Michael Flynn - The Promise Of God

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MICHAEL F. FLYNN

THE PROMISE OF GOD

You shall have joy, or you shall have power, said God; youshah not have both.

It began to grow cold in the cabin after the sun went down, and Nealy thought

about building a fire. It would be a fine fire, roaring and crackling and

toasting warm. It would light the room with a delicious dancing light, and he

and Greta could beek on the outer hearth. He loved the way that firelight played

off Greta's features, making them red and soft and shiny; and he loved the way

the smoky smells of the burning wood blended with the earthy smells of Greta

herself. Yes, a fire was surely what was needed.

The wood was stacked against the back wall. He had chopped it himself, as Greta

had asked. Use the axe, she had told him before leaving to trek down the

mountainside to the village. Don't do it the Other Way.

Nealy snuggled deeper into the chair and looked over his shoulder at the cabin's

door. He couldn't see what difference it made. He flexed his hands, sore and

stiff from the chopping, and rubbed the hard palms together. Hard work.

Blister-raising work. It was easier the Other Way. Your muscles didn't ache;

your back was not sore. The faggots could march themselves into the hearth and

leap upon each other; then he could summon a salamander to ignite them. It would

be easy, and it would be fun to watch.

Nealy gazed on the wood. His fingers plucked aimlessly at the arm of the chair.

It was growing chilly in the room. He thought about building a fire.

When Nealy was seven, a wolf broke into the sheep pen. He heard the bleating all

the way from the chicken coop and he ran as fast as he could down to the meadow

gate, slipping in the mud where the run.off from the old well-pump trickled

toward the creek. As Nealy raised himself from the muck, he spied the wolf among

the flock as though through parted clouds. Sheep were milling and baa-ing,

knowing there was a danger amongst them, but at a loss for what to do. The wolf

raised its head from the carcass of a young ewe and bared bloody teeth. Far off,

in the autumn field on the far side of the pen, Papa had dropped the reins of

the plow horse and was hopping across the furrows with his musket in hand. Too

late, though; too late for Fat Emma.

Nealy staggered to his feet and the wolf backed away, not ready to attack a

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human being, but neither ready to retreat, either. When it turned, Nealy could

see the badly healed scar along its flank, the stiffness with which one hind leg

moved; explanation, at least, for why it had chosen the sheep pens. Nealy

pointed a finger at the beast.

"You killed Fat Emma, you!" he shrieked, as only young boys can shriek over a

favorite animal lost; and never mind that Emma would betimes have graced his own

table. A t seven, the future is a hazy thing. He made a gesture with his hands.

Anger and instinct moved his arms; and he felt something -- he felt some thing

-- course through him like water through a pipe, as if the pulse in his veins

gushed forth in a great spray.

And the wolf howled and twisted, leaped upon itself and lay still.

Nealy's breaths came in short gusts. His brow and face were hot and flushed and

his chest heaved. His head ached and he felt very, very tired. The sheep milled

about in the pen, bleating and bleating and bleating and bleating. Stupid

beasts, Nealy thought. Lackwits. Sheep deserved what happened to them. He made

another gesture and the fleece upon Gray Harry began to blacken and smolder.

Harry shook himself. Smoke rolled off him, then flames. Harry ran, still unsure

where the danger lay, knowing only to run and escape.

With a cry, Nealy dropped to his knees in the mud and covered his face with his

hands. His head throbbed. What had he done? What had he done? He felt his

father's arms gather him in, banding him tight against his sweet-smelling linen

shirt. Between sobs, Nealy told him what had happened; and his father kept

saying, "I know, Nealy. I saw."

After a while, his father stood him upright and brushed him off and straightened

his clothes. "There, "he said with a catch in his voice. "You look more

presentable now. The wolfskin is yours, you know. It will make a fine cloak. You

can wear it to school and the other kids will be jealous."

"Buh-- Buh-- But, Gray Harry-- "Nealy's words bobbed in his throat.

His father looked past him, at the dead animals in the pen. He could feel Papa's

head shaking as he buried his face in his father's chest. "You shan't have that

fleece, Nealy," he heard him say. "No, you shan't have that one."

The rapping at the door was repeated three times. Nealy twisted in his seat and

stared at it, wondering who it was. Not Greta, for she would not have knocked. A

neighbor? Someone from the village? The knocking boomed: a fist against the

thick, wooden slats. Finally, a kick and a muffled voice. "I know you be within,

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Michael Flynn - The Promise Of God

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