December 12

The face in the mirror was strange to him, and not only because it was streaked with blood. The blood was the least disconcerting thing he saw, and some deeply buried instinct told him he should have worried a lot more about both the blood and his acceptance of it.

But he didn’t.

It was the strange face that worried him. It wasn’t always strange, of course. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and saw familiar features, eyes he knew, a smile that was pleasant and crooked and his own, with no blood marring anything he saw. On those days, he was fine. On those days, he went about the business of living and felt normal.

But on days like this . . .

He stared for long minutes at that alien face, the blood streaking it . . . baffled and a little frightened.

More than a little. Because even though he didn’t think much about the blood, it was there. And yet, the blood almost always disappeared when he closed his eyes and counted to ten and looked again.

Almost always.

But when it didn’t disappear, when he had to splash water on his face and even use soap to scrub away the red stains, he had the gnawing certainty that he should be worried about the blood, because it was a sign that even though he couldn’t remember what it was, he had done Something Bad.

Something Really Bad.

There were things he needed to remember, and every time he saw that face in the mirror, every time it was bloody and alien to him, he was aware of those unremembered things hovering in the shadows of his mind.

Desires. No . . . hungers. Needs.

Terrifying needs.

On those days, he called in sick and sat in his tiny apartment, furnished in Early Salvation Army, the worn shades drawn, the ancient TV that still had snowy channels on but muted, the sounds of traffic outside a sort of background noise that was unimportant.

On those days, he sat in the dark and listened to the voices telling him what he had to do. They were very clear, those voices. Very strong. Very sure.

And, gradually, without his even becoming aware of it, the fear faded away to nothing because he wasn’t alone anymore. The voices were his friends. The voices understood him. The voices told him what he had to do.

As the days and weeks passed, he was eventually fired for calling in sick too many times so he could be alone in the dark listening to his voices, but by then it hardly mattered. He packed up his meager possessions in his worn duffle bag, left the old apartment building, and set out on foot because he didn’t own a car.

There was a journey he had to make. And along the way, he had things to . . . understand. Things to . . . practice. And things to plan.

Still, he wasn’t certain that he was doing the right thing. Not until his path took him higher into the mountains to one of the hiking trails along the Blue Ridge. Once he set foot upon those old, old trails, he felt at home.

And he knew where he was going.

South.

He stopped at one of those places that usually sprang up near the entrances to hiking trails and offered for sale just about anything one would need to hike the trails and paths woven all through the old mountains, and spent most of his money buying the few things he would need.

He wasn’t worried about money. The Lord would provide.

There was a crowd of hikers about, stocking up for hikes or taking a break because their journey paused here, or began here. A number of people spoke to him, and he replied politely without making any effort to engage them in conversation.

Several invited him to join their groups, but virtually all of them were headed north, and that wasn’t where he was being drawn. So he declined, politely, and went on his way before it got too late.

He was only a little surprised to realize there was a map in his head, that all this was familiar ground. Part of him remembered it very well—and yet to another part of him, it was an alien landscape.

He traveled only about half a mile before darkness began to fall, and he took the time to set up his little tent and make camp, the skills again both familiar and strange.

He thought about that as he lay in his sleeping bag in the darkness, listening to the night. He thought about the skills that felt familiar—and the names in his head.

There were, he knew, people who had to pay.

That was something he was certain he knew how to do.

Get justice.

Be the sword hand of God.

When he realized that, all his confusion and uncertainty melted away.

And the plan began to take shape.