to the strange sounds that echoed through the woods.  The wind howled through the trees creating an unnatural moan.  At first, he thought his lack of sleep had left him delirious.  Shadows danced between the trees as the wind howled like a hungry wolf.  The hair on his neck rose to attention and he knew in a moment this was something more than the idle tricks of a weary mind.  Above the groaning of the trees, a bloodcurdling cry tore through the darkness.  The traveler turned to his horse in a panic.  The creature’s fiery eyes stared back at him through the gloom with subtle tremble that betrayed a genuine fright.  The cry repeated, this time much closer, and a realization struck him hard: they were being hunted.
            The traveler rooted around in the darkness for his sword, terror driving him wild as he scrambled around on the forest floor.  His search was fruitless.  He had somehow lost his only defense against whatever was approaching.  Tears sprang from his eyes as he fell to the ground in a miserable heap.  His horse, calm in this moment of desperation gave a loud cry and kicked the traveler, rolling him on his back and jolting him back to reality.  Returning to his senses, the traveler reached to his side and drew the sword that had been hanging from his waist the entire time.  As he pulled the weapon from its scabbard, the blade caught every trace of light and reflected it into the surrounding forest. 
            The sudden illumination blinded him for an instant before revealing a creature more terrifying than he could ever imagine.  It stood on two legs, like a man, but therein laid the only resemblance.  The creature had the massive, powerful body of a bear with matted silver fur. Its face was flat but for its black bulbous eyes and sharp incisors stuck out from between its closed lips.  The beast had long powerful arms, each ending in five razor sharp claws.  Long, sharp spikes parted the fur on the beast’s arms and torso.  It loosed a guttural moan and reached out as if to envelop the traveler in a deadly embrace.  It reeled for a moment, stunned by the sudden glare of the sword.  Not willing to wait for the creature to recover, the young man leapt forward and plunged his sword into what he hoped was the creature’s heart.  It fell backwards into the brush with a soft thud.  As it lay dying, it let out a shrill cry that echoed throughout the forest with a deafening blast.  Moments later, the cry was answered by a dozen other calls far off in the darkness. 
            Terror gripped the traveler.  He grabbed his pack and the horse’s reins and took off running down the path.  Using the gleam of his sword to light the way, they ran headlong into the gloom, dodging roots and low hanging branches.
            As they ran, the dirt path began to fade.  Grass sprang up under his feet and the underbrush closed in around them.  Soon, the path disappeared entirely.  The traveler cursed his ill fortune and swept his sword side to side in search of a new trail.  Far off, but closer than before, another shrill cry tore through the woods.  The traveler sheathed his weapon, extinguishing its light for fear it might betray them.
            “Wouldn’t want anything to give away our location,” he said to the horse.  The creature stared back at him, two orange orbs glowing in the darkness. 
            “Perhaps you should close your eyes.”  The horse merely glared back, its gaze unwavering.  The traveler wrapped his cloak around himself until it shrouded his entire body and curled into a ball in the underbrush.  The horse snorted its disapproval but he paid it no heed.  His exhaustion caught up with him in a wave of anguish springing on him more ferociously than the terrible creature he had just faced. 
            “It isn’t fair,” he whispered to the darkness as tears welled in his eyes.  “What have I done that this madness should befall me?  This shouldn’t be happening to…”  The horse whickered and turned him on his back with a swift kick.  A picture flashed through his mind of the silver creatures tearing him apart while he cried out for fairness.  Is that what you want? he thought.
            “No…no that’s not what I want at all.”  Pushing himself to his feet, he unsheathed his sword with a primal howl.  The sudden bright light shot a jolt of pain through his eyes and he staggered backward.  An anguished cry to his left told him that he was not the only victim.  His eyes adjusted to find three of the silver creatures standing close by, all still reeling from the sudden flash of light.  Mustering what valor he possessed, the traveler leapt towards the closest creature and lashed out with his sword.  He was rewarded with a cry of pain and wheeled around to where he hoped the second creature still stood.  His sword struck something soft and warm liquid splattered onto his hands.  Skipping backward, he took quick stock of the situation, his eyes now fully adjusted.  To his right, one creature stood bent forward, clutching a gash across its midsection.  Not far from it, another crumpled to the forest floor, a sickening sound bubbling up from its opened throat. 
