ALWAYS

Legion snorted, jerking his head to the side. Maximus had been on one of his inspection rides around his property, had taken his time crossing this particular field so he could think about what he might want to plant there come next spring. "Ho!" he said, stoking the white horse's neck. "What has you upset, boy?"

Alert lest it was a snake, his eyes combed through the tall grasses. His breath sucked in when just where the land flattened near the treeline, he saw a man lying face down. Dismounting, he walked toward the form, his head cocked, his muscles tensely ready. The man lay sprawled and motionless, so Maximus squatted beside him, placing a hand on his neck to feel for life. His touch was greeted by a muffled moan, so he gently turned the man.

Looking up through half-lidded, glazed eyes, the man mumbled, "Wa...water."

Maximus quickly fetched a canteen from Legion, kneeling and holding it to the cracked lips. "Slow," he said, "take it nice and slow," as the man gulped at the liquid.

He'd slid one arm under the man's shoulders, lifting him enough so he wouldn't choke as he drank. "How did you get here? Did your horse throw you?"

The man looked at him blankly. "H...horse?"

"Yes. Were you riding?"

The man seemed to think about that. Riding a horse. That seemed vaguely familiar, but he knew he'd been afoot all day. "N...no. No...horse."

"Are you injured? Can you stand?"

The man thought about that, too, not exactly sure if he were injured or if he could stand. "D..don't know," he managed.

"Shall we try?" Maximus offered, mostly lifting the man to his feet. The man swayed dangerously.

"T...tired," he whispered. "So...tired."

"Here, let me help you. We can both ride my horse."  With some difficulty, Maximus got the man mounted in front of himself and, holding one arm firmly around his waist to keep him from falling, rode toward his house. The man's chin sagged down to his chest, his hair falling forward, and the two men rode in silence. Maximus was not even sure if the man were conscious.

At the gate closest to his house, Maximus found two of his ranch hands repairing a rail. "What'cha got there, Boss," Paul asked, hooking the claw of his hammer over a board.

"I found him in the fallow field, near the stream. Help me get him off Legion then we can carry him into the house."

Mac took Legion to the barn to turn him over into East's care while Maximus and Paul carried the stranger through the gate and down the path to the main house. Joimus, in her garden, saw them coming and hurried over, thinking one of their hands had been injured. "Who is it?" she called.

"I do not know," Maximus replied, pausing at her approach. "He was in one of the fields. I want to get him inside the house."

"I'll get the door," she said, running ahead to open it for them.

The two men carried the stranger to a small sitting room off the main living area, laying him on a long couch. His eyes were slightly open, but he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Joimus went to the kitchen to get a basin of cool water and some cloths. Kneeling beside the couch, she began to wipe the man's face and neck. His eyes opened more, green eyes, very like Maximus'. "Thirs...thirsty," he mumbled, his voice cracking from
the dryness.

"I'll fetch him some, Mum," Paul said, heading for the kitchen.

Maximus slid a pillow behind him, propping him enough to drink. The man held the glass between two shaking hands, gulping at it, water dribbling down his chin. "Here, let me help," Joimus said gently, putting her hands over his to steady them.

The man lay back, his head against the arm of the couch, and she wiped his face some more. "Feels good," he murmured.

Joimus tipped her face, looking up at Maximus. "Is he injured. Do you know?"

"He does not appear to be injured, no. I think he is mostly tired and in need of water." Again he tried, "How did you get to that field?"

"Always," the man replied, closing his eyes. "Was always in field...always."

"What in heaven's name does he mean?" Joimus asked.

"What is he wearing?" Maximus asked Joimus, having no answer to his wife's query.

Her eyes took in the worn brown frock coat, the tattered pants, terribly scuffed shoes, coming to rest on the dirty white collar around his neck. "I think I should call Alistair," she said quietly.
 

WHO...?

Totally puzzled as to what he might find, Alistair entered Maximus' home. "He is in here, on the couch," Maximus said, leading Alistair toward the small room.

Alistair saw a man fully reclined, his head resting against the padded arm of the couch, his eyes closed. He took in the man's attire, especially the dirty white collar. "My goodness!" he murmured, turning to look at Maximus. "And you found him lying in one of your fields? Did he say how he got there, how long he'd been there?"

"Always," Maximus replied. "He said he had always been in the field."

"How strange."  Alistair knelt beside the man, who seemed profoundly asleep. "This is definitely the attire of some sort of clergy," he nodded. "I don't know that I've ever seen quite the like of it, though, unless in some book."

"What do you mean, Alistair?" Joimus asked.

"No one, not in any denomination I know, wears this kind of clothing any more."

Joimus lifted the man's left hand, which hung partially off the couch. "And this...what do you make of this?"

"I can answer that," Maximus spoke up. "He has been in irons."

"Manacles?" Alistair's eyebrows shot up. "He's been...chained?"

"I believe so," Maximus nodded. "I know of such things."

Alistair did not ask the General how. His attention turned back to the man, whose frock coat was unbuttoned. Beneath it he wore a matching vest and a dirty white shirt. Alistair rested his hand on the frock coat, feeling something hard just over the man's left chest. There had to be a pocket there with something inside. He looked back up at Maximus. "Would it be all right?" he asked, indicating the pocket.

"In these circumstances, I should think so."

Alistair pulled out a very worn, very small New Testament, his lips curving into a smile when he saw what it was. He opened the cover and there on the title page was written "To Reverend Cortland Wells from Pedro. Thank you for all you have done for me and my three sisters."

Alistair read the inscription aloud, then let his gaze rest on the man's quiet face. He shook his head wonderingly. What had this man been through that he would end up here and in such a condition? There were, in addition to the wide, raw marks of the manacles, a number of scrapes and bruises on the man as though he had been hit, had been dragged.

Just then the sleeping man turned his head and moaned, mumbling something. "No," he said, his voice unutterably weary, "no, not the mission. Please, not the mission. Don't...don't burn it...please...don't."

Alistair's lips clamped together as he listened to the quiet litany. Over and over came the entreaties not to burn the mission, to leave some place for the children  Then suddenly the man's eyes flew open and he sat up, his lips parted in a last entreaty.

Shocked at the sight of the faces around him, he hissed in a sharp breath. "What? Who?" He let his shoulders settle back on the pillow, putting a forearm over his eyes.

"The mission?" Alistair said gently. "What happened to the mission?"

The man lowered his arm, inch by inch. "Mission?"

"You were asking that the mission not be burned. Was it your mission?"

The man shook his head. "I...I...what mission?"

"That is what we should like to discover," Maximus said. "Are you clergy?"

The man blinked his eyes several times, looking up at Maximus. "I...I've seen you...before."

"In my field. It was I who found you in the grass."

"Grass? Yes, grass." He remembered grass. "Your grass?"

"My grass," Maximus affirmed. "How did you get there? Where is this mission?"

The muscles in the man's jaw line twitched. "Just grass," he whispered.

"What do you mean 'just grass'?" Alistair asked.

"All there is," the man sighed. "All there ever was. Grass."

Joimus touched his arm lightly. "Your name? Who are you? Are you Cortland Wells, Reverend Cortland Wells?"

He looked at her blankly. "I...I...don't know."

NOT AS OLD AS SOME THINGS

Maximus and Joimus went into their living room to speak privately. "We can't just turn him out with no place to go," she stated.

