To Sea

  Jon took the car out onto the highway. Then he turned down the side streets for a more scenic view—taking the long winding roads of the north shore—roads that weaved through heavy hills aside steep cliffs falling into the sea. He trotted along in second gear, well below the speed limits. And when he spotted a closely following car in his rearview mirror, he would wait ‘til the cliffs passed and the road gave way to lush green grass where he would pull his car to the shoulder. “What beauty resides along these shores,” he thought, parked on the side of the road. “The cliffs on the opposing side. The Connecticut shoreline—hills seen in the distance. All natural. All beauty. The sea crashing against these narrow cliffs—these steep ridges. All things that I want to feel. The cold rush of the sea flush against my chest. The water rising above my head. My sacrificial gift received, and I, therefore, taken.” His voice echoed through a narrow tunnel of aged oaks hanging their almost bare branches over the road. The few dried leaves rustling in the wind. “But they—they who pass, speeding along this road. They do not see.” Then a gust swept in, tearing the few remaining leaves from their branches.

  Jon pulled back onto the road. He mused himself with the views along the slim roadways—often dodging his car out of oncoming traffic as his eyes drifted off the pavement. “What beauty truly lies along such natural wonders. And what peace I can find here. There is love in this soil. There is true religion in this sea.” Jon began to well up tears in the corners of his eyes, but he swiftly blinked them out, refocusing in on the steep upward hills rolling before him. His mind switched back to the priest. To the thoughts of Abraham. The car had made it to the crest of a hill and Jon could see a ridge over the water with dignified cuts etched from stormy seas past. He blinked and he could see the outlining of an aged man with a tall beard reflecting in the shadows.

  “Abraham?” Jon called out. “I see your face. I see your eyes. I see your beard. This must be the spot. This must be part of an answer. Finally.” Jon pulled the car to the edge of a long driveway. “I see you Abraham,” he yelled. “I see you clearly. But speak. Speak to me, my God, my sea, my Abraham. I am yours. I will do anything to absolve myself from this sin. I sacrifice myself to your will.” He closed his eyes. He envisioned the image of the man in the earth diving off the cliff into the sea; then, moments later, arise out of the water into the clouds.

  Jon’s eyes shifted quick below his closed lids. A few tears trickled down his cheeks, sinking deep into his beard. The wind had picked up some speed, rushing alongside the rusted car—chilling the path of tears on Jon’s cheeks. He opened his eyes and he tugged at his beard, combing his fingers through it, tucking the ends under. He bit on the cuticles of his thumbs. Then he toyed with the clutch, shifting the car into first, then back into second, rolling down the backside of the hill.

  Houses then appeared along the southern side of the road. They were oversized, when in view. And the ones hidden behind great thick limbs of climbing brush, tall foreign and native trees alike, he assumed those were massive as well. “How do you fill up all those rooms, anyhow?” he thought. He found no interest in the cedar shingles and the stucco facades lining the southern side. But he was fixated on the edges of land along the north in search of Isaac—or another sign of Abraham. But the cliffs were becoming smooth—less rigid as he drove farther west. The waves no longer slamming against the protruding land, but gliding above smooth sand.

  Clouds began to thicken in off the sound. They hung low over the road. Jon reached his head out of the car window. He sniffed the air. The smell of sea was strong. His hands gripped the wheel hard as he concentrated on the fading lines painted on the roadway as his wandering mind and his wondering eyes drifted towards the never before seen beauty. “I’ve lived on this Island all of my life and I have never seen such spectacle and awe. There is so much that I have never seen or have never been subjected to seeing. The workforce of the sea, or any occupation, disrupts our minds from any and all real natural manifestation. The true gifts of this land given by Him.” Then he looked to the south, releasing a sigh of aggravation. “Unless you live on the southern side of this road. Then you can surely pay for the natural views we should all be subjected to. But now such views are scribed into real estate contracts organized by the pen of man. Orchestrated by sin.” He could see a man in a black suit smoking a cigar off the balcony on the third floor of a white stucco house with blue shutters—four times the size of Jon’s cottage back in East Marion. The estate was enclosed in an aged brick fence, twined with veins of ivy and leafless brush. Jon sighed again. He looked back to the sound, now at the level of his car, and he pulled to the side of the road.

  The clouds turned to a gray graphite hue penciled across the sky. Branches of tall oaks on the south side of the road waved with the increasing gusts from the north, blowing in off of the shore. Stray grains of sand twirled in the arms of the wind, whipping Jon’s face through the car window ‘til he spun the glass closed. He situated a tee-shirt around his face to guard against the grains whirling around outside. He looked into his eyes—into himself—in the rearview mirror for a short while. Then he took a deep breath and he stepped out of the car, starting for the sea.

  The ocean had turned as gray as the washed out road. The clouds overhead began to grow blacker. The wind became silent and the particles caught up in the gusts fell to the floor. Jon untied the makeshift bandana, shoving the tee-shirt in his back pocket.