            The third creature stood just a few steps away and was bigger than the others by a quarter.  Undaunted by the traveler’s lucky blows it bellowed a chilling cry and hurtled full speed toward him.  As it charged, its eyes met the travelers and froze him with a cold hatred.  The creature’s eyes were black and dead, like two bottomless pools rising up to swallow him. 
            For a moment, he stood transfixed.  The creature plunged towards him on all fours, spikes bristling and fur glistening in the low light.  Its claws gripped the earth as it charged toward him.  Crouching down onto its hind legs, it launched itself at the young wanderer.  Its mouth opened to reveal several rows of pointed yellow teeth.  The sickening smell of rotting meet wafted before it and shook the traveler from his trance.  Instinct overtook him at the last moment and he fell to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack.  The putrid stink hung in the air, choking the traveler as he tried to catch his breath.  The creature turned to face him with a hiss and reared back on its hind legs.
            Adrenaline surged through his veins and the world narrowed, leaving just him and the creature.  The traveler sprang up and swung his sword in an arch toward the beast.  It lifted its arm and blocked the blow effortlessly with a spiked elbow and lashed out at him with the other hand.  He fell to one knee, dodging the creature’s claws by a hair’s breath and jabbing at its unprotected abdomen.  It hopped backwards and parried his thrust with its claws.  Throwing back its head, it cried out and charged him again.  Fumbling around in the underbrush, the traveler found a thick branch and flung it at the creature, striking it in the stomach.  Jumping to his feet, he swung his sword at its face and managed to clip the creature’s nose.  Enraged, it jumped forward and slashed the traveler, opening the flesh on his forehead.  Hot blood spurted from the wound, stinging his eyes as it ran down his face.  Blinded by his own blood, he swung his sword in a mindless fury.  More blood splashed across his face, but this time not his own.  He heard the creature cry out in agony as his blade sunk into its torso.
            Just like that, it was over.  The creature fell to the ground with a thud and the traveler dropped to his knees.  He knelt in the underbrush for some time, shaking violently, the blood still running down his face as he tried to wipe it away. 
            “I-I just killed those things,” he whispered to no one.  The horse grunted nearby and kicked at the ground. 
            “Did you see what I did?  How I moved?” the young traveler continued, his voice rich with wonder.  The horse whickered and turned away, gazing off into the darkness.  Still amazed at what he had done, the traveler sat back against a mossy tree and let down his sword.  Adrenaline subsided and an uneasy peace took its place.  The path had vanished entirely and there was no telling how many more of the creatures still lurked in the darkness.  He wiped the last of the blood from his eyes with the tail of his cloak and felt the cut on his forehead.  It was not as bad as he had first thought, but blood still seeped from the wound.  Tearing a strand from his cloak, he made a bandage and tied it around his head just tight enough to slow the flow.  Dazed from the battle, the traveler leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes, happy for just a moment’s respite.
            A soft rustle from the bushes brought his moment of calm to a quick conclusion.  The traveler jumped to his feet and swept his sword in a circle, casting its glow into the brush as he set himself for the coming attack.  Instead, much to his surprise, he saw no grotesque creatures, nor did he hear their earsplitting cry.  He only heard a quiet voice, whispering to him from the dark. 
            “Come with me, good traveler.”  Shocked, he backed away from the voice. 
            “W-who are you?”  The traveler looked high and low for the source of the voice, but it might as well have come out of thin air.  He began to back away from it when a cry went up in the woods behind him.
             “We must not delay.  Two score more Furhärads pursue you.  The time for bravery has ended.  Prudence now takes the forefront.”  The brush rustled again and the traveler heard the soft patter of feet hurrying off through the woods.  A moment later, he heard the clapping of the horse galloping after them.  Stunned by this sudden abandonment, he froze, unsure whether or not to trust this invisible stranger.  The gravity of the moment struck him and gave him pause.  As far as he could remember, he had never killed anything before.  Now the dark blood of these Furhärads, as the voice called them, dripped off his sword blade like a mountain spring trickling onto the forest floor.  Everything had happen so quickly, he had not had time to think.  He was caught in the middle of a dark forest in which he did not belong being asked to trust the words of a man he did not know.  And now a new voice added its will to the mix.  The fog of fatigue made it all too much for him to handle.