"I agree," Maximus nodded. The man, whoever he was, had been on his property, seemed to think he had always been on his property, and it was Maximus himself who had found him and brought him to his house. That was enough for him to feel that watchful concern that came so naturally to him. Besides, the man had been in chains, had lost everything that anchored him in life. Maximus could relate to that.

"The guest room. I think we should let him stay there for the time being. He looks like he needs some care."

"I thought you'd say that," she smiled, standing on tiptoe, lightly kissing his lips.

When they told Alistair, he offered to drive back to the mill and bring some pajamas and clothes for the man, who was much slimmer than the General. Their "guest" had fallen back asleep and they let him lie there on the couch until Alistair returned half an hour later. He was still quite groggy as Maximus and Alistair got him up the stairs. Joimus closed the door so the two men could get the strange arrival in pajamas. He didn't seem entirely aware of what they were doing and was soon sound asleep and tucked under the covers.

"I expect rest is the best thing for him right now," Alistair commented. "Looks like the reverend has been through quite an ordeal. That may explain his loss of memory."

Joimus was already on her computer doing a search for a Reverend Cortland Wells. She found nothing. "He didn't sound Aussie to me...from the little he said," she offered.

"Not to me, either," Alistair, in his English accent, agreed.

Joimus was the only American in the room at the moment. "I think I detected a soft hint of Southern in his voice. He's got to be from the United States, but I searched for him in the records there, too, and he simply doesn't exist."

"Perhaps he himself is not Wells," Maximus ventured.

"I somehow feel like he is," Alistair replied. "I just...do."

"A man out of his time," Maximus breathed.

"Why would you say that?" Alistair asked, looking curiously at the General.

"His clothing, something about him." Maximus looked at his wife, thinking of the rust-colored cape in the cedar-lined wardrobe in their bedroom. She smiled lovingly back at him.

"His clothing surely does add to the puzzles around him," Alistair nodded. His eye found the small New Testament he'd lain on an end table by the couch and he picked it up, looking for a copyright date. "1881," he read. "It's quite old."

"Not as old as some things," Maximus replied, his voice very low.

"Could he be some sort of...re-enactor, do you think?" Alistair asked, his brow wrinkling.

"I doubt that."  Maximus turned, looking up the staircase, the protectiveness in him growing by the moment.
 

A PLACE FOR YOU TO REST

While Alistair and Maximus talked downstairs, Joimus slipped back up to the guest room. He was still asleep and
she simply could not continue calling him 'the man' or 'the stranger' when she believed he was, indeed, Reverend
Cortland Wells. She had also seen the look on Maximus' face and knew what he was thinking. Alistair, of course,
had no experience with such matters, not like Maximus did. But with Reverend Wells, something...different...had
obviously happened, something very traumatic.

Quietly she pulled a small chair close to the bed and sat, watching him sleep. Despite his bruises and abrasions,
he was almost beautiful in a very masculine way. Except for the hair, he made her think of how Maximus might
have looked when he was younger and that, in addition to his plight, engaged her heart in his well-being.

His left hand lay across his chest and she studied the rawness of his knuckles. Had he gotten that fighting to
protect his mission, or was it from being thrown around and dragged? His clothes lay folded on a bench near
the window. She wasn't sure what to do with them. They needed cleaning, of course, but they were not something
one could just toss in a washer. And would he want them cleaned? She decided to wait on that.

His head turned on the pillow and he began to talk softly in his sleep again, reliving the burning of the mission.
Who would do such a thing, and in a place where there were obviously children? Could Rev. Wells possibly
have been a missionary to some poverty-stricken country? That was possible, surely it was, but somehow not
likely. She made sure he had a glass of water on his bedside table, then went back downstairs.

"Still sleeping?" Maximus asked.

"Yes...and dreaming again. He seems to remember things in his sleep that he doesn't when he's awake."

"He may not wish to remember them when he's awake," Alistair said.

"I can understand why," Joimus nodded. "He spoke again of the mission burning...of the children. I think he may
have been in charge of an orphanage. Some things he said rather indicated that."

"Since his mind remembers when asleep, it's very possible his waking memory will return. The memories are not gone altogether," Alistair commented. "Though he may wish them to be."

He looked at Maximus. "That still doesn't explain how he got to your field. In his condition, he probably couldn't have come from very far."

Maximus turned his gaze to Joimus, not Alistair, as he replied, "I think he has come from very far."

He awoke in the bedroom and realized he was alone. Letting his eyes travel slowly over the room, he knew he'd never seen it before, had no idea how he'd gotten there, had ended up in somebody's bed. His hand touched the pajama top. Or in somebody else's clothes. His heart was beating faster the more he became aware of all he didn't have any explanation for. Grass. What he knew was grass, tall and filled with white puffy weeds. Then...something else. A man. He didn't know the man. A house. He was in a house, but whose...and where?

The glass of water on the bedside table attracted his attention. He reached for it but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor where it broke with a loud shatter of glass. Within seconds the door opened and three people hurried in. "The...the glass," he said, looking over the edge of the bed.

"It's all right," the woman said. "I'll get you another and clean this one up."  She left the room and he let his eyes travel from one man to the other.

"Your...your field?" he asked.

The man nodded. "Yes, my field."

"Who...?"

"Maximus Meridius," the man answered in a cultured English accent.

The man with him smiled. "Alistair Harris, Reverend Alistair Harris." He added the latter in hopes it might mean something.

The reverend had a cultured English accent, too. He felt even more confused. "Eng...England? Here?"

Alistair smiled. "Sounds like it, doesn't it, but, no, this is New South Wales."

"New...? Where?"

"Australia," Maximus supplied.

He felt like he was going to pass out. No, that didn't sound right at all. Not at all! He wasn't sure why it wasn't right, it simply wasn't. "N...no," he half-moaned, clamping his hands over his face.

Joimus came in just then. "What happened?" she asked worriedly.

"Australia," Alistair said softly. "He asked where he was."

"Go easy," Joimus said, setting the water glass on the table. "We have no idea what he can or can't handle." With a dustpan and a small brush, she swept up the glass shards on the hardwood floor then wiped the area with a towel. Picking the glass up again, she sat on the edge of the bed. "Here, let me help." 

With her assistance he drank about half the glass, then she pulled it away. "More later, all right?"

He nodded, looking at her gratefully. "You...?"

"Joimus." She tipped her head toward Maximus. "He is my husband. You're in our house."  When his brow knit a bit, she added, "And you're most welcome. Please know that. You're safe here. It's a place for you to rest."

"Rest," he repeated, his lids heavy.

"Yes," she said. "Rest now. Rest."

ONE COW COMING UP

NO OTHER EXPLANATION

The jeans fit him very well as did the shirt. Looking in a mirror, he combed his fingers through his hair. Didn't help all that much, but was the best he could do. As soon as he opened his door, the smell of cooking food hit him and he almost staggered under the sudden power of his hunger. He had no memory of when his last meal might have been, but whatever it was, whenever, he doubted it had smelled as marvelous as this.

Hurrying down the stairs, he found the only three people he knew in the world in an enormous kitchen. The one known as Maximus was choosing a bottle of wine from an ornately-wrought rack and the other, what was his name? Oh, yes, Reverend Harris, was just finishing setting the table. The woman, Joimus, was by a large device that he figured must have something to do with cooking and which was the main source of the delightful scents.

"Afternoon," he said, dipping his head slightly.

