Among Us They Come by C.E. Vance (good story books to read .TXT) 📕

Placing another log inside the fireplace, sparkling ashes stir, drifting upwards into the stone chimney. Cascading light from the flames fill the room with amber glowing warmth, while outside a blinding winter storm rages; blanketing night's landscape with impassable drifts of snow.

Along the hollow's winding course, icy winds wail furiously up the valley, surging past an ancient wooden rail fence, which surrounds a parcel of land; lending itself to the placement of an assortment of ramshackle buildings. Amid the structures, across a creaky porch made from rough-hewn timbers, unrelenting gales descend upon a center-placed dwelling. From its rooftop, swirls of smoke and lighted ash quickly disappear in a whirlwind of snow mixed with ice, as the wintry gusts ceaselessly bang and thrash against the cabin's closed rickety shutters. Cold and deadly, the malicious wind appears intent on gaining entrance into the sheltering haven.

Placed near the hearth, outfitted with worn rumpled cushions, sits two rung-rockers amid a sparse variety of other handmade furnishings. Adorning scuffed table tops, dyed burlap scarves are carefully arranged, and upon soot tinted walls, images of ancestors watch every happening from inside their dusty frames. Unaware of years passing, with constant ticking, and count of chimes resounding from the mantel clock, their eyes cast without seeing, follow the figure arising from the comfort of a hearth placed rocker.

Clad in the era's common, patched, and faded blue bibbed overalls, Arthur shuffles across the room, his walk noticeably bent in stoop, created by the never-ending toil inherited with a farm's daily labor. Pausing, he peers inside an open doorway, leading into the adjacent bedroom, and studies the form of his wife of many years. Frail and old, she lies quietly upon the bed. Only her shallow rattled breath, in conjunction with a slight heaving of the hand-stitched patchwork quilt, gives any indication that she still clings to life.

Into the room, passing the wrought iron bed's rust speckled foot-stead, he makes his way alongside his life's treasured companion. Brushing the strands of soft gray hair from her forehead, he bends forward, and gently kisses her.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, striving to hide the sadness and anguish from his voice, so as not to upset her, if by miracle, consciousness returned. Though, the only answer forthcoming, as he reaches to gingerly tuck her coverings, is the wailing winds, and the continued rasp of her breath.

Unmoving were her eyes, and gone was his Jenny's lovely smile. Unaware of his presence, and to the world, Arthur knew his sleeping bride would never waken again. With thoughts of the knowing, no longer was he able to hold back the tears. Softly he wept, and with like voice he whispered, "Sweet beautiful Jenny, I'll always love you."

Succumbing to assured declining affects tethered to age, and the cold chill brought forth by winter, an onset of swift fever overtook her four nights ago while she slept. Hitching the team to the buckboard, before the cock's crow announced first light, a steady crack of whip speeded the burly plow horses toward town, but fetching the local doctor had been to no avail. "Her life is within God's hands now", he said. Keep her in comfort with tending to hearth's grated fire, and to her brow apply coolness with a dampened cloth. That was his prescribed summation before departing upon the journey back to town.

Behind a mask willed in composure, lay the hidden turmoil of the brokenhearted, as Arthur cordially extended his hand to clasp the doctor's, giving thanks, then watched as the horse drawn buggy faded from sight; descending in the distance over the narrow roadway's rise. Turning to enter back into the cabin, he noticed there were dark clouds forming in the afternoon sky, but unknown at the time was the winter fury, and sorrow they would bring in the days ahead.

Placing the back of his hand on Jenny's forehead, no longer was a fever discernible, but the born intensity of its fiery breath, during its horrid lingering, had plunged her into a deep sleep of death. Awaited now, was the ticking clock's chime, announcing the appointed hour for death's shrouded angel to carry her away.

"Rest, my love", he said, while trying to hold back the tears seeping from the corner of his eyes. "I need to cook myself some supper, because I'll be no use to you if I don't keep my strength up. I'll be no further away than the kitchen".

Once again, Arthur bends to gently kisses her, then ambles toward the kitchen, pausing long enough to stoke the fireplace, and retrieve some hot coals in the ash shovel for lighting a fire inside the cookstove. With a creak from worn metal hinges, he places the burning embers inside the stove's cast iron chamber, and carefully arranges strips of kindling across them. In moments the seasoned wood begins to crackle, and bursts into flames. Little by little, adding more splintery fuel, a roaring fire is soon burning brightly inside the stove.

Satisfied with the fire, Arthur closes the door and adjusts the stove's draft to regulate the heat. From the kitchen's small cupboard, where an assortment of home preserves are kept, he slices a goodly portion of ham to fry along with several eggs, collected from the henhouse earlier in the day. Although his evening meal is meager it will suffice, helping restore his needed energy, for tending Jenny's needs.