            All feelings other than fear fled when the cries of a dozen furious Furhärads joined in one terrible chorus.  His reservations forgotten for the time being, he turned from the cries and ran headlong after the horse and the strange voice.  The forest assailed him viciously as he tried to keep up with the beating of hoofs ahead.  Trees leaned in to slash at him and roots grasped his ankles as he hurried through the woods, exhaustion weighing on his every step.
            They had run for what felt like several hours when a tiny dot of light pierced the darkness.  At first, the traveler thought the light was some vision born of his own desperation and fatigue.  However, as they ran on, the light began to grow.  Soon beams of sunlight broke through the tree tops and he could see the plain outlines of trees, the shapes of bushes, and the back of the horse.  The last of these was not the most pleasant, but it did make following a bit easier.  Despite the growing light, he still could not see whatever owned the voice that had called him to follow. 
            Behind him in the black of the forest, the cries had subsided.  The forest grew thinner, and before long the full light of day shone down on them.  When the horse finally came to a halt, the traveler searched for his new guide.  Much to his distress, he could see no man before him.  Puzzled, he began to fear that the voice had led him astray.  His pulse quickened as he stretched his gaze as far into the distance as he could.  He turned to the horse and his eyes narrowed.
            “What have you done?  Why would you think running off after a strange voice was a good idea?”  The horse glared at him and gestured toward the ground by his feet.  The traveler looked down and jumped back in shock.
            “My apologies for being short with you before, but the situation was dire.”  The traveler’s jaw dropped in disbelief.  For a human like himself to say this would have come as no surprise.  However, the creature that stood before him did so on four legs and was covered in fur.  It had the appearance of a wolf, but was slightly smaller than what one would normally find in the wild.  Its hair was black on top, but faded into a light tan color around its muzzle, turning to white as it approached the underbelly. 
            “I am taking you to the land of the Drak-tarno.  The land of my people.  You will be safe there.”  The creature waited patiently for his reply, but the traveler was dumbfounded.  He searched his mind for some precedent to aid in his assessment of this development, but found nothing.  Nothing he could think of told him for certain that this creature should not be talking to him, but its vocalizations felt out of place just the same.
            “Very well,” it continued.  “I expect you must be weary from your travels.  Be that as it may, this is not a safe place to rest.  It would be best if I brought you before our king.  No doubt he will want to meet you, and I am quite certain you do not wish to go back the other way,” it said, nodding towards the darkened forest behind them.  With that, the little wolf turned and ran on through the bushes.  Satisfied that this creature meant him no harm, though still confounded by its ability to speak, he hurried after it, the horse trotting at his side.

The Traveler, Chapter One

1.  The Old Man and the Horse


            A cold, merciless wind cut at the young wanderer’s face as he struggled through pale drifts of snow.  His hands numb, he fumbled unfeeling at the crimson eagle clasp that held his tattered cloak in place.  The remnants of a fading thought pursued him, thinning and disappearing like the footsteps he left in his wake.  He struggled to cling to the faint vision that hung on the edge of his mind, but it slipped away and disappeared into the frigid expanse.  Black clouds blanketed the sky in an unwavering mask that blotted out both sun and stars, leaving day and night indiscernible.  Time and distance meant nothing on the icy plane.  The wasteland ruled his past, his present, and any future he could hope to conceive. 
            He clutched the cloak tightly around his body and soldiered on into the swirling snow.  A gust of wind flung a blast of flurries into his ashen, blue-gray eyes.  He wiped away the blur with an unsteady hand and peered into the darkness before him.  On the horizon, a light flickered and bounced in the wind and gave him a start.  The traveler lurched to a stop and dropped to one knee.  After countless hours and days of wandering in the darkness, a sudden rush of joy brought hot tears to his eyes.  They dribbled down his numb face and froze in his coarse brown stubble.  In half a second the light became everything.  Fire erupted in his veins lending untapped strength to his weary limbs.  He surged forward toward the tiny point of light, his last shred of will dragging him on through the darkness.
            As the light grew, shadows formed around it.  A tiny village rose out of the snow to welcome his approach.  His pulse quickened at the sight of it and he doubled his efforts, breaking into a half sprint towards his new salvation.  An eerie feeling caught him as he passed the first hut.  Scattered lines of footprints led in and out of the village, but all the huts were cold and empty except for one on the far edge.  There, yellow-orange flames cut a hole in the gray and lifeless waste.  Dancing rays of light spilled out of the doorway onto the snowy ground.  As he drew near, he heard the crackle of the fire, its warmth inviting in the midst of the cold, ghostly town.  The traveler drifted inside on a cloud of anticipation and waning adrenaline. 