"Ah, Cort, come on in," Joimus greeted as though she were entirely accustomed to his arrival at dinnertime. "Have a seat there at the table."

He pulled a chair out on one side and sat, feeling rather awkward. "Smells fine."

"Beef," Joimus smiled. "Genuine cow."

Maximus chuckled and began to open a bottle of red wine. "Do you like wine, Cort?" he asked.

"I don't know. I'll sure give it a try, though."

The large stove had a built-in grill in its center, and Joimus had three large and one small steak on it. Potatoes were baking in the microwave and a large salad already sat on the oak table. Giant, flaky biscuits were rising, golden and hot in the oven. His mouth was watering and he could hardly bear the few minutes longer it took to prepare the meal. When it was all on the table, his steak already on his plate, he bowed his head.

Alistair smiled. The man was used to grace. Quietly, Alistair said a short one, then quickly opened his eyes just in time to see Cort cross himself. Ah, some things were so ingrained that even trauma did not erase them. Cort seemed entirely unaware of what he had done and eagerly cut off a large bite of his steak.

Joimus filled his salad bowl for him, moving a selection of dressings closer. There was butter and honey for the biscuits, butter and sour cream for the baked potatoes. Cort ate intently, not interested in polite conversation. His belly felt almost concave and he set about filling it with pleasurable determination. He worked at it for some minutes then seem to realize he might be being impolite.

"Sorry," he said. "Guess I'm not all that much at being a dinner companion right yet."

"No matter," Maximus smiled. "You need nourishment more than talk."

Swallowing a large bite of biscuit, Cort nodded toward Joimus. "Mighty fine cooking, Ma'am. Mighty fine."

"Thank you, Cort. Would you like another biscuit?" She held the basket out toward him.

"Don't mind if I do," he grinned, taking two.

"There's pie," she said. "I made a peach pie this morning."

He closed his eyes. This was too much. He was adrift, lost, and these folks were being so kind. He pressed his lips together a moment then murmured, "Thank you. Can't tell you folks how obliged I am for what you're doing for me."

"We just want to help, Cort, in any way we can," Joimus said softly. "This has to be unimaginably difficult for you."

"You can stay here," Maximus added. "We have plenty of room and it would be our good pleasure to have you accept the hospitality of our home."

"I...I don't know what to say."

"Just say you'll stay, Cort," Joimus smiled.

"Doesn't seem like I have much of any place else to go right now," he replied. "This...this is everything."

"We shall work on finding more for you, Cort," Maximus stated. "When it is time. There is no hurry. You just stay and we shall see what fate brings."

Cort blinked, sudden tears stinging his eyes. "I...."  But his throat closed up and he couldn't speak.

Joimus, at the end of the table to his right, put her hand over his. "You're among friends, Cort. That will do for now, all right? "

"Thank you, Ma'am," he managed.

"Joimus," she smiled. "Please."

"All right, Ma'am. Joimus."  Somehow it didn't seem right, calling a married lady by her first name. He didn't know the why of it, but it just didn't seem right. He'd have to work at remembering to do that.

After dinner they took pie and coffee, tea for Alistair, out to the patio. The evening air was cooling nicely, a full moon just beginning to rise. The scents of dinner were replaced by those coming from the surrounding gardens. Cort, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, inhaled deeply. He'd never smelled so many flowers all at once. That was something else he knew, though he didn't know the how of it. He had died and this was paradise. There was no other explanation.

THOUGH NOT FROM ASSISI

"I wish they had more than one night," Joimus sighed as Maximus drove them home from Alistair and Ahnna's wedding in Coffs Harbor that afternoon.

"I cannot be helped," Maximus replied, his lips a bit tight. "Marce's funeral is tomorrow."

"I know...still I wish." She looked out the window at the passing trees for a while. "In the morning I want to make up an arrangement for the top of Marce's coffin. I want there to be a...a...padding of flowers
on it before Ahnna has to see it."

Maximus smiled to himself. Sometimes his wife used flowers very much as he had used his sword, as a weapon against the vagaries that life brought one's way. "What about the Greenery?" he asked. "Now that Ahnna does not wish to work there so soon after the attack. You cannot run it all alone, not even you."

"Ahnna mentioned a young woman who has the flat across the hall from her, well, from where she used to live. She thinks she might be interested. I suppose I'll give her a call this afternoon. If that doesn't work out, I'll try an ad in the paper."

"What do you know about this person?"

"Not all that much. Ahnna likes her, which is a recommendation in itself."

"And her name...?"

"Claire. Claire Francis." Joimus grinned broadly. "Though not from Assisi."

A MOVABLE TREE 


Claire opened the door to the Greenhouse, sending the delightful sound of a windchime singing through the interior space. Joimus came out of her office, smiling at the new arrival. "I rigged that up," she explained, "since I'm here alone right now. You must be Claire." The young woman matched Ahnna's description quite well.

"Yes, I've come about the job you mentioned."

"Come," Joimus said, "let me show you around, see what you think of the place."

It was bigger than Claire had expected and with a much more diverse array of plants. As the two women walked, Joimus asked Claire questions and she explained about her grandmother and how she was currently working at a small florist shop. Joimus took an instant liking to the young woman and guided her back out front and around to an outdoor section where there were young trees and larger shrubs for sale.

Claire could see the top of a tree bobbing along several rows over. Joimus caught where she was gazing and laughed, "Oh, that will be Cort. He's helping me with some heavy lifting today. Come on and I'll introduce you."

Cort's sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows and he had on jeans, boots, and a pair of thick leather gloves. The root ball of the tree he was moving was heavier than he thought and he paused, bending his knees a moment to let the burlap rest atop his thighs so he could shift his grip. It was thusly that Claire first saw him.

"Cort!" Joimus called, and he jerked his head around, trying to locate where her voice was coming from. She stepped out from behind a row of birch trees, followed closely by a young woman. As the woman moved out from the shade of the trees, sudden sunshine caught her hair, making it glow with brilliant light. His breath hissed in, his grip slipped, and the burlapped root ball slid down his legs, leaving him standing there, his face buried in young eucalyptus leaves.

Slightly mortified, he closed his eyes, then pushed aside some of the branches and peered out. She was smiling at him, not really laughing, but with a definite merry twinkle in her eyes. The heavy root ball was perched on the front of his boots and he pulled them out, one by one, taking a step back, still behind the tree.
 

Joimus put a hand quickly to her mouth to cover a chuckle. "Um, Cort," she said, clearing her throat, "I'd like you to meet Claire Francis. Claire is thinking about coming to work at the Greenery."

Cort stayed behind the tree a moment more, rubbing his gloved hand across his chin, forgetting about the dirt on the gloves and quite successfully transferring a fair amount of it onto his lower face. He sighed, unaware of what he'd just done, blew out a long
breath and stepped out into the hard-packed dirt aisle. "Mornin', Joimus." He dipped his head a bit. "Mornin', Miss."

Again both women tried to cover their amusement. He was simply, utterly adorable as he stood there, looking so discomfited. And then, to make matters worse, the root ball rocked and tipped, sending the seven-foot tree into his left side. Grabbing for it, he tripped, his boot getting entangled in a flapping bit of loose binding twine, and he and the tree fell together backwards on the path. He lay there, unmoving, waiting for the earth to open and swallow him, but the women thought that meant he'd been hurt and they both ran forward. Joimus gripped the trunk of the tree, pulling it off him and propping it against some others to one side, while Claire knelt in the dirt beside Cort.

