Children of the Source by Geoffrey Condit Read Free Book Online Page B

needing it,” I said.   He walked me to his office door.
        “Will, O’Banion made me promise to take care of his daughter.   May we take her with us?” 
        “Please do.”
        “Tonight you’ll dream of one you think you’ve lost.  Believe that dream.”   He made no comment, but offered his hand.  I took it and we parted.
        Troop train.   We could feel the excitement.  New people.  Badly needed supplies.  And news, the biggest thing of all.  It was something everyone hungered for.  What was going on in the world?  Few knew.  The Central Government Radio broadcast the news, but the contents proved superficial, censored at best.  Word-of-mouth was used most, but we had better ways, and sources in our community.  Local people knew this and constantly  questioned us when we came to the fort.  For instance we knew of the troop train three weeks before its arrival.  Of course we’re talking probabilities.  Some things are more likely to happen than others.  This was one of them.
        I went outside.   Mike, Grant, and Laith stood talking by our mounts.  O’Banion’s body, in a body bag, lay across one of our pack mules.  The hangman and Laith were good friends.  Meg stood in the protective arms of Laith, quiet, listening.  Laith created an atmosphere around him that held whatever purpose he directed.  Now, a quiet, almost anesthetic one surrounded him giving an air of comfort and security.
         I greeted them and watched people still studying the blood and tear stains.   They showed glistening wet in the sun.  The broken glass had disappeared.  The people turned to look at me apprehensively, but one man called me out, and coming toward me.
        “Jamie, Son of Endor, Lucifer’s spawn, how did you work this deception of your father’s?”   The voice struck, loud, accusing, virulent, planned.  Nick Ryan, a local hanger-on, saw himself as Benson’s heir apparent.   Intense, thin, with an unruly shock of black hair, he had that irritating missionary attitude toward life, and coveted the leadership of Benson’s group.
        “Hello, Nick.   You’re being very dramatic today.” 
        Nick showed a tendency toward violence.  Laith had poked him in the nose a couple of times.
        “You mock God with your tricks,” He said in a voice for everyone to hear.
        “How?”   I was curious.
       He sputtered.   “God would not do this.” 
       “How do you know what God thinks?”
       He turned white.  “You ...  .”
       “I think the Creative Force can speak for Itself.”
       “But this,” he blurted, shaking, and pointing to the stains.
       “It was to show you that blood begets blood.    That you may rob a person of his physical body, but he will still live.  The stains will stay as a reminder of these things,”  I said.  I had the full attention of all the people.  “I do not presume to speak for God; to be a surrogate for whatever you may call or consider the Creator or Creative Force.  The Creator can speak for Itself.  It does.  In the breeze.”  I raised my hands, a breeze sprang up, heads turned.  “In the trees, flowers, and all of the Earth.  The seasons and rhythms you see and feel about and within you.  You go out in a quiet place alone, and speak your heart to the Creator.  When you are done you feel better, and wonder when and how the answers will come.  Then coincidences begin turning up presenting opportunities to solve those challenges, problems, and you realize your hopes and dreams.  These experiences are the words of the Creator working and weaving within your lives.”  I looked at the people and they were silent.  Even Nick.
         “You are never alone for the Creator you pray to lives within each of you.   When you feel comforted, it is the response of this Creator.  An acknowledgement you may not know how to define.  But the comfort is real, and so is the feeling