            A hollow-eyed old man sat hunched beneath a ragged blanket by the fire. 
Tresses of tangled grey hair hung like long wisps of smoke from his head.  Across from him stood a chestnut brown courser with a jet-black mane.  The creature turned and considered him with dark eyes wreathed in flame.  Its gaze entranced him and enveloped his mind.  It drew him in until everything else fell away and he was taken to another time and place.  Leaving the hut behind, he soared over vast open lands and men toiling upon them.  He saw joy and pain, families driven from their lands and an entire people forced to flee their homes.  Villages burned while man, woman, and child alike bled beneath the harsh yoke of war.  Had this animal witnessed all this suffering?  Such strange things to see in the eyes of a beast, he thought.  He remained transfixed until the voice of the old man shook him from his trance.
            “You must excuse my companion.  His concerns, while heartfelt, are unfounded.”  The grizzled old man ignored a whicker of protest from the horse and rose to his feet, extending his arms with a kind smile.
            “Welcome to my home, traveler.  You have come a long way.”  The man’s voice was harsh, but it carried with it a certain comfort.  It slipped through his ashy whiskers like a hot wind through a snow laden forest.  “I have been watching your approach since you came over the horizon.” The old man eyed the crimson clasp on the traveler’s cloak.
            “Good, it is really you.  I was concerned by your appearance.  You are younger than I expected.”
            The traveler opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.  He had traveled far, pushing himself onward through the darkness in search of some respite.  Now that he had found it, he was still as lost as ever.  This stranger seemed to know him, which he found at once both comforting and disturbing.  Somewhere in his heart, a thousand questions burned like live embers, but his mind lay blank.  Standing in the narrow doorway with his mouth hanging open, he searched for the right words to express a feeling he did not understand. 
            “Do not fret, traveler,” said the old man.  “The wasteland lies at your back.  You need not fear it.  Speak, you have walked a great distance to come here.  Certainly there is something you seek.”
            “I have come in search of something, that is true,” he said, unfamiliar with the sound of his own voice.  “For all the hardship I have suffered along the way, I fear I know not what.”  The old man nodded with a solemn smile.
            “I know, traveler, and I know what it is you seek.”  The traveler’s pulse quickened and blood rushed to his face.
            “Will you tell me, sir?”  The words tumbled out of his mouth.  With a heavy sigh, the man lowered his head and spoke.
            “I will tell you what I know, young man, but first I must ask you something.  I need you to tell me what you know about how you arrived in this land.  What do you remember about your journey to this place?”  The traveler slouched back, deflated.  This was the last question he wanted to answer. 
            “There is little to say,” he replied.  “This land is strange to me and the path I walked to come here even stranger.  I cannot tell you what I do not know myself.”  He paused, expecting some expression of disapproval, but instead, the man seemed encouraged by these words.  Struggling to one knee, he began rummaging around in the straw behind him.
            “Good, good.  It is just how I hoped then.  There is little time to waste.”  The traveler shook his head in confusion.  He tapped the man cautiously on the shoulder and cleared his throat.
            “You said you knew what I was searching for?” 
            “Of course!” the old man shouted with a broad smile.  Then, as if catching himself for a moment, he continued.  “Well, that is to say, I know where you can find it.  North of here there is a vast forest, and in there you will find the Monastery of Sherushae.  There are strange forces at work in that place and powers you could not imagine.”
            The traveler’s heart sank as a word circulated in his mind.  He could only just grasp at its meaning, but the thought of it made him feel uneasy.  He could not help but chuckle at himself for even considering the idea of magic.  At the same time, he had been searching for something he did not understand from the earliest shadows of his memory.  Perhaps this was not so unbelievable.
            “I do not think I believe in such things as magic,” he insisted, though still unsure.  The old man paused for a moment with a quizzical look.
            “Magic?” he scoffed.  “Who said anything about magic?  Such a ludicrous idea,” he said and returned to his shuffling.  The traveler, however, was not satisfied and responded with growing impatience.
            “You speak in mysteries, sir.  If it is not magic, then what is it?  What powers do you speak of?” he said, his voice beginning to shake.