"Are you all right?" He had his eyes closed and she put a hand lightly on his right shoulder.

He sighed again, briefly squeezing his eyes even more tightly shut before opening them. She was leaning over him, the sun directly behind her head creating a halo effect. He blinked, something new and almost sharp, piercing through his body. Claire saw the quick expression pass over his face. "You ARE hurt!" she exclaimed.

"No," he said quickly, his voice cracking a bit, "no, miss, I'm...fine." He sat up and she leaned back. Taking off his gloves, he slapped them against the tight denim over his thigh.

Joimus looked down at him. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Very sure," he said, giving his head a toss to flip his hair out of his face. With what was actually a very graceful motion, he got to his feet, then extended a hand to help Claire up. Pressing his lips tightly together, then licking the bottom one, he gathered what was left of his dignity. "Glad to meet you, Miss," he said. "Sorry about the tree."

Claire thought it the most remarkable first meeting she'd ever had with anyone. "Claire," she repeated, smiling again.

"Claire," he said, his deep voice doing marvelous things to the single syllable.

"Cort lives in the house with us," Joimus explained. "For the time being," she added. "He's been helping me with the Greenery lately and also works with my husband's horses and cattle."

Cort's green eyes flicked over to Joimus then back to Claire. "You're thinkin' of workin' here, too?"

"I am working here," Claire nodded. "That is, Mrs. Meridius, if you're agreeable."

"Quite agreeable," Joimus smiled. "I can really use your help."

"I...I can start Monday, if that's all right."

"Monday's fine. Would you like to look around some more, get acquainted with the place?" A car pulling into the parking lot caught her attention. "Cort, will you show Claire around? I see I've got customers."  Without waiting for an answer, she hurried down the path back toward the greenhouse.

NOT AT ALL AUSTRALIAN

"Have you been here long?" Claire asked Cort. They'd paused by a split rail fence and were leaning their arms on it, looking out across the fields.

"As long as I can remember," he replied, tipping his chin up a bit as he said the words.

"That long? I was given to understand the Meridiuses were fairly new to the valley. Were you born here then?"

"They are fairly new," he said. "I don't know about the rest?"

"You don't...? What do you mean?"

He turned to face her. "I don't know. Plain and simple as that. I don't know."

"You don't know if you were born here? Is that what you're saying?"

His eyes shifted toward the side. "I find this mighty awkward, Miss Claire."

"Please don't," she hurried to say. "I didn't mean to pry into your affairs, truly I didn't."

"I don't take it as pryin', Miss Claire. 'Specially not from you."

"Is...is there some problem, then?"

"With me, Miss Claire. Only with me."

No one had ever called her Miss Claire before and the way he went about it in that quiet, respectful way of his, touched something in her. "I'm sorry, Cort. It's not my business."

He looked back at her with open, frank eyes. "I wish it was."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess I mean I wish I knew whose business it was."

"I don't understand."

"Makes two of us," he said, smiling wryly.

"Please, Cort...."

"I'm sorry. I'm not used to it is all. Or maybe I am. That's somethin' else I don't know."

"What do you know, Cort?"

"I know this place is in Australia and that it's owned by good, decent folks. That's it."

"That's all you know?"

"Pretty much the sum of the thing, yes."

"But...."

"Sorry, Miss Claire. I know you just met me and I shouldn't be goin' on about this. Not right. Just not right and you have my apologies."

"Cort, I have no idea what you're apologizing for. I certainly don't feel like you owe me one. Not at all. You live here and this is my very first visit. You haven't done a thing except take time out from your work to show me around. I just wish...."

"What, Miss Claire?"

She smiled. "I wish I knew what you were talking about."

"Doesn't really make all that much never mind," he shrugged. "I'm here. Not much more to the thing than that."

"Do you like it here?" She found she didn't want to end their conversation, didn't want to go back to her car and leave, so she asked the first thing that popped into her mind.

"I like it fine, especially the horses. I think I must know a thing or two about horses."

"You think...? Cort, don't you know?"

"No, Miss Claire, I don't actually know. Just seems to come kind of natural, what they like, how to handle them. And East, he's the guy lives in the barn, tends to the groomin' and the shoein', he fills me in on what the General likes done with his horses."

"The General?"

"Yes, Mr. Meridius. He's a general...or was. Guess he still is pretty much. Guess once you are, you always are. Cavalry, over in Europe. Couldn't ask for a finer man to take you under his wing."

East came out of the barn and signaled when he saw Cort. "Well, Miss Claire, nice to meet you but it looks like I've got to be goin' now. I sincerely hope to see you again." He gave her a shy smile and loped off down the lane.

"Cort." She repeated his name softly as he neared the barn. "An unusual name for an unusual man."  Definitely not like the local boys she'd known in the area. And his accent was not at all Australian.

Joimus' customers were just loading the last of five small shrubs in the trunk of their car when Claire arrived back at the front of the greenhouse. "Cort give you a better idea of the outside portions of the nursery?" she asked.

"Yes, he was a good guide," Claire smiled. "Does he help out at the Greenery often?"

"Quite a lot. It's been good to have his help the last several days."

"He hasn't been here long then?"

"Just a few days, Claire, that's all."

"Hmmm? I asked him about that and he said he didn't know how long he'd been here. Said it was for as long as he could remember."

"That's true, Claire, it is for as long as he can remember."

At her puzzled look, Joimus added, "He has amnesia, Claire. Maximus found him in one of our fields a few days ago. He doesn't remember a thing."

Claire shot a quick look toward the barn, her mouth forming a silent Oh! "So that's what he meant. I didn't understand." She looked back at Joimus. "But his name. He knows his name."

"Not really," Joimus sighed. "He had a little Bible in his pocket with Reverend Cortland Wells written inside. We don't know for sure, but we believe that's who he is."

"A pastor?"

"Yes. It actually has come to seem more likely than not."

Claire turned away, staring intently at the place just outside the distant barn where Cort was talking with another man. "Oh, my goodness," she breathed.

 

MERRY AND CORT

Cort laughed as Merry licked his face. He was lying in fresh straw in the Meridius barn and had been rolling around, playing with Alistair's pup. Immediately after the fire, Cort had gone to the mill and taken the young golden off her cable, bringing her back to the Meridius house as Joimus had asked him to do. He liked dogs. Well, it seemed he did, anyway, but what surprised him about taking Merry into his care was just how much he liked the pup. She was about half a year old now, frisky as all get out and slurped up all the attention he showered on her.

He started taking her everywhere with him, even when he rode horseback across the Meridius land. He knew she wasn't his, of course, would never be his, yet he couldn't seem to stop himself from getting whole-heartedly attached to her. There was something so fresh and clean-spirited about her, something that made him feel more a part of this place where he found himself, something that made him feel he belonged.

At night in the Meridius house, Merry slept up on his bed with him, her chin resting on his thigh. When he'd wake up in a sweat from some unremembered nightmare, she was right there and he held onto her while she wagged her tail and licked his chin. She seemed to sense he had a need for her and responded to that, quickly bonding to him and developing a sense of protectiveness toward him. Within two or three days an observer would have thought the two of them had always been together.

There was, however, the fact that she liked to eat his socks. First she'd shred them and then gobble down all the little pieces. She went through three pair in the first week.