  He looked out at the patch of sand enclosed by two steep cliffs no more than a half a mile to the left and half a mile to the right. He stared out to the west, scanning the cliff for a picture of Isaac in the land. But any protruding land up high on the cliff cast no shadow in the sunless sky. And below the ridge was smoothed—freshly eroded by the hungry sea. “I know he is here. I saw his father. Where is the son?” Jon said aloud. He looked to the left, examining the eastern cliff. It was creased in the middle, creating a peak towards the top filled with lush green conifers amounting to a single towering pine dangling roots over the edge—its needles hanging high above the sea. The cliff was smoothed on either side of the crease and he could make no signs of a man’s face. But Jon could not take his eyes away from the crease in the cliff. He tried to make a nose peering out from the ridge, but he found no cheekbones drawn into the earth.

  Jon looked up at the pine’s roots swaying in the wind, as dark clouds swooped in overhead. The trees on the ridge then stopped swaying. The wind stopped. And the needles on the crowns folded, shedding to the ocean—plummeting several hundred feet to the salty surface.

  Jon looked out at the waves pounding against the base of the cliff where hundreds of green needles floated above the foamy white. “Isaac is there. A sign,” he thought. “This is surely the day. Isaac, I feel you.” Jon’s eyes grew red. He blinked long and hard. He gazed back to the eastern cliff and he instantly pieced together a face in the earth. A child. A hairless face. Low cheekbones. Bobbed hair. Wide eyes.

  Jon observed the cliff carefully. He could not comprehend why he had not seen the image earlier. He had surely scanned both of the ridges with great detail in the search of the very image he now was able to see. “I knew you were here, Isaac. I knew you were not just some pine tree cliff, but a face in this earth. You just had to be here.”

  Jon ran his fingers through his long beard, tucking the ends into his collar. The wind had begun to pick up again. The sand danced across the shoreline. His eyes teared at the wind for a moment, but soon, he grew accustomed to it. He looked back at the eastern cliff and he found that the great pine tree at the peak had vanished. He wiped his eyes with the tee-shirt—but still no tree. He rubbed at his eyes again. Then he turned and he looked back at the cliff. This time, to his surprise, he could not find the image of the young man in the land. “They were both just here. I just saw them. They cannot just vanish in thin air. That would be impossible.” Jon
set his head back into his shoulders. Then he spat at the waves cresting and falling into the sand. “I know I just saw them,” he said mumbling, fumbling along the shore towards the westward ridge.

  His thoughts were consumed with the real and what he had thought to be real. The images of the trees dying before his eyes, shedding their needles. The images of Abraham and Isaac in the cliffsides. He toiled with the facts of chance and what was and what could have been, or what wasn’t at all. But he could not pinpoint the truths in reality between what his mind had devised and what he felt his God had portrayed solely for his eyes—and as a true answer to his destiny.

  He had walked a good distance, closing in on the beginning of the steep western ledge before he turned towards the sea. He could see a break in the dark clouds—a light gray opening in the sky. He turned towards the east and the opening in the sky rested a glimmer of light above a figure walking towards him. It wore a silvery necklace reflecting brightly off his black clothing. Jon took a deep breath in. Then he turned back to the west. “The pine was right there,” he said aloud, pointing to the east, at the top of the cliff that was now bare. “The damned thing was there.” He looked out to the sea for the needles floating above the whitecaps. But he could only see the foaming white of the sea crashing against the land, spraying up into the sky.

  Jon shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked down at the sand. His thoughts had been cleared. He walked back to the east and he could see the figure was only a few moments away from contact. Jon could make out the white plastic collar pressed against the man’s neck—the fluffy white hair atop his head. “Padre?” he called softly. Jon then ran closer to the east, closer to the figure, calling out louder, “Padre? Is that you? Padre?”

  The figure came into full sight now, as he walked to an unchanged slow beat towards Jon. “My son,” the priest called out. “I knew I would find the day when I would see you again. What is it that brings you out to this harbor on such a miserable day?”

  Jon rested his hands on the tops of his knees to slow his breathe. “Just following the voice of the sea,” he said. “I don’t know why I am here.”

  The old priest rested his forefinger on his lower lip. “Ah, I see, my son. But I think you know why you are here. We do not just go and do something. Go places. Make decisions based on a limb of hope, or desire. We make all decisions with carefully plotted maneuvers. Be it planned in our slumbers or in our conscious thoughts—but we always know exactly where we are going. So, I take it, you know exactly where you are headed?” The old man paused, looking out towards the foamy sea rushing against the edge of the western cliff. “Am I right, my son?”

  Jon straightened his posture. He placed his hands firmly at his sides as he worked the words of the priest in his mind with his own thoughts. “I guess you are right.”

  “You guess?” the old man said with a snicker.

  “I know,” Jon said with assertion. “I know why I am here. I know what my destiny has become. These cliffs—this ocean, speak to me, Padre. They whisper the words of my future. The ocean has guided me here. To this harbor. Today. These hills have taken me to His harbor. These cliffs have shown me the way to my destiny. A sure way to save my family. A way to save myself.” Jon took the tee-shirt from his back pocket and he wiped a strand of tears falling from his eyes. He looked out to the sea. He felt his heart beat to the crash of each wave against the sand. He looked back up at the priest, who smiled at him. “Padre, do you know what I mean?”

