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"But you can't ask me to kill someone for you, just like that. No matter what he's done."
"I can. You will. Look, it's no big thing. We'll just drive over there. You shoot him and we drive back. That's all there is to it. You'll have to drive, of course."
"And what's going to happen to me afterwards?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. Why should it? Nobody has to know. And besides, She'll probably fix him up. But it'll put a scare into him. He won't use acid for ink again, I'd bet."
"What if She doesn't? What do I do then?"
He waved a hand, negligently. "Ah, you worry too much. It'll be all right, you'll see. Now come on. We've got to get going."
The only thing I could see to do was to seem to go along, and hope God would show up before things became serious. I just didn't know what could happen if Hemingway turned ugly or vindictive.
The rain started again while I was changing clothes. It pounded down in sheets and spilled off the eaves in rivulets, in streams. It slackened just before I'd gotten ready to leave but the wind strengthened. It got to howling around the cabin, escalating now and then to an all-out roar, then slacking off again, but not for long. And all through this the lightning and thunder continued, flashing and thumping, now near, now farther away.
I had thought perhaps I could go off by myself and just not come back, but it became clear very shortly that that wouldn't work. He had every intention of going along. He had to, he said; it wouldn't mean anything if he wasn't there to see it happen. I figured maybe I could stall, hesitate when we came across the man and let him escape, but Hemingway warned me about that.
"Don't try it," he said angrily. "I know what you're thinking. You'll do the job or you'll be sorry the rest of your life. I'll see to that." But he wouldn't say any more, wouldn't even hint at what could happen, what he could do to me.
We had gotten part way out to the car when I first noticed it. It was the wind, and yet it seemed to be something else. Its rustling roar carried an undercurrent that could be heard if listened for. There was a pattern to it, and the ear was attracted. The mind, too, seemed to have no choice but to pay attention. It was a breathy, over-driven series of what began to sound vaguely like words. It became stronger, the signal strength, if I can call it that, increasing in comparison to the background noise, the bellowing, rushing blast of wind.
It began as a repeated syllable, over and over, and then with other half-sounds worked in. It became clearer. "Pa . . . pa, . . . pa . . . pa . . ." And then, "Pa . . . pa . . . come. Pa pa come . . . home. Where are you? Papa come home." It repeated as we moved to the car, increasing in volume and clarity.
The wind, too, picked up even more, buffeting and pushing, making us fight against it. There was another flash, an immediate crash and the following, echoing and diminishing thump and growl of thunder.
Hemingway was uneasy. I was sure he heard the sounds more clearly than I. Certainly if what he'd said before was true he'd heard it more than once. Many times, probably. He kept his big, grizzled head swinging, as though seeking in all directions for a sight of his pursuer. When we got to the car he stopped, glancing at me and away. I was struggling; it was up to me to carry all my other gear and the shotgun as well. He couldn't, he had repeated, handle anything physical, anything real.
I dumped everything in the back seat, the shotgun angled up from the floor with its barrel showing through the car window, and turned to get in. Hemingway was looking from me to the direction of the distant peaks and back again. He spoke as I swung the driver's door open. "You'd better go ahead. I'll join you later." Then his expression turned threatening, his eyes burning into mine. "Just don't fail me. You wouldn't like what would happen." Then, with no warning, he was gone.
It was that quick. He was gone and She was there. With no transition, standing exactly in the place he had been. I got a quick glance of those eyes and then they were turned away. It was enough. I couldn't say a word, couldn't even move.
She appeared to be an average sort of woman, a little on the small side but well proportioned. An attractive lady, but not pleasant; She was too impressive for that. Not that it mattered, I guessed. There was a aura of power and presence around her that was palpable, and the one glance of those clear, cool eyes stopped everything. I mean, everything.
That was when I noticed that the wind had died. It was quiet around us, as still as I've ever known it to be. Nothing moved or breathed; even the leaves hung without movement on the nearby trees and the sweep of grass across the meadow was still, standing stiff and tall, unmoving. There was not even the slightest sound of water, dripping or running. Lightning and its thunder were gone, too, as if they'd never been. I simply stood waiting, for what I didn't know.
The thought had gone through my mind that She might feel I was responsible, that I should have somehow behaved differently, found some way to bring Hemingway into some semblance of reason and talked him out of his intent.
She turned then and smiled at me, a piercing sweetness. "No, child, there's no blame. You couldn't have done anything. Sometimes I think even I'm wasting my time with that man. But I suppose I'm responsible, if anyone is; Free Will was my idea, after all. He's always been a handful. I don't even know if what he accomplished was worth all the bother it sometimes caused." The voice was gentle, but of ultimate clarity. There was no other sound, no interruption.
I still appeared unable to say anything, but She didn't seem to expect it. She looked directly at me then. "And you're another writer, eh? I suppose you'll want to write about this, too, what's happened here today."
"Uh." My voice was back but I didn't seem to know what to do with it. "Uh, yes. Um, are you . . . I mean, are You really . . . " I sort of waved a hand all around, unable to finish, not daring to say it.
"God? Yes, I guess I am. Does that disturb you?"
"Uh, no Ma'am. It's just, uh, well I never thought . . . uh, You know . . ."
"Um. Never thought I was a woman? Humpf. Ever think about it at all?
"No, Ma'am. Not really. I'd just always supposed, I guess, uh, You know ..."
"Yes, that's the point. I do know. But I have to be getting on. I've got to get Papa back home. I just call him that because he hates it so. Thinks it ruins his image -- but he needs a bit of discipline."
"Uh, what about the critic, Ma'am?"
"Oh, I'll take care of that. I'll just take the whole thing out of Papa's mind. He won't even remember it."
"Almighty, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"You mean, really? No limits?"
"Skeptical because I'm a woman? None that I know of, and who else would?
"Uh, but then, uh, ... how come You didn't know where he was?"
"Oh, that. I did, of course. It's a game I play with him, although he's not aware of it. If he didn't think he could get away now and then it would break his spirit. He wouldn't be the same man.
"Meanwhile, are you sure you want to write about this? Nobody's going to believe it, you know."
"I know, but it doesn't matter. I've got to. Unless You stop me."
"Me? I'm not going to stop you. I'm not even sure if I could. Free Will was a general dispensation, you know. I set the rules, of course, and natural laws and like that, but once done I'm not about to change them. But I see trouble coming."
"Trouble?"
"Trouble. You're a writer, and determined. You're going to be good, too. Maybe as good as Papa. And as prideful."
I couldn't stop the flood of exultation that swept over me. This is God... and She's telling me, me ...
She smiled faintly, clearly aware of my thoughts. Then there was an audible sigh. She shifted Her stance slightly, and I swear I could feel Earth tremble beneath me. Then She stared straight at me. "Oh, no. If there's anything I don't really need it's a second one like that." Another sigh.
Then She was gone and I stood there, watching and listening, while the earth shook itself and began to struggle back to normal around me.
The End
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