WHO I REALLY AM

Maximus and Joimus spent two days in Coffs then returned home, planning on driving back the following evening to check on Ahnna and Alistair. Several of the Glen residents had been out to the mill, getting the inspection and repairs underway. Maximus had put his plans for the thermae on hold, arranging instead for Jeff to redo much of the plumbing in the old structure. An electrician had also been hired to tend to the wiring. The General wanted not just the office addition, but the entire mill rewired before Alistair and Ahnna might return.

This morning Maximus and Cort were planning on repainting the interior of the office while Joimus and Claire restored the garden just outside where Alistair and Robert had fallen and where the firefighters had had to walk and drag their hoses.

This was the first time Claire had seen the mill and as she stepped out of Joimus' stationwagon, she was immediately taken by its rustic charm. "It looks like it's out of another place and time," she commented to Cort, who was unloading a large can of paint nearby.

"It does, doesn't it," he agreed, nodding, Merry weaving between his legs, almost sending him sprawling. "I'm glad we can help fix it up. Alistair has been very kind to me. He's a good man."  Cort had been truly concerned about him, more than he'd expressed to anyone.

There had been a heavy rain the day before and the soil was still damp with it as Joimus and Claire set about pulling out ruined plants, piling them off to the side. Joimus remembered exactly what had been growing where in the mill gardens and wanted to recreate them as near to that as possible. She and Claire had developed a quiet camaraderie at the Greenery and worked well together.  Plant after plant was unpotted and set into the ground as the two women worked steadily at their task.

Cort had had to put Merry back on her cable to keep her out of the paint. It was a warm morning and he stripped off his shirt as he climbed up the stepstool, stretching to paint the upper part of the new wall Jack and Bridgid had built. The door to the office had been left open to aid in ventilation and from time to time as she worked in the garden just beside it, Claire would look up and catch sight of him, pausing to watch his movement, the ripple of muscles in his shoulders as he painted. It could be very
distracting and she'd find herself holding the rootball of some plant and not getting it into the ground at all.

The painting was done just at lunchtime and Cort came to the door, still shirtless, and with splotches and dabs of paint here and there about his torso and arms. Claire, pressing the soil around a newly-planted phlox,  stopped and stared at him. He wiped his forehead with the back of an arm, succeeding in smearing a small swath of paint across it. Her lips twitched in amusement. "Are you going on the warpath?" she asked, unconsciously wiping her own cheek with a muddy-gloved hand.

Joimus sat back on her heels, chuckling. She'd been aware of Claire's glances into the office all morning. "You two are becoming a matched set with your smears. I suggest you go down to the bridge and study your reflections in the pond water." She was a smart woman. She knew what she was doing.

"Would you like that?" Cort asked Claire, smiling fetchingly.

"I do believe I would," Claire replied, slipping off her gloves. When she tried to stand, she found her left leg had gone to sleep from being in a rather cramped position too long and she tottered precariously. In a smooth, graceful motion Cort was off the little porch and had hold of her elbow before anybody realized he'd moved.

Maximus came out and set on the stoop, rubbing his leg, watching as Cort and Claire went down the path to the little arched bridge. "They seem to get along," he commented, smiling then at his wife, who was coming up to him.

"Your leg hurt, darling?" she asked, sitting beside him, curving her arm through his.

"Just a little. Too much standing for too long. Nothing of concern, though."

"Everything about you is of concern to me. You know that."  She nuzzled against his shoulder.

"I do know that." He kissed the top of her head.

Cort paused at the edge of the pond. "What are those?" he asked.

"Iris," Claire replied. "Are you not familiar with them?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think they grow where...."

"Where?"

"Wherever." He shrugged. "I don't think they grow there." He turned, looking at the whole panorama of the extensive mill gardens. "I don't think much of any of this grows there."

"You don't remember flowers?"

"I don't seem to remember...green. It all strikes me as very different. But I like it," he hastened to add. "And I like that you know how to make this sort of thing happen."

He had, indeed, the last few days spent more time at the greenhouse and its environs than out in the barn or the fields. There was always something he could offer to help with, something heavy that needed lifting or moved. And he found this delicately beautiful young woman the loveliest flower he'd ever seen.

They walked up to the top of the arch and stood, looking down into the pond whose smooth surface did reflect their faces. They both burst into laughter at the same time, seeing their smears. He turned, leaning his hip against the railing, looking at her. It was noon and the sunlight beat straight down atop her pale blonde hair so brightly he had to hood his eyes a bit. "Tell me about Claire," he said softly.

"What would you like to know about Claire, Mr. Wells?"

"Anything. Anything at all."
 

"I haven't been many places, had many adventures, I'm afraid. I basically grew up with the flowers in my grandmother's garden. I like simple things, beautiful things, like tulips and poetry."  She kept her eyes down toward the pond, realizing again just how uncool she was.

Cort, however, who had no concept of the modern term of coolness, thought she was exquisite and something deep in him knew he'd never encountered anything as rare or beautiful as she was. He was quiet, studying her down-turned face, appreciating its loveliness. His quiet made her lift her eyes, needing to see his expression after what she'd said. She caught him off guard, caught the fullness of his thoughts plainly writ on his features. No man had ever looked at her like that before, with a respectful yet very open regard. Her lips parted in surprise and he turned quickly away. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured.

His hands were on the railing and she lay her palm on the nearest. "Sorry for what, Cort?"

"I...I was staring. I shouldn't...."

He made her feel beautiful, something she'd struggled with for the last couple of years during her illness. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He lifted his eyes again, not understanding.

"For the way you make me feel about myself."

He was very, very aware of her hand atop his, of how entirely he was drawn to her. But then his mind flooded with the fact of his circumstances and he gently slipped it out from under hers, stuffing it into a pocket in his jeans.

She stiffened, afraid she shouldn't have said what she just had. "I...I was too...," she began.

"It's not you, Claire. I find myself wanting to know you, to be closer to you but...then." His eyes locked onto hers. "Then I realize I have no right to do anything of the sort, not when I don't even know who I am, what I might be, whatever I've done. I have no right to anything, not in this place."

"Oh, Cort!" she responded, quick tears stinging her eyes. "You are here. You! And the you who's here has every right to be happy, to make a place for himself."

He shook his head. "It's not that easy, Claire, not for me. There's something I have no name for weighing me down, something that wakes me in the night, shaking with the darkness of it. Until I know what that is, I can't settle into anything new. I may not like who I really am. You may not like who I really am."

"I'm not worried about that, Cort, truly I'm not. I'm pretty sure I see who you really are."

"There's something there, though, Claire, something big, something that changed everything, and I don't know what that thing is. I don't...know."  He put both hands on the railing and leaned his forehead down on them.
 

She took a step closer, resting her hand on his shoulder, instantly aware of the feel of his sun-warmed flesh. "You will, Cort, when it's time. You will.  She felt his back lift as he took a deep breath.

Alistair had said something very similar to him at the Wade's wedding reception...that he would remember when he could bear to remember. Why couldn't he bear to remember the thing? WHAT couldn't he bear to remember? 

WELCOME HOME

Four more days passed and still no sign of pneumonia. Though Alistair was quite weak and tired easily, the doctor was letting him go home, with certain cautionary instructions in place as well as being accompanied by an Inogen One. "I still want you to have
oxygen therapy available," the doctor explained. "Not that you'll need it constantly, but use it at night for a while and during the day if you feel you need to."

