Beneficence

Beneficence
The practice of doing good; active goodness, kindness, or charity.

Beatrice McAllister, known affectionately as "Bertie" to friends and family, loved this time of the year and this time of the day. The sun was melting the night with nascent colors patterning the horizon. The fields, once covered with the bounty of her labor, were now bare, growing only tendrils of mist in pale shades of dawn.

This was her quiet time – her time for reflection. Sitting on the front porch of the old farm house, she gazed out over the stubbled remnants of the fields and was struck by how it seemed to mirror her life. The growing parts were gone; only the dormant earth remained.

She had turned 40 in the spring, but the last few years had aged her beyond the mere passage of time. "Mac," her husband – her inspiration – had been killed in Iraq soon after his National Guard unit had been called to active duty and deployed. Has it been 6 years already? she wondered.

"It's our duty to help others have a chance for what we have, Bertie. If you believe in good, there's no choice. You do what you must." His voice in her head brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. His natural goodness and belief in the "right thing" was one of the things she had loved most about him.

She held a steaming mug of coffee, occasionally sipping the dark bitter brew. Harvest went well this year, she thought to Mac. She would often talk to him, believing he was always near. I really must get a dog so folks won't think I'm nuts, she thought for the hundredth time, a genuine smile breaking out on her face.

She let her eyes follow the intricate dance of fog as the warming air began to lift it skyward.

"I miss you Mac," she murmured, "and I miss Jess ..." Bertie stopped herself. The pain was too great. It was better to focus on the here and now.

A flash of dark diverted her attention and she shifted her focus toward it. "What could that be?" she wondered aloud. She knew this land as well as she knew the lines that mapped the years on her hands.

Unconsciously, she set the cup down, removed her glasses, and wiped them on her apron before returning her attention to the dark splotch that was playing hide-and-seek with the mist .

Fingers of wind parted the gauzy air and the figure of a boy was illuminated in the morning rays. Even at this distance, Bertie could see he was young – perhaps thirteen. He wore faded denim shorts and an old white shirt. His flaxen hair was barely visible under an old straw hat.

With the shock of sudden recognition, she was unaware of the cup tumbling off the arm of her chair as she stood. The sound of breaking ceramic went unnoticed as she cried out "Jessie?" The name came out in a huff of air, as though she had been hit in the stomach.

"Jessie!" she called once more with certainty in her voice.

The figure stood like a statue, staring across the fields.

"Jessie, it's me, Mom!" The profile, so familiar, finally turned toward her. A small smile played across his face, a brief flash of white, and then the mist closed like a billowing sail, carrying him away.

Bertie found that she was running across the yard toward where she had seen the figure. Approaching the spot, she involuntarily slowed, the heavily furrowed ground making movement difficult.

"Where are you?" she called. Only the cloying silence answered.

Bertie shook her head. "What am I doing?" she asked. Jessie had been dead for two years. She had only to ask her broken heart to confirm what her mind knew. She had prayed for a miracle. Maybe this was her answer.

"Silly old woman," she muttered to herself, "this isn't an answer. This is just you wishing for something that ain't possible. You're getting old, gal. Your seeing things don't make 'em real – no more than talking to Mac makes him here."

Bertie turned to go back to the house, her head downcast as tears began coursing down her weathered cheeks.

In the soft soil, she saw the small footprints ...

"Oh God, it can't be true! Dear God – please, I will give anything ..."

Bertie turned, following the imprints, her hope rising. Nothing else mattered, only the faint marks in fallow dirt. The mist seemed to thicken as she stumbled across the furrows but she didn't notice. Hope blazed like a beacon, blinding her to everything else.

Cold water sloshing against her legs finally brought awareness to her and she stopped, trying to get her bearings.

Just where am I? Looking around, she noticed for the first time how dark it had gotten ... except for a strange reddish glow that seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead.

Bertie froze. She recognized this place. "No! Not this," she said aloud, the sound of her voice muffled in the water-laden air. It was the pond where Jessie had drowned.

Why am I here? Where's Jessie? Oh please, don't make me go through this again! she silently prayed. When Jessie hadn't shown up for his chores, years before, she had gone looking for him. Exasperated by his tardiness, she was filled with angry thoughts of how to punish him when she last came to this pond. She had found his lifeless form in the water. She had never forgiven herself for those last thoughts.

Maybe this is forgiveness ... maybe this is a second chance to save him, flashed through her mind. "Jessie – I'm here, honey. Just call to me!"

From the center of pond, the water began to churn, as if something was rising to the surface. The red glow that had seemed like a guide before now began to spread, like a cold unearthly fire, setting everything ablaze as it moved outward.

