The coffin was dark. I had never been confined before, never had any particular fear of tight places. That had changed.
Not able to move any limb more than a few inches, I thrashed about in impotent rage. I could not even lift my arms to my chest, could not claw at the space above me. After my initial disorientation and anger, resignation followed. I knew I only had a limited amount of oxygen, and soon enough I would pass out and die. It was after I had prayed for forgiveness and redemption, after I thought about the fact that I would hold my daughter again soon and found a kind of solace in that, primal terror began to set in. Because I knew too much time had passed, and I was still breathing.
I don't know how long they kept me there the first time, but it was enough.
I walked into my past and talked to my father and mother, Gunny and the Colonel, sometimes as a child, sometimes as a grown man. I lifted Grace over my head and tickled her tummy with my hair. I fished for trout with Ryder on the Lamar River and taught him how to tie a proper fly.
I recited Bible verses, Springsteen songs, nursery rhymes and sonnets. I told myself epic stories, the kind where good triumphs because it is stronger than evil. I played out battles in my mind, from the Romans to the Revolution. I was a general, a gladiator, a Samurai and a paratrooper. I was a knight in full armor, charging on my warhorse into battle with the sun glinting from my armor and the thunder of hooves at my back. Banners snapped in the wind and my gleaming sword was sharp and quick.
I was David facing the giant Philistine, whirling my sling. I walked in Moses' sandals and parted the Red Sea while the Egyptian army pursued me. I was Abraham, being told to sacrifice my son Isaac.
I was going insane.
My thoughts and stories, connected and convoluted, began to twist and take on the darkness I was confined to. There was Mordor and murder and the Inferno and Hell, hot and eternal and utterly unforgiving. Demons and fire and the scent of sulfur engulfed me and taunted me, accused me with my weakness. I saw my wretchedness and smelled my waste, my sweat, my futility. My mind was a maelstrom of lightning and despair. If I slept, it was the same, for my nightmares pursued me and there was no difference. All was gasping panic and hopeless darkness.
My tongue was sandpaper and my lips were cracked when blinding light and a blast of fresh air hit my face. A large man pulled me from the box. I was in a tiny cinderblock room. The man, whom I remember having horns and fangs, said something to me and gave me a jug of water. I huddled on the floor and drank greedily. He left the room for a time, and I dumped the water over my head and splashed my face. I was probably gibbering at the walls.
The beast entered the room again, this time in the company of another man wearing black. They beat me with batons or bats all over.
I woke in the box again, and I don't know how many times that happened. I am thankful I cannot remember.
*
I was in a soft place, with warm, gentle light and angels singing around me, and I'm sure I smiled and cried out to God in thanks. This happened more than once, the waking and the sound of music, but there are chunks gone from my mind about that time. The angels were always followed by demons.
The first oasis of memory I trust is that of Gideon reading silently at my bedside. He was seated on a plush gold colored sofa, one sandaled foot crossed daintily over his leg, and wearing his white robes. He smiled warmly at me. One of his arms was in a sling.
“Ah ha, the sleeper wakes,” he said. “In the darkness we stumble but in the light we do not fall.”
“What?”
“You have already told me you are a man of God. Surely you know the gospel.”
“I can quote it some. I think you missed the point.” My voice sounded strange to me. One eye was swollen almost completely shut and my lips felt wrong.
Gideon raised his eyebrows disapprovingly. “Being that I wrote some of it, I don't think you have the authority to say that.” He chuckled. “If there were other people in the room I'd have to make a public display of your execution for blasphemy. It's just us.”
I tried to sit up, but I was handcuffed to the bed. I noticed an IV in my arm. Although I was lightheaded, I was able to put two thoughts together for the first time in quite a while. There was fear in me I had never known before.
“Why haven't you killed me?” I asked.
“What do you think of our choir?” said Gideon. “I find their voices relaxing.”
“Just end it,” I said. “How long are you going to do this?”
“You know what I want.”
“After this, do you really think I'm not telling you the truth?”
“After what?”
“You killed my child. You tortured me. Why would I not tell you something if I knew it? If I had the cure, if the Alliance had one, wouldn't they have used it to save my daughter?”
“I don't have the answer to that,” Gideon said. “I do know you are the key.”
I was fighting smoke rings; there was no way to connect.
“I'd give it to you. I really would. I would have before any of this started if I could have. For the love of God, just don't put me back in that coffin.”
“You think I'm some kind of monster,” he said. His voice was rich and soothing. “You tried to kill me, and yet here you sit. I am a father just like you. I lost a child to this devil's sickness and so did you.”
I wanted to believe him. “This is senseless,” I said.
“And how might that be?”
“You killed my daughter with it. You gave Tarantula to her. Your son was struck down through no fault of his own. Somehow you blame me. There is no reason for any of this.”
“No,” Gideon said. “You could have saved your child and mine but you chose not to. Your lack of action is the same thing as killing them yourself.”
“You can't believe that,” I said. ”How could you?”
“I don't just believe it,” he said. “I know it to be a fact. I am a prophet of the Lord Almighty and God does not lie. He is faithful and true to his promises.”
“What if you're wrong? What if you're twisting the truth?”
“Again with blasphemy.” Gideon shook his head. “I am not wrong. I know the truth. I will wait on the Lord.” He stood over me then. “You are not yet ready to reveal your secrets. I will break you in the name of the Father.”
“Wait!” I cried. “I'll tell you.”
He paused at the door and looked at me. “I know you will. Jesus loves the broken. You need more darkness to appreciate the light.”
“No!”
He swept from the room without turning. I fought my bonds and the handcuffs cut into my wrists. I was terrified, my bowels jelly and my arms spent rags. Large men with shaven heads and black attire dragged me kicking and screaming from the soft bed and stuffed me back into the coffin, and then there was only the blackness and the insanity.
*
After the last beating and reprieve, the things I recall are garbled and tainted, and I learned more later from people that were there. I have a vivid memory of fishing in the Everglades with my father and Grace. An impossible memory. The sun was gentle on my face and the air was rich with the smell of salt and mangroves. We were on a small skiff, the sort used for fishing the shallow back country, where schools of snook and snapper would congregate in the shadows of the trees. My line was tearing from my rod, making the satisfying whizzing sound anglers live for, the sound of a good fish making a run.
Dad looked young and happy, wearing a silly floppy fishing hat. “Fish on!” he shouted.
“Here, you take it,” I said. I tried to hand the rod, tip bent and line still zipping away, to Grace. She wore a yellow sundress and had a white flower in her dark hair.
“Daddy, you're silly,” she said. She giggled. “I'm not strong enough.”
“Sure you are, honey,” I said. “Take the rod. I'll help you.”
“That's your fish,” Dad said from the bow. He was holding a net and grinning. In the shallows a Great White Heron, tall and elegant, stood with one leg raised its long neck, cocked and ready to strike at some unseen prey.
“But, Daddy, I don't want to catch him. We should let him go.”
“Okay,” I said. “We'll let him go. But you've gotta catch him first.”
She hesitated, then took the rod. The line went slack. “He got away,” she said. Her laughter was music. She handed me the rod and said “I miss you, Daddy. Let's do this again soon.”
*
There was a horse at some point. That part was true. I remember the scent of the leather saddle and horseflesh and being cold. Later, or perhaps before, there was a truck and bouncing and jolting. And there was a helicopter, loud and dark, and finally my bed in Lamar, familiar and warm. My wife was there with me, holding me, and other people came and went. My old friend Abraham shone a light in my eyes and scolded me for not eating. Elijah sat with me and read the book of Psalms and then Proverbs. Slowly, I began to get my mind back.