            “Not magic,” the old man said flatly.  “Magic is a fool’s errand, boy, and I expect you to remember that.  I apologize if you are unsatisfied with the guidance you are receiving, but as you haven’t any other direction, perhaps it would be best if you heed my words and head north.”  The traveler was somewhat indignant, but the logic in the old man’s words was irrefutable.  Perhaps he is right, he thought.  I have no better options.
            “Good,” the man said without waiting for him to speak, “I have not prepared in vain.  I have packed you some food and brought this horse to accompany you.  Your journey will not be a short one, but I assure you it will be well worth it.  On the fourth day of your travels, you will arrive at the Woods.  This is a dangerous land, so I have packed a sword for you; I trust you know how to use it.”  The old man drew a long sword from the hay that surrounded him.  It was the most brilliant thing the traveler had ever seen.  Though there was very little light in the tiny shed, it caught every bit of it.  A soft blue light radiated magnificently off the curious metal from which it was wrought.  The hilt was simple; steel wrapped in leather, with a black stone set into the bottom.  The handle was elongated, but thinner at the bottom to allow for both one handed and two-handed use. 
            “Nothing like it has ever been made in your world.  The blade is a metal called Calaron, mined from the Great Mountains of the North.  It gives a blue glow, unlike any other metal known to Man, and is nearly unbreakable.  I have packed you provisions in the bags on the back of the horse.  He is the best horse I have, traveler.  Take good care of him.”  The old man paused for a moment.  His eyes grew dim and his voice prophetic.  “There are hard days ahead of you, traveler.  I do not envy you”
            This statement took the traveler aback at first, but gazing into sleek steel, he saw his own face reflected in the blade.  A curtain of auburn hair lay across his brow giving way to a pair of cold blue eyes.  The rigid metal fashioned a guise of strength in his otherwise unremarkable features.  He raised the sword in a battle stance and a wave of confidence overtook him.  The road behind him was cold and dark and the way before him led into the unknown, but his fear of what might lie before him slipped away.  In his hands he held a tangible symbol of his purpose; a powerful tool that would lend its strength to him and define his otherwise indefinite presence in this place.  His excitement was immeasurable. 
            “Traveler,” the old man said in a soothing tone, “Calm your mind.  It is only a sword.  It holds no magical force, my son, no key to the meaning of life.  It is not an answer to your questions.  The sword is only a means to protect yourself from the danger that lies ahead of you.  The sword will never give you an answer; answers will come to you when you are ready.” 
            A sharp wind blew in through the opened door and brought with it a chill that cut through the warmth of the shed.  The old man turned to the wind with a start. 
            “It is time you moved on, my son,” he whispered.  “You have a long journey ahead of you.  Head northwest until you reach the woods.  The horse knows where he is going, but there will be others to help you on your way.  Do not deny yourself aid from unusual places.  Beware, however, not all you will meet in the woods will be friends; you may have to use that sword.  Now you must go.” 
            “Wait,” the traveler pleaded, the last traces of his strength draining from his body.  “Can I not rest here for but an hour?  My journey has left me quite weary.”  The old man shook his head sternly.
            “You’ll find no more comfort here, young traveler.  The way north to the woods is barren and flat.  Rest there…if you can.”
            The old man led the traveler out the door with his horse and sword.  They walked to the outskirts of the cold, dead town where they stopped at the edge of yet another windswept expanse where the old man turned to the traveler.  “I must leave you now; you have taken the first step.  My part is done.” 
            “The first step where?” he asked.  The old man gave a little smile.
            “The first step into Iden.”  With that, the old man turned and walked away.  The traveler sensed he should not press the question further.  Instead, he turned to the vast wasteland.  With no knowledge of what lay before him and no understanding of what lay behind, he forced his fears and uncertainties to the back of his mind and pressed onward into the unknown.  

Dying, Part Seven: The Young Man and Epilogue

            The setting sun shone on the small assembly in Scott’s room, casting tall shadows across the floor and up the far wall almost to the ceiling.  Mr. and Mrs. Meyers sat by his bedside flanked by his two older sisters.  I leaned against the far wall, unsure of myself amidst Scott’s family.  I had offered to leave them alone with him, but Mrs. Meyers had flatly denied any such idea.  She was even surprisingly receptive to Bridget’s presence, even though the two had never met before today.  Mrs. Meyers’ uncharacteristic serenity alarmed me at first, but it occurred to me that she was only doing what a mother should do.  A mother can often times surprise you like that.  Just when you expect her to break into hysterics is just when she takes a firm hold on the situation.  In the last minutes of her son’s life, she was doing just as she had done for the first twenty-two years.  She knew it would do her son no good to see her suffering and she would never dream of adding to his pain. 