Across the yard a lone figure stands in the entranceway of the railed fence. Attired completely in black from hat to shoes, the snow filled wind whips and furrows the visitor's full-length coat; his eyes fixated toward the faint streaks of illumination emitting from the cabin's ill fitted shutters. Stepping forward, through the opening, he proceeds steadily paced in the direction of the cabin, seemingly unhindered by the accumulation of deep miring snow underfoot.

Sitting down to his meal, Arthur, tries to ignore each loud crashing clap of shutters in the stormy besiegement, but it's almost impossible with their continued successiveness. "Hopefully the wind will ease soon", he thinks to himself, knowing tomorrow, he will have to assess the extent of any damages done by the frigid gales, and attempt to at least make temporary repairs until better weather affords an opportunity for him to fix them properly. He was well aware that the accumulated snow and ice, combined with the wind, and freezing temperatures outside, would make even the simplest restorations into almost impossible chores.

Absorbed in thought, nourished by current, and speculated forthcoming events, another repertoire of banging reverberates through the cabin, bringing Arthur to startled awareness, for the sound was unlike the accustomed flailing of shutters.

A short pause, then it commences again.

"The door"! "Someone is at the door", was his surprised conclusion of thought. Pushing his chair away from the table, in aging hurriedness, Arthur gains his way toward the door----calling out, "I'm coming".

Reaching the door, and lifting the securing draw-plank. Keeping a firm grasp against the ensuing blasts of frigidness, he carefully opens the door, preventing it from swinging wide, in effort to deny the wind entrance into the cabin.

Looking outward onto the porch, being unaccustomed to the splattered light escaping through the doorway, his sight slowly comes to focus on the figure standing before him, but unrecognizable is the gaunt pallid face of his evening's guest with dark piercing eyes, intently peering from beneath a wide brimmed hat.

Undaunted by his appearance or the lack of acquainted recognition of the caller, Arthur beckons him to enter; unthinkable would it be to refuse him refuge on a night like this.

"Come in! Come in out of the cold and stand over by the fire to warm yourself", he said, gesturing toward the blazing glow from the fireplace while re-securing the door.

Removing his hat, and holding it to his side, the visitor, without expected hast from someone just entering from the bitter cold, moved over to the fire. Along with his mane of shoulder length hair, shaded closely in color to that of his apparel, neither appeared touched by the snowy wetness, blowing beyond the cabin's inner walls, and from beneath snow trodden, black glossy boots, not a single puddle formed, but in his heightened concern for the stranger's well being, Arthur took no notice to the peculiarities.

Standing with his back to the rippling flames, facing Arthur, unusually long pasty colored fingers, from his guest's free hand, made an unnecessary attempt to adjust the white priest's collar, now seen, underneath his outer coat. The motion seemed to be an obvious undertaking to convey his identity, and lend assurances that his intentions bore Arthur no malice.

"Mercy me, what in Heaven's name are you doing out on a night like this, Reverend?" asked Arthur.

"I am about my work", he answered, and continued in a defined assuring voice.

"Upon this night I come seeking those who are in need of my guidance; gathered aloft by the four winds, I've traveled unto your house to offer my assistance. Words have fallen to my ears that a resident within this dwelling is needful of my services."

"Yes," Arthur replied. "Doc. Amsted, who visited earlier in the week, must have mentioned my wife to you. She's gravely ill. There's nothing he could do for her. She sleeps, and cannot be wakened, but I'm sure you're aware of that if you've spoken with the doctor. Still, it's so very kind of you to travel all the way from town to see her. I am indebted to you Reverend, but you should have never put yourself in jeopardy by journeying out on a dreadful night like this. There's no telling what type of misfortune might have befallen you".

"The will of thy maker protects those going about His bidding, my friend Arthur", replied the Reverend with the assuredness of his calm steady voice. "I have no fear of that which is part of this world, for it is not here that provides my everlasting keep. I am just a servant sent to gather with me those of the flock, and nothing more".

Noting his guest had referred to him by name, Arthur assumed the doctor had mentioned it, and so inquired as to his visitor's name. The parish in the nearby town was overseen by, Reverend Malone, whom he knew, but he was completely unfamiliar with the man standing before him; so it was likely he was from a province not far away, which the good doctor on occasion visited.

Caught in midstream of his thoughts, the Reverend gave answer to Arthur's query, with quietness of his expected manner. "I am called Shepherd", he said, extending his hand in greeting.

Delayed introductions were sealed in a handshake by the fire, with ensuing words leading to the area's traditionally offered hospitality to weary travelers, but Arthur's sincere insistence of allowing him to prepare another fixing of ham and eggs for the reverend's supper, or serve him a hot drink of coffee or tea, was gracefully rejected with a multitude of thanks.

Continuing to speak, Reverend Shepherd added, "My sustenance comes not from the nourishment of man, friend Arthur. I am sustained by that, which is. I exist by the will that forges night and day, and into your