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Rush shivered under a tree. The boughs offered some shelter from the rain, but droplets still found their way through a maze of leaves to splash on his head. The downpour had commenced as he ran, and when he finally stopped in the forest, ready to drop dead from exhaustion, his search uncovered no wood dry enough to burn. Instead, he huddled in a sodden, sorry heap. Images of the past weeks shimmered in his mind’s eye.
He mentally pummeled himself for his ravaging of the Embark. A vision formed before him of the crewmen vainly fighting off the dragons, being quickly overwhelmed by their razor claws. What had caused him to be so reckless? So…villainous? The Rush in Hast would never have done that.
The memory of a blond head appeared in answer.
He couldn’t argue with that, of course. The fire had turned him into a charred shell of his former self. Lewis wouldn’t even recognize him. Neither would Olive, or his parents. What would they think of his actions?
The shower bore down for hours, and he wasn’t inclined to travel through it, so he remained under the tree. He wished he could dig a hole in the dirt, bury himself, and never come out again. Pain throbbed at the back of his throat.
An urge to open his bag overcame him. He finally pulled himself upright, groaning and stretching. His legs burned, his arms ached, and his head pounded. But as he rummaged through the sack, he realized what he had been looking for all along.
Olive’s Bible. With tender touch, he withdrew it and cracked it open.
Though the pages were damp and the cover tattered, the words remained legible. Perhaps this book held the answer. He had promised Olive he would read it. He flipped through a few pages before remembering where he had left off and began reading.
As he continued through the book of Matthew, his mind wandered often. He continually found himself staring at the branches above, or the rain splattering on the dirt, or gusts bowing the long grass. Something pulled him back every time. Perhaps duty to his promise. Or maybe guilt, as if he could read his actions away.
Three words snapped into focus. Rush shook his head, stared at them, and reread the passage.
Love your enemies.
Bless them that curse you.
Do good to them that hate you.
He gaped at the page. Whoever spoke those commands didn’t understand what he had lost. Such a deep wound couldn’t be simply overlooked. He turned the next page over to cover the words. Yet as his hand settled on the cover to close it, that same feeling of duty or guilt withdrew it. Rush skipped several books ahead until he stopped on one called Romans. He knew this book was a confusing one—all the better to avoid being confronted. And for a few chapters, he wasn’t. Then he saw it.
Avenge not yourselves. Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.
Again he halted and read the verses again. He couldn’t be expected to love Ward, much less do good things for him. He was a murderer. Who could love murderers?
But to ask the question was to answer it.
The very One who gave those words lived them.
Rush didn’t have to remind himself of stories his father read from their thick family Bible. The scene of the crucifixion accused him, showed him true love, true forgiveness.
He diverted his eyes and shut the book, but the words remained burned in his eyes. Avenge not yourselves.
His head sagged.
He couldn’t argue. He could only heed or ignore the words. There was no getting around them. He knew what they said as clearly as he knew he was sopping wet and miserable. And yet he didn’t want to know. If only he could forget and unread the verses.
But he still couldn’t sustain the thought of returning home with Ward on the loose, nor of life with unquenched mourning. To pursue his quest or to abandon it would both devastate him. So he dug up his last option. An ultimatum.
Rush stared at the sky and imagined God hiding somewhere behind the smears of gray clouds. The edge of bitterness his voice carried cut even him. “If what You say is really true, don’t let me find Ward. I’ll go home and suffer if that’s what You want. But if I get all the way to the mountains, I’m ending this for good, no matter what it does to me.”
With that, he stuffed the book back under the spare clothes and food, shouldered his pack, and trudged northward through the rain.
Rush traveled for five days through the forests and hills of Arcia. Frequent storms rolling off the Pinnacles impeded his progress. But he refused to let them stop him, trekking through the mud and wind. The latter two days he journeyed through a dense forest, giving him much-needed relief from the downpour. He came upon a southbound river there and walked beside it for the remainder of his trip. Once, he quickly bathed and changed into his spare clothes. He tossed the old mud-caked ones behind a bush. No point in lugging those around.
One day an airship passed overhead. The watch deck hanging from below showed it to be an Arcian vessel, probably searching for him. Rush hid in some brush and remained motionless until it passed out of view.
While he traveled, he thought. Visions of his life in Hast flashed before him. The words he read under that tree turned over and over.
On the sixth day, as the terrain became increasingly rocky and punishing, he came to a bend in the river that blocked his way. The ruins of a wooden bridge split the swollen stream into ribbons of foam. Rush groaned. A glance upstream showed no easy place to cross; it would be another several hours back to find a suitable ford.. If he wanted to avoid Vance catching up with him, he had to cross.
By now, though, he was used to getting soaked. He shrugged his back from his shoulders and tossed it across. It splashed on the other bank, halfway in the water.
“No!” The cry slipped out. He stared after the waterlogged bag for just a moment before charging into the spray.
He gasped and hesitated as the newly-melted snow turned his bones to ice. He clenched his teeth and tensed his muscles, pushing through. Water rose past his shins, to his waist, to his shoulders, with no signs of stopping. The current ripped him downstream, away from the bag. He braced his legs against the muddy riverbed.
Until the ground dropped.
Rush’s head went under and he inhaled water. With flailing strokes, he surfaced for mere seconds, only long enough to cough up river, before plunging under again. He swirled and twisted, the flood toying with him like some beast preparing to devour its prey. It ground him against rocks until every limb ached.
More flailing. His mouth found open air and he drank deeply of it. Another tug sent him plunging below again.
The breath woke his urgency, and he threw every last drop of determination into his frozen limbs. They thrashed, reluctantly at first, then with more fervor. Just as he thrust forward, the river turned and tossed him near the opposite bank. Rush grasped. The tips of his fingers clawed at mud.
His chest burned. He needed air. Tearing at the bank, he slowed himself and once again found mushy ground. Rush shot to his feet and gasped. The current still bore down on him, but with heavy steps he trudged toward the shore. Finally, it came only to his ankles, and he collapsed, laying in the grass.
He coughed up more water and gulped air. Several minutes passed, his breaths gradually slowing, a miniature lake forming around him. His limbs screamed and sleep called him—but he couldn’t give up yet. Legs throbbing, he lifted himself to his feet.
The good news was, he had crossed the river. But he almost plopped right back into his puddle after realizing how far down he had come. It would be no easy trip back.
The pack, as though attached by an invisible rope, pulled him onward. Each step was an effort almost more than his entire struggle in the river. His teeth chattered and every muscle shivered. The cold seemed to have affected his mind as well; only one thought hung before him—the contents of his bag.
After what felt like hours, he returned to the bend as the sun set. Rush slid the bag from the water and rummaged around. His food was all but spoiled already, and his shoulders dropped at the sight of the Bible. Lifting it from the back, he held his breath.
The pages stuck together, smeared with ink. A mere touch punched a hole in one sodden page. He turned page after page, searching in vain for any legible text. “No…no…Olive, I…” Tears threatened the corners of his eyes. If only Olive could see him now.
He curled over the wrecked book and saw Olive’s face, heard her words. “Right is right, no matter how deep the pain.”
His voice came hardly louder than a breath. “I’m sorry.”
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