            For my part, I was greatly appreciative of Mrs. Meyers’ permissive mood.  Bridget was a welcome presence in an otherwise uncomfortable situation.  I felt like an intruder in this family’s darkest moment and I am certain she felt similarly.  She stood beside me silently, leaning against the wall.  Occasionally, she would place a comforting, though awkward, hand on my shoulder, and I would nod thankfully.  Beyond that, the room remained under a heavy silence.
            Scott had said little since our discussion earlier that afternoon.  He was quite lethargic and seemed wholly disinterested in further conversation.  Before he slipped into sleep for the last time, however, he made his best attempt at saying goodbye.  He told his parents that he loved them and they told him they loved him too and always would.  He thanked Bridget for coming and thanked me for sticking with him the past few weeks.  I tried to say it was nothing, but the words wouldn’t come.  Despite all we had gone through since we first learned of his illness, I couldn’t help but wonder where we had gotten with it all.  Scott seemed to sense my apprehension, because he beckoned for me to sit down in the chair beside him.
            “What’s the matter, Jack?” he said.  I looked at him silently for a few moments before he added: “aside from the obvious.”  I shifted uncomfortably for a moment, not sure if it was worth bringing up so close to the end, but Scott’s face was insistent.
            “I don’t know,” I said.  “I guess I was just wondering…did it help?”  Scott’s parents seemed confused, but he nodded.
            “If nothing else, it was a nice way to spend my last few days.  I can’t say I feel any more ready that I did a month ago, but think about where we’ve been and what we’ve heard.  I’d say we learned a hell of a lot about living, huh?”  I was still uneasy.
            “I don’t want to think I failed you,” I said, my voice shaking.
            “Then don’t!” he replied with a tired smile.  “I don’t feel like you did.”
            “But you wanted to learn about dying.”  Scott shrugged.
            “Well, maybe it was for you then.  You might as well hang on to what happened these past few weeks and not be sore about it on my account.  I’d hate for you to have wasted a perfectly good month just screwing around in a hospital.”  I took a long hard look at his face, trying to decide whether it was worth trying for one last meaningful conversation, but I could tell the sickness had finally conquered his will to know.  He was calm and, as much as one can ever be, ready to let go. 
            I’ll never know what went through his mind in the last few minutes of his life.  He fell asleep shortly after we spoke and drifted slowly away.  Looking around the room, I saw on the faces of those gathered the same acceptance that Scott had attained in his last hours, but I didn’t understand it.  More so now than ever before, the entire situation seemed cruel and unjust.  I felt surrounded by the willing acceptance of a young man’s passing in the prime of his years.  As the steady tone of the heart monitor slowed, I felt an aberrant fury welling up in my chest.  Though I knew there was nothing to be done for him, I hated everyone around me for not crying out in anger; as though their acceptance made them complicit in his death.  I eyed resentfully the glaring light that streamed in through the hospital windows and cursed all the things I saw and felt that he never would again. 
            In an instant, my infuriated fever broke and I looked dizzily back at the hospital bed before me.  The steady tone of the heart monitor broke into a flat buzz and the room was filled with a collective release of misery.  My legs grew weak and I collapsed into a chair beside the bed, my body a heap of exhausted anguish.  I don’t know how long we sat in silence before they came to take him downstairs.  No words were exchanged as we filed out of the hospital room.  Bridget put her hand on my shoulder as I turned down the hall.  I stopped and looked at her, both our faces wet with tears.  She looked as though she wanted to speak, but nothing came.  Instead, she stepped forward and hugged me tightly.  Then, nodding slowly, she turned and walked away down the bustling hospital corridor and disappeared.  I took one last look the at room where Scott and I had passed his final month and wiped the moisture from my face.  Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I lumbered away wondering just what the hell I was supposed to do now.
