They come to me for wisdom. For confession. Sometimes for absolution. And I give them what they need, as best I can.And to whom does an ex-preacher turn? God? He supposed under normal circumstances, that might be the case. He and God had their differences, but he had never before failed to derive solace in that fashion.
But the fierce, burning anger that twisted his guts and was slowly poisoning his soul, also rendered him incapable of accepting comfort from that particular source.
He had long ago realized how unworthy he was. The things he had done in his life had only reinforced this conviction. The things he had seen in his life had led him to question his faith in God's worthiness. He had spent the better part of the past several years in penance for these sins.
He had been slowly, but steadily, working his way back to a semblance of faith and peace. When he had lived, instead of died, in that Indian village, despite his ominous visions to the contrary, he had found a new hope. And then, when he had found himself, no longer alone, but united with six other lost souls, he had thought perhaps all had been forgiven. But now he knew that was not so. He could not forgive God for allowing this shameful desire to spread through his soul.
He put down the hammer he had been using to nail shingles on the church roof and wiped his brow. He looked at his hand, clutching the sweat soaked kerchief, and felt a wave of disgust. Big, awkward, work-roughened and calloused. They weren't fit to touch the creamy, young skin that invaded his every thought. He felt sometimes, that if it had been any of the other men, he might not feel so obscene. The familiar sense of shame began rising in him, burning color into his craggy features. If his friends knew what these hands yearned to do. Who they longed to touch. They would surely turn from him in disgust. Or worse, look at him in pity.
He didn't remember exactly when he'd begun to have these shameful longings. At first, it had just been a matter of an innocent, young smile and youthful high spirits bringing joy to an old, weary soul. Then the casual, everyday contact of skin had started leaving pleasurable. tingling sensations in their wake. Then came the dreams. Passionate, vivid, erotic. They mortified him to his very soul.
He'd begged God to rid him of these dreams. To at least let him have that much peace. But God had chosen not to answer his prayers. And he was very much afraid he knew why. There was a secret part of him, a part he could hardly even admit existed, that was reluctant to give up these dreamtime encounters. He was angry at both himself and God and this left him with no recourse, no outlet for his emotions. He had tried to imagine talking to his friends, but feared that even the understanding, tolerant tracker would have trouble accepting this.
He could feel his control slipping. Eroding away on a daily basis, as he wrestled with his feelings of guilt, desire and anger. He lived in daily fear that he would lose control one day, in a bottle of whisky perhaps, and reveal himself. To shatter that touching naivete. To see the revulsion in those dark eyes. Josiah didn't think he could bear that. But he couldn't quite bring himself to go back to the lonely existence he'd had before his path had crossed with that of six others'. And he was reluctant to add to his sins by being the one to break up the seven. He was certain, despite his anger at God, that they had been called together for a purpose. He sighed and picked his hammer back up. The troubles of today are sufficient. Maybe tomorrow would bring him peace.
"Hey, Josiah! Need a hand?" Josiah looked down into a pair of long lashed, velvety eyes. The same eyes that haunted his dreams. They were shining up at him with friendly eagerness.
"Sure, JD. he replied. Could always use a pair of hands."
May God have mercy on his soul.
THE END