  “I do. I do, my son.”

  The two stood, staring out at the black sea for a long while, listening to the secret whispers of the sound pressing to the shore.

  Jon looked up at the priest after a time, breaking the silence. “What brings you here, Padre? We are nearly fifty miles from where we met last.”

  “And seems as fifty years and not merely one.” The priest paused. Then he turned to the cliffs and then back to the sea. “I moved to the seminary a couple of miles east of here. I had guided my congregation for sixty years. The majority of my life. And God called on me to move on. My thoughts consumed with Him, and in time, I was gone. I moved on, my son. God works always. And he always works mysteriously. I thought I would end all my years working for the love of my town. But I was made to realize that you cannot ever own the land you live on. But you are only a mere servant to Him, and His land. Thus I let the land speak to me. And now I am here, spreading the good word to future men of God. Future men who shall make work visible by love. We, as man, need only to leave ourselves open to Him and He will surely answer all our prayers. Always.”

  The gray opening in the clouds began to tighten and swirl. The trees on the cliffs on either side began to sway feverishly. Yet the two men had not felt a bit of the wind.

  A dog ran in from the west and soon converged on the two. Jon stepped back at once. He set his feet in the sand, ready to run to the east.

  “Don’t run, my son. If you run, you will show fear. If you run, you will only cause him to chase after you. Stay put. Be at ease. He has no interest in your taste. But such a beast feeds off of fear. So be at ease, and he will leave you be.” The priest spoke with his hands signing the cross or what Jon believed to be the sign of the cross as the man’s words took to angelic tones.

  The mutt’s muscles were tight, shining through his slick black coat. Jon tensed as the dog barked. He cowered and his knees buckled. “It is going to kill me. How can I be calm?” Jon pleaded.

  “Be at ease, my son. And you shall be at peace.”

  The dog focused solely on Jon—not once looking over at the priest. Jon set his shoulders down with a vast exhalation of air. He felt his knees wiggle within their sockets, and then, all at once, his muscles eased.

  “Now pet him. Show him you are at peace. Show him you are not afraid. And he will not bite.”

  Jon outstretched his hand and he started to tremble. He could feel the hot breathe of the beast snarling at the approach of the hand. He began to shake more and more and his body tensed up quickly. The dog instantly lunged forward, biting Jon’s hand, severing the tip of his pinky. “Damned bastard,” he shrieked, pulling his hand back above his head, ready to slap the dog. “You little… I’ll show you…”

  “No you will not, my son. You will be at ease. You tensed up. The dog only sensed your fear. Be at ease. Be at peace.”

  Jon looked down at his pinky. It was severed to the base of his cuticle. He winced from the pain. But then he slowly cleared his mind from all tension and the pain lifted. He loosely swayed his head back and forth. He loosened his arms and his muscles relaxed. Then he easefully leaned in, petting the dog on the head, scratching it behind the ears. The dog growled for only a moment. Then the mutt hid his teeth under his lips and sat down on the sandy shore. The dog opened his mouth quickly, causing Jon to step back. But when the dog’s long tongue emerged, licking Jon’s wounded pinky, he laughed, looking up at the priest.

  The priest nodded, smiling at Jon. “You see. Be at ease, and you will be at peace. Accept the fate we are given and there will be no pain. He will guide us for always, but we justly need to keep ourselves open to His message.” The old priest looked up at the swirling clouds overhead. The patch of gray shrunk to a small conical speck in the sky. “He is looking out for us all, my son. He is looking out for us all.”

  The clouds began to swirl with more fervor ‘til a waterspout had formed in the center of the harbor. The sand began to wisp up into the sky. The smell of salt and pine filled the air. The strong wind altered Jon’s balance. He watched the waterspout twirl around, beginning to gain speed and girth. The whitecaps to the west splashed with intensity—the foaming mist feeding the swirling water tornado. He looked back to the east, watching the dog running to the pine ledge. The priest, too, had made off along the shore, up towards the east. “Padre, where are you going? Wha
t shall I do?” Jon yelled up over the roar of wind and water.

  The priest stopped for only a moment, turning back towards Jon. “You know what you need to do. Just keep yourself open for His word. For His love.” The priest turned back to the east, continuing to walk quickly. A thick fog rolled in from the south, encompassing the priest—devouring the old man into a dusty figure in the distance ‘til he was out of Jon’s sight. The waterspout then fell back into the sound and the wind dulled to a low roar.

  The sun then rained over all the land, pushing the black clouds out to sea. Jon sat on his hams on the sand of the shore. He looked down at his pinky finger. The tip had been removed, but the blood had stopped. New skin began to form over the wound. He touched it and it felt as if he had lost the skin months ago and not only a few moments before. He shrugged his shoulders then he buried his hands deep into the cold sand as he looked out at the harbor. The small waves gently fell over, sinking into the sand as pine needles washed up from the pressing tide. He looked over at the eastern cliff. Then he looked back to the needles beaching themselves and he mumbled, “I know what I must do. In time. When He tells me when. In time.”

 

 

  CHAPTER 13