End of Part Seven

Epilogue

            My palms were sweating as I gripped the smooth oak of the church lectern.  The podium was shaky and entirely too low for me, but I leaned on it nonetheless, happy with whatever support it could give.  Looking out nervously across the small crowd in front of me, I saw a few comforting faces and a handful of unexpected ones.  Scott’s parents sat in the front row with his sisters, smiling at me with somewhat misplaced gratitude.  My empty chair stood in the row behind them with Bridget sitting awkwardly beside it.  Near the back, I could see Roger still glaring as crossly as we had left him, but somehow more serene than before.  By the exit, Corporal McGreevy stood in his fatigues.  He had come to talk to me before the funeral, saying he would be shipping out this afternoon, but he wanted to come for a few minutes to pay his respects. 
            As for me, I had been asked by Mrs. Meyers to deliver a eulogy and was now standing uncomfortably in front of an audience of family and friends, most of which I didn’t know.  I felt self-conscious and certain that most of the congregation was wondering who this dumb kid was who thought he had the right to speak at their beloved Scott’s funeral.  In reality, I knew that no one was thinking that, but I couldn’t help feeling presumptuous.  I stood at the parapet for quite some time, a hundred expectant looks boring into my seemingly empty skull.  Looking down at the few words I had been able to write, I couldn’t help but think that Scott must be somewhere laughing at me at that very moment.  A swift glance at the casket dragged my head back into focus.  I hope you’re enjoying this, I thought.  Turing my notes right side up, I took a deep breath.
            “I had the pleasure of knowing Scott for the past five years as well as spending his last few days with him.  Most of you know about his vibrant spirit and rollicking sense of humor.  You know that he was a caring person who stood by those who stood by him and did so fiercely.  Everyone who met Scott learned quickly that he was an intelligent and witty person who always sought to know more.  More than anything else, however, Scott was a man who lived.
            “When Scott learned suddenly that he had a very short time left to live on this earth, his spirit was not defeated.  Over his last month of life, he sought to understand something that most of us will take a lifetime to comprehend.  This journey led him across the paths of other travelers all in some way seeking answers to the same question.  Some of them seemed to have it all figured out and some of them not so much.  Some of them didn’t even know what they were doing.  But, in the end, I think Scott did.  Something about his last hours told me that he had come to the point where he was ready to go.  In the end, I think he really did find what he was looking for.  What that was exactly, I couldn’t tell you.  Not just because it’s not my place to, but because I don’t know and I may never know.  So I guess I’ll do my best to tell you what I learned instead.
            “As young people, we all went through the phase of wondering who we are.  The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that maybe we should stop to consider that question a little more often when we’re older, and I’ll tell you why.  Death, and in a large way life, doesn’t have a meaning for you unless you assign it one.  That’s not to say that life is inherently meaningless.  I mean quite the opposite really.  The particulars in the meaning of life can be so drastically varied that meaning itself is limitless.  Dying then, is itself limitless in meaning because death’s meaning is beholden to life.  In his last hours, I think Scott came to understand what his life meant to him and in so doing learned the same about his death.  That’s what he was trying to learn and I think, in a way, it’s what he was trying to teach me.  After everything, I know I still don’t understand it, but I also know that’s ok, because what matters now is to find out what living means.  If I can do that, I think that, when death finally comes, I just might be ready.”
            I withdrew from the pulpit slowly and made my way back to the hushed and somewhat bewildered congregation.  A few odd looks were exchanged here and there, but not even a whisper broke the silence.  I took my seat next to Bridget who was one of the few people not looking at me sideways and I tried to focus on anything but the speech I had just concluded.  Several seconds passed and, for a moment, it seemed like the entire service had come to a befuddled halt.  Mrs. Meyers turned to me, her face stony and still red from constantly flowing tears.  I felt immediately ashamed, as though my speech had been in some way offensive to Scott’s memory.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been selfish to speak about what I had learned the past few days, rather than how much he had meant to me over the years. 
            Then, just as the guilt was building to a head, Mrs. Meyers’ face relaxed into a motherly smile.  She placed her hand on my knee and nodded kindly.  With that, she turned back to the front and the service resumed.  I sighed deeply, relieved that I had not offended her and comforted by the weight of the past few days lifting off my shoulders.  Though it was painful to lose so close a friend, I was grateful to Scott for what he had given me in his last days.  My position in life hadn’t changed much in the past month and I think, in a way, neither did Scott’s.  The things that matter the most don’t change in a month or even a year.  Who you are may not change over a life time, but it might just take that long to figure it out.

The End