Bertie was not a particularly religious person but she crossed herself with one shaky hand. Still, she didn't move. God in Heaven, protect me, she prayed. If there's even a small chance that Jessie is somehow here, I can't leave.

Something large and menacing was moving, coming up from the water. The water seemed to cleave forming an inky misshapen mass. The scarlet light began to fuse into streaks, giving the water the appearance of a dark, skinned animal, raw and pulsing. Red malevolent eyes seemed to open in the disfigured countenance. Bertie felt a terror she had never known before. She was barely aware as a warm liquid stream ran down her leg.

"Why are you here?" a voice like crushed glass grated in her ears.

Her voice almost failed her but she managed to whisper, "Jessie."

A deep rumbling laugh seemed to surround her, penetrating and leaving her feeling dirty and violated.

"And are you willing to pay the price?"

Bertie barely had the strength to nod. Suddenly, the vision of her son, that beautiful boy standing in the field earlier, flashed before her eyes. With a deep, shuddering breath, she found a well-spring of courage unknown to her before. I've no choice. The words of Mac and the creed that he had bequeathed her, came back.

She shouted, "I want Jessie back!"

"Then your soul will be the price!" The force of the words brought her to her knees.

Drawing a ragged breath, "Agreed," was all she said.

As though that single word contained some ancient power, the water came alive and Bertie felt a thousand filaments of white heat pierce her. Every nerve seemed to explode with pain as she gasped for air. It was as if each thread of fire was slowly ripping her apart, her skin blackening and splitting as her soul was torn from her cell by cell. Candent lines crisscrossed her body as layer by layer flesh was dissected and left to hang. Opening her mouth to scream, she felt a rush of small necrotic insects disgorge and spill over her chin as they rushed to add their torture to her agony.

Dear God, give me strength... was her last thought before she gave in and the torment consumed her.

In a place without time or location, the darkness was broken only by the occasional flicker of flame. Alastor's antic visage smiled. I'll keep my bargain ... you shall have your son - an empty shell devoid of all emotion. You'll never feel his love again! The Dark Master would be pleased with his cleverness and creativity.

"Alastor!" Startled, the demon's eyes moved to the back of what passed for its head at the sound of its name.

A brilliant light cast the smoldering chamber in stark relief and Alastor withdrew his eyes although it did little good. The light seemed to be every where, penetrating everything.

"Michael? Why are you here?" he rumbled.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" the archangel asked, smiling at his own little joke.

"Consummating a deal. It's my right."

"You're playing fast and loose with the rules, don't you think?" said Michael, finally coalescing into a form and lowering the light level significantly.

Alastor created eyes once more and looked. He knew of this minion of the Light by reputation and while he had little curiosity, he knew he would be questioned.

"You know you may take souls but only if you strike a bargain based on one of the seven provisions - Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. This was clearly a case of Love and that's out of your domain."

"I disagree. This was clearly based on Pride. She thought herself strong enough ..."

"Enough!" commanded Michael, stopping Alastor in mid protest. "Unless, of course, you wish to appeal?"

Alastor knew that having to go before both the Dark One and The Light was not in his best interest. Funny how similar they are ... neither has much tolerance for other,s mistakes. Defeated, he nodded assent.

"Return her and I will let you off with a warning ... this time," Michael said, fingering the hilt of his sword to emphasize his meaning.

The sound of coughing seemed distant until Bertie realized that the sound was coming from her. Opening her eyes, all she could see was dirt stretching down a long furrow. Where? ... The confused thought played in her mind for a moment until, inhaling, she pulled in another mouthful of dust.

Choking and coughing, she sat up as memory flooded back. Jessie. She had been thinking about him and ... What? I must have walked out into the fields this morning. Running her hand through her hair, she didn't feel any bumps although she was sore all over. I must have fainted, she thought.

She looked and saw that the sun was nearing its zenith. Pushing herself up, she got unsteadily to her feet. "Well, Mac - guess I better give old Doc Swan a call," she said aloud. "Don't know what's gotten into me."

Dusting off her hands, oblivious to the myriad of thin red lines slowly fading under her skin, Bertie set off for home. "Maybe today's the day I'll get that dog," she muttered ... and smiled.


Notes

Word Count: 1,500 .

An entry for "Invalid Item" 

Alastor, in Christian demonology, came to be considered a kind of possessing entity. He was likened to Nemesis. The name Alastor was also used as a generic term for a class of evil spirits.
Saint Michael is an archangel in Jewish, Christian and Islamic tradition. He is viewed as the field commander of the Army of God. The Talmudic tradition rendered Michael's name as meaning "One who is like God."

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