The Inogen One was an Intelligent Delivery Technology for oxygen, very portable as it was 11 1/2 inches by 6 and weighed less than 10 pounds. "It's a concentrator that makes its own oxygen so it never has to be refilled," he smiled, showing Alistair and Ahnna how the device worked. "It's also very quiet, which is nice when you want to rest, and is so intelligent it detects shallow mouth breaths while you're sleeping and increases or decreases the oxygen flow according to your needs."

Getting dressed was more activity than Alistair had had for some time and wore him out. By the time he'd been discharged and wheeled to the patient pick-up area, he was sagging markedly. Maximus and Joimus had come to take him and Ahnna home in their station wagon, and the General held carefully on to Alistair's elbow during the transfer from the wheel chair to the back seat of the car. They weren't even out of Coffs before Alistair had sagged to the side and was sleeping on Ahnna's shoulder.

She was feeling very uncertain by now that he was truly ready to leave the hospital, but the doctor had said what he really needed now was a lot of rest, a lot of chicken soup, and a lot of tender loving care. As he sagged more, she pulled his head down to her lap, loosening his seatbelt enough to accommodate that.

Cort had spent the morning on a walk with Merry, then brushing her till she shone. He sat a long time with her, rubbing behind her ears, leaning his forehead on hers. "It's time, girl," he whispered, "time to go back to your Master." It had been not much over a week and a half that he'd been taking care of her. How could he so completely have lost his heart to her so quickly? He'd known better than to let himself love another man's girl. At least he'd thought he had. Obviously it wasn't the case, however. Looking up at a wall clock, he sighed. "Time, Merry, time to go," and got to his feet, going with her out the Meridius' front door. He was going to walk with her to the mill, stretching out the moments remaining to him.

Maximus pulled the station wagon as close as possible to the door of the mill, then went around to help Alistair out. Alistair had woken about five minutes earlier, and smiled as he looked out the window, glad to be back, glad to be away from the sounds and smells of the hospital.

"Take it easy," Maximus urged, holding his arm tightly.

"Easy is all I do any more," Alistair smiled wryly.

They were steering him toward the bedroom but he protested that he wanted to see his office first. "After all the community has done to restore it," he said, "I owe them at least a quick look."

His eyes widened as he went through the doorway. Everything, absolutely everything, was fresh and new and clean, much better than it had been before. With the money from the sidewalk sale and Andy's jar, Joimus had been able to buy new furniture for the room. "It...it's just like the one I had," Alistair said wonderingly, resting his hand on the back of a new recliner.

"That was deliberate," Joimus explained. "The relationship between a man and his recliner is a nearly sacred thing."

Alistair was walking on his own now, admiring the newly-built wall, the paint job, the curtains and carpet. There was a magnificent antique roll-top desk with dozens of cubbyholes. "Where...?" he asked.

"Maximus," Joimus said. "He saw it at a shop in Coffs and said you needed it."

"Than...," he began, his eyes still lingering on the desk as he just began to turn.

The front door opened and Merry thundered through the living room, immediately scenting Alistair. She ran headlong into the office and leapt up on him. He was totally unprepared for it and she completely knocked him off balance, sending him falling sideways into the table beside the recliner, both him and it landing on the floor.

Cort, horrified, and hard on Merry's heels, grabbed her collar while Maximus and Ahnna bent over Alistair, who seemed slightly stunned. "Are you all right? Are you all right?" Ahnna kept repeating frantically.

Alistair couldn't talk for a moment and just pressed his hand to his chest. Maximus slipped his own hands under Alistair's arms and got him into the recliner. Merry, aware she had done something less than circumspect, tucked herself behind Cort's legs. "I'm so sorry," Cort said. "I...I didn't think she'd do that."

Joimus had fetched the Inogen One as Alistair seemed to be gasping a bit for breath. When Ahnna had him settled and his cannula in place, she looked from Cort to Merry to Maximus. "I think it's too soon, maybe way too soon, for Merry to be around Alistair." Her eyes went back to Cort's. "Would...would you mind keeping her for the time being? We just can't have a repeat of this." She turned to Alistair, who was pale, had his eyes closed, and was just quietly letting the oxygen flow into him.

"Of course," Cort replied, nodding as he still maintained a tight grip on the pup's collar. "Are you all right?" He repeated Ahnna's question that Alistair had not yet answered.

"I...I'll be fine," Alistair wheezed. "No harm done."

"Not this time," Maximus said, "but we'll not have another."

When Cort had gone, taking Merry with him, Maximus and Ahnna helped get Alistair to bed. He slept again immediately, the oxygen still in place. As Maximus went to the bedroom door, Joimus appeared on the other side. "Ahnna, I've stocked the refrigerator with home-made chicken soup. Should be better than what he's been getting in the hospital." Taking Maximus' hand, she added, "We'll leave you two now but we're only a phone call away, Ahnna. Day or night."

"Thank you both," Ahnna replied appreciatively. "You are the best friends we could possibly have."

She heard the station wagon drive away. She and Alistair were home and he was in their bed where he belonged. For the first time there was room, was freedom from wires and IVs. The Inogen tube went off one side of the bed, a small matter compared to all she'd been dealing with for so long, and for the first time there was room for her on the bed beside him, beside him where she belonged. Slipping her shoes off, she lay down, cuddling against him, tears of gratitude stinging her eyes.

MOST OF ALL

Cort leaned his back against a tree, his horse grazing nearby, Merry lying with her chin on his thigh. He was chewing a blade of grass, staring at the horizon, just thinking. Time was passing and he still had no grasp on the reality of who he was. When he was busy, and he did try to keep busy, he managed to tuck the fact of that into a corner of his mind and concentrate on what he was doing. It never, however, went entirely away, but was always right there in that corner and if he paused even a moment, thrust itself out, demanding to be seen.

Now, though, he'd gone for a ride with no particular purpose other than to ride. He liked the Meridius land with its wide fields, its areas of woodland, its ponds and streams. The General and his wife had been nothing but kind to him and he'd grown quite fond of them both. Still, he needed time alone once in a while, time just to be and think.

He thought of Claire and how he wished he had more of himself to offer her. Always between them there was that hesitation, only on his part, only because the thing in the corner never fully came into the light, was never fully resolved.

The nightmares came quite steadily these days. More than once a night any more. It seemed what haunted him was right there, just below the surface, like a fish in Alistair's pond making a shadow in the water then darting under the bridge. Merry was still there for him in the nights. He hadn't expected that but fully realized that the longer the young dog was in his care, the harder it was going to be when the inevitable day of parting came.

He reached out, ruffling Merry's neck fur, and she got up, flopping herself entirely across his lap. "You knocked the reverend over, you roughneck," he chastised fondly. "You could've hurt him, you know." He held her face, looking into her eyes. "No, I guess you don't know that, do you?"  But the result of that unfortunate event had been to grant him a reprieve from parting with her. He wrapped his arms around her golden body, burying his face against her, trying to sort out just why she was so important to him.

Unlike with Claire, he never held himself back with Merry. Between man and dog lay only a pure openness of relationship. Merry knew him, cared for him, for what he was and neither lack of past nor present uncertainty was a matter of any import. Cort liked that, liked Merry's blissful unconcern with the fact that he had been ripped from somewhere and deposited here lost and directionless. She licked his face and he laughed. The dog filled some empty space in him with the simplicity of her devotion to him, her desire to be his companion whether he sat under a tree on a peaceful afternoon or woke sweating from a nightmare.

