But, What of Their Souls?

But, What of Their Souls?

Jared Davenshire gnawed his bottom lip, his mind bludgeoned by nervous confliction. True to the fashion of plebian concepts, someone had only to think, proclaim, and eventually believe it: validity, by way of unanimous stupidity. Who was the man or woman that could possibly know the reality of such a dire situation, and still come to that conclusion? How dare anyone… anyone, never confronted by his present choice, if it was even that, make such a bold proclamation! And more pertinent to his current predicament, why, if such an outlandish idea, did it keep him from following through with the commitment he made days earlier? Suicides don’t go to Heaven... Well, how could Hell be any worse?

Jared, safe in knowing he couldn’t be seen by anyone below him, cried openly.

He almost tried to remember how he ended up precariously perched on the only roof high enough to guarantee certain death. The memory hurt, and he quickly abandoned the pursuit. Besides, it wasn’t like he could forget. He would never forget, not unless… No, not yet, soon…

And, as it often happened when he tried not to think of something, he found he could think of nothing else: the most horrible night of his life. He came home from a day of tedious work in the town’s court offices, anticipating the embrace of his wife. He found the bodies of his beloved Cassy, and their two beautiful sons, Isaac and Jameson. His wife had been raped and stabbed repeatedly. He couldn’t be certain which had actually killed her. His sons, he hoped, had been murdered before they could whiteness their mother’s ghastly fate.

He tried to swallow the emotions. He had a right to die. God made a mistake. His spent his entire life, or gave his best attempt, to be a good man. He thought he had been successful. At the least, he had been successful enough to deserve a life not poisoned with the horrific scene he walked into that night. If God intended to take his family, for whatever reason, surely He meant for Jared to be included in the slaughter. Something happened, the whole mess had been fumbled, and he still lived. Therefore, how could God be angry with him, for taking his own, already forfeited, life?

A few townspeople noticed the indiscernible figure, standing on the ledge of the only inn, and began to point. Whatever discussion they might be having could not be heard from so high up, and Jared tried to ignore them. He took too long. The deed was supposed to be done before sunrise, and here it was broad daylight. He should do it soon, before more spectators joined the group of still shadowy figures beneath him.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus. He wanted to jump. Oh God, did he ever want to jump. Alas, he was bound, by some immeasurable force, to that small area of ledge. Something existed between his desire for an ending and his ability to step off, knowing he would find nothing but empty air beneath him. What stopped him? Weakness? Cowardice? …Maybe, somewhere deep within, he still possessed the will to live, the hope to imagine an end to his pain that did not require the end to his life. Could it be so… How could a man, so miserable, still have hope?

More people gathered around the building. They couldn’t possibly tell who was standing on the ledge, and were apparently intrigued by the mystery. Jared just wished they never noticed him. He wanted time to understand this confliction he felt. If he really had some small amount of life left in him, what should he do? If he left the ledge, what would bring him satisfaction, vengeance? But how could he leave the ledge – all those people were waiting. He probably couldn’t wait them out, they were hungry for whatever was about to transpire. But he had yet to decided: jump, or live?



Thomas was in high spirits when he awoke in the pre-dawn hour. Thus far, his plan for this little forest town went smoothly. People began to respond positively to his sermons, and he became more influential with each passing day. He suspected that just a little more pushing in the right areas could place the entire town in the palm of his hand. Then, he could really begin God’s work.

He slipped out of his sleeping clothes and dressed in his normal attire. His soft white robes, clean leather boots, and a singular golden chain and crucifix worn around his neck, marked him as man of worth. He took his cane, polished black with a small ruby set in the top, from its nightly resting place beside his bed and walked to a nearby mirror to inspect his image. He looked like a man of reason, a man of intellect, a man of power.

His face was just beginning to show age, a few feint creases found a more permanent home on his brow. He thought he might have detected a few grey hairs here and there. Still, he supposed it didn’t really matter. He raised a hand to finger three small scars on his cheek. People usually ended up looking them and ignoring his other features. He sniffed harshly, not allowing himself to waist time on memories, and reached for the door.

No one was in the kitchen when he came down, so he grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and exited the building. He closed the door to the rather common looking house that he and his fellow missionaries had acquired, and turned to walk down an empty street. Thick fog clung to the morning air, and breath felt a little more solid than usual. Thomas’ morning walk would probably serve little purpose. He enjoyed simply observing the townspeople, trying to judge the state of local society, but he would have trouble seeing much with this fog. He supposed, however, that a shroud of this sort might make it possible to eavesdrop a little more boldly than usual.

He munched his apple as he considered the work lade out before him. Sometimes, God could be a difficult employer. Long ago, Thomas’ conviction in his duties quelled the moral apprehensions of his youth, yet he still wondered from time to time if he made any mistakes along his path. People had been hurt, but not without cause. Sacrifices must be made. He knew the world approached a kind of reckoning that could potentially cause more death and pain than he cared to think on. He was part of a few, trying to save many. So what, if a few lay people had to die, the chaff always had to be cleansed before reparations could be made. But, what of their souls? How many had been sent to an eternity of damnation? Could he have done more to save them? Did they really deserve to be saved?