God Can Raise to Abraham Children of Stones
Arpaxos sat quietly in the shade of a bright plane tree, tried to slow his ragged breathing, and listened for sounds from the outer edges of the square. A throbbing in his left leg fought for his attention. He ignored the pain but reached down gently to lift from behind his left knee and set his useless foot on the cross-bar of the chair, kicking with his good leg to lean back against the doorpost. He began to cough and spat out a throat-full of rusty humor. Before long, he was settled again, quieted his breathing, said thanks, and closed his eyes so that he could better picture their faces. He waited in silence for their return – the buildings that outlined the square, he knew, sat vacant; every facade an empty promise from a busier time. His attention was fixed further out; he would be able to hear his people when they were still a couple blocks away.
Arpa was one of a shrinking tribe who were committed to stay together until the end. Every time their parish shrunk by one – with every loss – he worried that hopelessness would set in. How few humans is too few? Turns out three is enough to keep from losing faith entirely ... a single person can despair, and might be able to withstand the hopeful words of just one other, but when two witnesses gang up on you, it’s harder to resist. There had been frank philosophical and theological discussions about what it would mean when only two were left, and whence the fraying cord might achieve its third strand.
He had come back to the city to be with others, and worked hard to be one of the safe ones. He’d become generous, the better to bring folks out from their hiding places. And he was hopeful, which confused people; they thought hope was only about the future, and for most, that was a thing they could no longer see. But Arpaxos was wrestling the future into the present, and so understood the sacred transactions still available to him among the remnant. He knew it would be over soon, but he also believed that as he gave himself to others, he was thereby trafficking in eternity, in a future worth investing in, one he felt was increasingly echoing in the present.
He had been told many times in the last several months that he was wasting his time caring for dying people ... both for others and for himself; he heard this more than once from the very people to whom he was showing kindness. Arpa had simply chosen the perspective that he was not in the presence of dying people, but living people, and in that spirit, he was aware of a greater communion, in suffering; and, he hoped, in glory.
But right now, there was quiet. Nobody came. He hadn’t been able to move far from his spot in front of the taverna for several days since his leg had become a problem. He did not like being stuck here. The other two insisted on going out for food, though they also were getting sicker, enough so that Arpa was concerned. He opened the sketchbook, which he had pirated from the cave on the cliff-face and flipped through the pages until he came to the new portraits. The first artist was better than the last, but Arpa’s drawings were special, if only because he had been able to draw from life. His life. And now, he focused on two pictures in particular, holding on to them with a stubborn mental resolve to resist the threatening solitude.
In the silence, Arpa began to hear things, as if the place was waking up. Eyes closed, he heard the gentle rise of voices and clinking of plates loaded with fish and lamb, giant beans, potatoes, and grilled cheeses. Waiters charming tourists, promising the most authentic cuisine ... old men passively debating local news over game boards ... young people laughing, huddled together as they walked down the street. The plaza seemed alive with a tranquil, but resonant energy that recalled memories of his best days in the city.
He understood that the square was as empty as the surrounding spaces, and that he was ... alone. But memories were like cash in the new economy, so he let them come, experiencing the city and its ghosts, listening to their sounds, seeing it all as it should be. It was as though he could populate the place with the best lives, the best sounds and sights from a long history. It was perfect – he smiled ... memories had a way of cleansing the past. But, maybe this wasn’t about the past? More echoes of some future truth?
As he debated the qualities of a perfect day in the city against the soundtrack of a peaceful evening bustle in the square, he was jarred out of his reverie by the noise of an approaching vehicle. This was especially disconcerting because the sound had no part in his fantasy, nor lately in his reality. He listened with a growing unease as the rumbling machine came closer and closer. Finally (he shouldn’t have been surprised but was), a truck actually appeared from one of the wider side streets. It was a heavy military transport, towing what looked like a small power station, bristling with whip and dish antennae that had Arpa wondering what was being broadcast, and who in the world was on the receiving end.
Heavy tires came to a stop in the gravel with a crunch. A man stepped down from his seat behind the driver and approached with care. He was not a soldier, nor did he look at all like somebody who should be chauffeured around in a tank. He looked ... familiar, like someone Arpaxos might have known at one time. He was dressed in that style that Nicola used to call Baggy Professor, a label she gave to her brother when she wanted to chastise him for his lack of fashion sense. Eva had copied her mother’s taunt to annoy her uncle; he didn’t mind, because in the end, the girl would copy his style. The stranger appeared clean and healthy, which was odd.
Another figure emerged from behind the wheel; after a moment taking in the scene, he reached back inside the cab to kill the engine, forcing a final silence on the whole square. This one was dirty, thin, and pale – as expected – and was dressed (and armed) in the style of an occupying army. The driver carried a medical kit, but stayed beside the truck.
The Baggy Professor came to a stop a respectful distance from where Arpa sat. Standing still as a picture, he gave the impression he was equal parts calm and alert. This also seemed odd: no matter what company you kept, no matter how much hope or faith you could muster, calm was not one of the qualities you expected to see in people these days; and anyway, the armed escort was giving off a very different energy – more tense and intimidating, but more familiar, so less unsettling. The stranger looked at him with a slight tilt of his head, and with a subtle expression of curiosity. Or was it concern?
He was staring attentively at Arpaxos, like he was studying him. And Arpa, looking back and trying to make sense of the intrusion, wondered whether this new character belonged to his fantasy of the re-populated square (an apparition from happier times?). It was easy to imagine that the two of them were meeting to share a drink and talk philosophy, or debate some more practical matter. Did the man belong to the past? Was he a memory like all the rest? Or did he belong to the future? He didn’t seem to fit in the present.
Arpa was confused, and had to fight to resist a creeping disorientation. He understood the man’s style well enough, but beyond that, he could make no sense of his presence, here, in this place. The air itself seemed energized in anticipation.
And the stranger, who’d been surveying Arpaxos and his surroundings, and who’s searching eyes had briefly settled on the sketchbook in the seated man’s lap, finally lifted his eyes, took a decisive step forward, and spoke. ‘I have a message from your daughter. She wants you to know that she is well, and that she loves you very, very much.’
And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, a waiter appeared from inside the taverna to place a small table between the two men, and set out food and drink. Arpa hesitated, then reached out to gently touch the warm bread that filled a plastic basket; he took a single piece into both hands and held it, uncertain. A nearby couple watched this ceremony absentmindedly, then turned away to resume their conversation. From inside the restaurant there echoed a laugh and a rattle of dice. And, as the city itself seemed to get back to whatever it had been doing before the end of the world, the waiter brought a second chair, set it to face Arpaxos, and invited the stranger to sit.