"I love you," he murmured into her fur. It was true. He did. Right now in all his unknown
world, he loved her most of all.

A THOUSAND MAY FALL AT YOUR SIDE

As soon as Alistair got to the front of the platform, he knew this wasn't going to work, but there he was and now he had to make the best of it. Always he stood on one side so there was nothing between him and the people he was speaking to, but he moved over to the pulpit like a ship to its dock and held on, knowing he needed the support. Just showering and getting his suit on this morning had taken more energy than he'd expected.

Ahnna, on the front pew, watched anxiously as Alistair stood behind the pulpit. He never used the pulpit, didn't like being behind it, but today on his first attempt to do a Sunday service, he not only stood behind it, but gripped its top edges with both hands. That worried her. She could see his chest rising and falling in a concentrated effort to breathe evenly without his oxygen  pack.

"Good morning," he said, managing a smile. "I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to be back here with all of you again. I have missed your faces, all of them, and I am so thankful that...."  He began to cough. He was wearing a lapel microphone but still the strain of trying to project his voice brought on enough irritation that the coughs began to rise up from his core. "Ex...excuse me," he murmured, turning away for a long moment, trying to bring it under control. He had a glass of water on the pulpit shelf and took a sip. "...thankful that today I can once again...*cough*  *cough*...once again speak to you of the things dear to my heart."

He did like being back there, but kept shaking his head slightly from time to time, feeling like he needed to clear it. And the coughing hurt. It simply...hurt. He could feel himself starting to tremble with fatigue.

For ten minutes he spoke, coughing once in a while, but Ahnna was aware she was growing tenser with each passing minute. She was watching his hands as they gripped the pulpit. He was increasing the pressure of that so much that his knuckles were becoming white with it. His face, too, was paling and she knew the effort it was taking for him to remain standing there. Turning her head briefly, she noted many of the faces in the church were beginning to look concerned.

"And so it is," he continued then stopped, spreading his right hand over his chest, lowering his eyes. "And so...." He made a rather gasping sound. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured. "I...I thought I...could...."  His legs were shaking and suddenly didn't want to support him any longer and he began almost sliding down the back of the small pulpit, landing on his knees.

Instantly both Maximus and Cort were on the platform. Alistair would have toppled over onto his left side had they not gotten to him in time to gently lay him down. He was coughing and gasping and saying, "I'm sorry...," over and over.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Maximus soothed. "It is simply too soon."

Cort sprinted to the little office where Alistair's portable oxygen was and by the time Ahnna had gotten it fastened in place, Alistair's eyes were half open and he seemed on the verge of passing out. Maximus and Cort carried him through the door behind the altar. There were only two small chairs in his little office and no place to lay him down but on the floor in the short hallway. Maximus took off his suitcoat, folded it and put it under Alistair's head. Ahnna crouched beside him, smoothing his hair back, whispering to him.

Maximus looked at Cort, "There is a church full of people out there who came for a Sunday morning service, Cort. It looks like you are going to be the one to give it to them."

"Me? But...but...."

"You, Cort," Maximus repeated. "You can do it. I know you can."

"I...I...don't...I...."

"Try, Cort. For Alistair. Please...try."

Cort sucked in a long breath, his heart beating faster, and looked down at Alistair.
For Alistair, Maximus had said. He couldn't do this for himself, but perhaps he could
do it for Alistair. Turning, he opened the door to the sanctuary. Half the people were
on their feet, talking in little groups, casting looks toward the doorway where he stood.
Taking another long breath, he stepped through and walked out to the pulpit, needing the
slight bit of shielding it offered. "Be seated, folks," he said, "please. Alistair's going to be fine. Was just a bit too early in the game for him to be out here doin'...this." He lay a palm atop the pulpit. "So you get me. As most of you are aware, I don't even know that this is what I do so I'm askin' you to bear with me."

His eyes found Claire, who had moved up to the front to where Ahnna usually sat. She was looking at him, smiling encouragement with her whole face. A closed Bible lay just to the right of his hand and he let it open where it willed, grasping for some sense of direction, some guidance as to what to do. It was the 91st Psalm. "Psalms," he said aloud, closed his eyes briefly, then surprised himself entirely by adding, "Of the 283 times the New Testament quotes from the Old, 116 are from Psalms." He blinked. "They were made to be sung, you know, sort of the national hymn book of Israel."
 

He said that and then the world around him exploded with a flash of light and through his
eyes he could see the stars, clear and bright in their millions like they were in the desert
night. He was sitting on a horse and was singing the 23rd Psalm as he looked up at the vast, sparkling panoply.
 

What...?

Shaking his head, he looked desperately down at the Bible and began to read. "He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."

Another flash came, almost staggering him and he was seeing a small stuccoed room, candlelight yellowing its whitewash, and right in front of him instead of the pulpit and the open Bible, he saw his own clasped hands, a string of beads draping over his fingers.

Blinking several times he continued to read, skipping several verses as he'd lost his place.
"You will not fear the terror by night, nor the arrow that flies by day...." He blinked. "A
thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will...."

Again the flash blotted out what actually lay before him, replaced by gunfire, the sound of breaking windows, of children screaming, running. His head hurt terribly from where a gun butt had impacted his left temple and his view was from ground level where he lay in deep dust, his hands lashed behind him so tightly his shoulders were pulled almost out of joint. A boot kicked his ribs several times, doubling him up so that his face went into the dust, filling his mouth as he gasped in pain. He choked, coughing, and the boot kicked him again, sending him rolling back onto his side.

"You ain't gonna die in no dust, preacher," a voice laughed. "Someone waitin' fer you has got hisself a better way for you to die than that."

More laughter came, more gunshots, and then he heard the crackling sound of fire. Straining, he craned his neck. The orphanage, it was ablaze. The children! My God, some of the children were still inside! He tried to call out, but his throat was too caked with dust and a mere croak was all the sound he could make. The roof caught, tall spires of flame shooting up into the pure blueness of the sky. Then it began to collapse just as he caught sight of Maria and little Pedro at a broken window. "No!" he croaked. "Oh, God...nooo!"

Elena, the old nun who helped him teach the children, came running across the courtyard toward the door. Someone shot her in the back just as she reached it and she fell into the building, the roof coming down atop her, atop the children. He moaned, tears streaking down the dust on his face. More laughter roared in his ears and then the little mission church caught fire, too. He watched, helpless, as the stained glass window, brought from Philadelphia and the only decorative thing the simple little church had boasted, he watched as it burst outward from the flaming interior.

A lasso curled through the heated air, settling around the wooden cross that graced the peak over the doorway, and accompanied by whoops and shouts, it toppled into the dust.
 

Young Michael, an older teenaged boy who assisted him, saw him lying there and sprinted toward him. Again he opened his mouth, trying to shout to him to stay back, but he couldn't shout and Michael kept coming, coming to within a few feet of him and another shot rang out dropping the boy. Michael lay there, his face close to Cort's, his eyes wide open, startled, dead.

"C'mon, preacher," one of the two men said, "you got yerself an appointment to keep."

He turned his head, glaring up at the man. "Well, lookie that," the other man laughed. "We done got ourselfs a preacher knows how to hate." He laughed and Cort felt a rifle butt slam against the back of his head and the world disappeared into merciful darkness.

Then there had been the field, the field and the white puffy seedheads. He looked desperately at Claire, who was staring at him, her eyes wide, almost round. He felt ill and pushed himself back from the pulpit, sending it crashing over off the platform, the water glass shattering wetly on the floor. Then he ran. Blindly he ran, tripping, almost falling, down the aisle, out the front doors. Half way across the lawn he went to his knees, vomiting and vomiting, as people began to come out of the church behind him, not quite able to believe they'd lost two pastors in one Sunday.

OUT OF THE DARK CORNER

Maximus had been standing just inside the hall doorway, watching Cort, and when he knocked over the pulpit and ran out the far entrance, Maximus made his way past Alistair and Ahnna and through the side door of the church. Joimus, seeing her husband's head pass quickly by the large window to her right, hurried up to where Alistair lay.

"What's happening?" Ahnna asked, still crouched beside Alistair.

"Something's up with Cort. I'm not sure what. Maximus went to check." She looked down at Alistair. "How is he doing?"

"It was too much. I tried to tell him yesterday, but he was determined to have a service today."

Alistair lay, his eyes closed, breathing the oxygen. He made a little sound down in his throat, something that sounded like 'sorry.'

"He keeps saying he's sorry," Ahnna sighed. "It's all right, my darling. Like Maximus said, there is nothing for you to be sorry about. You tried. It just hasn't been that long since you left the hospital."

He said something else that sounded vaguely like 'sit up.'

"You want to sit up?" Ahnna asked and he nodded his head.

Joimus and Ahnna helped him lean his back against the wall. "Cort?"

"I don't know," Joimus answered, shaking her head. "He was reading from the 91st Psalm and suddenly looked ill."

Maximus reached Cort just as Claire did and they knelt, one on either side of him. He had his elbows on the ground, his fingers clenched tightly around his forehead as though it might explode. When Maximus lay his hand gently on his back, Cort straightened, his eyes full of tears. He looked blindly from Claire to Maximus. "Dead," he gasped. "They killed them, the children, the nun, Michael."

"Oh…Cort!" Claire murmured, not knowing what to do for him.

"Fire," he continued. "Burned it...with the children inside...burned it." He began shaking his head back and forth. "Oh, God...oh, God...oh, my God."

He shouldered he way to his feet, scrubbing his hands across his face, his eyes desperate, filled only with the image of Michael's staring dead eyes. "No," he gasped. "No...." and before either of them knew what he was doing, he began to run, cutting across the lawn, disappearing into the thick line of trees just beyond.

"What...what happened?" Claire cried.

Maximus stood, looking at where Cort had disappeared. "He remembered."

"He remembered...that? That's what happened to him?"

Maximus nodded and began to walk slowly in the direction of the trees. "Hurry!" she urged. "Find him!"

"I will follow," he said, "but not closely. He needs time."

"Don't let him get hurt!" she cried.

"He is as hurt as it may be possible for him to be," the General said softly, crossing the grass. He paused, looked back at her. "Please, Claire, tell my wife what I am doing."  Then he, too, disappeared among the trees.

Claire went around to the side entrance, trying to avoid the clumps of people by the main door. She made her way to the little hallway and as soon as Alistair saw her, he asked again, "Cort?"

"Maximus says he has regained his memory. He...he spoke of...of children being killed...of something being burned. Then he ran into the woods. Maximus is following him, Joimus. He wanted me to tell you that."

Alistair closed his eyes. He'd figured that whatever Cort was suppressing was terrible and his lips began to move in a silent prayer for him.

Cort stumbled, not caring where he was going, only wanting to leave Michael's eyes behind him. But he couldn't. They had come out of that dark corner and spread themselves in the light of his day and he could never not see them again. He crossed the road, crossed a small stream, aware of neither, fell once, fell twice, unaware of that as well. A burning roof was crashing down. That he was aware of. And screams. And pain and the laughter as the cross toppled. Finally he fell at the edge of a little meadow, fell hard on his face then rolled to his back, lying there his fists pounding on the sides of his head. "No," he repeated over and over and over. "No...no...no."

That was how Maximus found him. Coming quietly up beside him, the General sat in the grass, waiting. After a few minutes he said, his voice low and even, "You are not alone."

Cort stopped his pounding, but kept his fists pressed to his head, not able yet to respond. "You can't...possibly...understand," he muttered after a while.

Maximus smiled to himself. "I know it does not serve to take away your pain, my friend, but I can."

Cort dropped his hands, opening his eyes. "I'm not from here," he almost moaned. "I'm not from anywhere near here."  His brain was being flooded now with his very alienness to this time and place.

"Nor am I," Maximus said calmly.

Cort turned his head to look at the General, whose eyes revealed, in truth, an understanding that baffled Cort. Then Maximus repeated, "You are not alone, my friend."  He'd said that very thing recently to Robert.

"You...you lost your memory?"

"No, but I lost my time and my place. I lost," he tipped his head, looking up at the sky, "not less than everything." His gaze returned to Cort. "As you have." And then, without self pity, he told Cort about the dark smoke of his burning villa on the horizon, of finding the hanging, blackened bodies of his wife and his son, of being sold into slavery.

Cort listened quietly, taken for a moment out of himself until he realized that somehow his pain had merged in a strange commonality with that of the man who was speaking and the words 'you are not alone' took on value and meaning. Then he told Maximus of the mission and the children and the fires and all the senseless killing.

Maximus extended his hand and Cort took it, gripping it hard. "Out of all the world," Cort said, "I found myself on your land...you found me on your land. There has to be some...reason."

Maximus smiled. "There is always some reason, my friend. We may not know it, may never understand it, but the reason is always there."

LIFTING HIS HEAD INTO THE RAIN

Cort did not want to go back toward the church, not with so many people there. He wasn't ready yet to deal with the scene he'd caused his first time there standing in front of them all. He had enough on his plate at the moment. Maximus offered to accompany him home, but Cort wanted to be alone for a while, so the General headed back to the church.

Cort was still a mile out when it began to drizzle, then rain lightly. That didn't make him pick up his pace at all. In fact, he slowed it even more, remembering now the desert and the dust, enjoying the feeling of the wetness on his face and shoulders. He was cutting through the wooded areas still, avoiding the roads, and finding a small clearing with several large rocks in it, climbed up on the largest rock and simply sat, lifting his face to the rain.

He was Reverend Cortland Wells. There was a great relief in knowing now the surety of that despite all the memories that accompanied the revelation. He was feeling somewhat calmer after his talk with Maximus and the quiet rain on his body increased that for him. That last day at the mission did want to replay itself over and over in his mind, but it wasn't quite the flaming fire that had nearly consumed him in the church. He hated every minute of all that had happened at the mission, was horrified by the barbarous senselessness of it, and still had no idea of what had happened to him after the rifle butt had slammed into his head. The General, though, had forged some connection with him that restored to him, at least to some degree, his ability to stand in the midst of it.

Alistair had told him he would remember when he could bear to remember. At the pulpit, in that blast of first remembrance, he wasn't at all sure he could bear it, why he'd finally let himself remember. The 91st Psalm...that was the trigger of it all. "A thousand may fall at your side," he repeated aloud. It had been like that. Everyone dying around him. The day had been so normal, so peaceful, the laughter of the children earlier in the yard where they kicked the old leather ball around and played games, the adults quietly going about their duties. So entirely normal. Then the tornado of destruction, man-made destruction
and death, had swept through, and it was gone. All of it...gone. He knew it would take him some time to work through this, but lifting his head into the rain was a beginning somehow.