Read Online Light the Hidden Things by Don McQuinn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don McQuinn
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“Why, Lord? You let me believe I was forgiven. You know I've repented, lived in remorse. Lila Milam doesn't deserve to be caught up in what happened in things long dead. No one does. Please, don't confound those who've trusted me. I pray you'll protect my secret. If you can't, let any cost fall only on me.”
Chapter 6
The first intimation of dawn over Lupine was the shimmering fade of eastern stars. Black-on-black outlines of mountains - stealthy as thieves, confident as lions - shouldered into view bringing increasing expectation. When the sun cascaded over the peaks, however, that was a blast of raw power strong enough to instantly renew the farms, the forests, the Fortymile, the town itself.
Crow drank it in like wine, parked just down the street from Martha’s restaurant. He lowered the pickup window to savor energized air. He wished he could bathe his face in it. It was that good.
Night had been bad. What he called the red dreams came in full force. Wave after wave of faceless, shrieking enemies, obscure in smoke as rich as blood. They carried obsidian black weapons. Their shine pierced the red darkness the same way bullets and steel shards pierced flesh. Friend and foe alike screamed and stank alike in a perverse brotherhood of killing.
Usually he slept through the dreams. If they woke him, however, he never allowed himself to sleep further that night. If he dropped off too soon after a red dream, memories of Patricia always followed. The memories weren’t real dreams. They were abrupt visions that licked across his mind like grass fires and filled his soul with longing. It was the only time he ever admitted being lonely.
The red dreams were preferable. They were evil, an enemy to confront and be crushed. Sometimes they came with real memories. Young men - good men - destroyed. They screamed. Some cried, not always from physical pain. They mourned their own loss. Companions could only mourn with them, for them. And for themselves.
War took too much. A man couldn't let it destroy him once the fighting stopped. It tried. It insinuated itself into the mind. Beating it was as necessary, as ordinary, as taking cover from small arms fire.
Crow listened to the doctors, the nurses, the experts. He admitted nothing, allowed them to see nothing. They knew more than he ever would. What they didn't know was him. He was his problem. No one forced him into the furnace that forged him. He did what he did because it was right. It was his responsibility to get past the leftover damage.
He'd looked at his own torn flesh, watched his blood cascade onto dirt that lapped it up as carelessly as it absorbed rainwater. Later, he told himself was healed. What happened had nothing to do with the thing trying to eat his mind. Bandages and medicines turned wounds into scars, straightforward reminders of injury. There wasn't any medicine for the red dreams. There was resolve.
And he'd avoided the incoherent memory flashes of Patricia. In the semi-dreams, most of the time she seemed sad, or worried. When she did smile, it was the one he remembered most clearly from the goodbyes; courage hiding fear. Not once, not ever, did it occur to him her fear might be for herself as well as for him.
That shamed him. Now. Too late.
More and more now she appeared further away. Still loving, still wanting to help, too often achingly unhappy.
It wasn't the way she'd been when she was by his side. She supported. She voiced her concerns - she could make her point with a vigor that rocked the house - but when he chose a course, she'd set the sails and work to make it happen. This new, sorrowful image was disturbing.
Love was still there.
Crow shook himself as if throwing off rainwater. A quick tremor in his stomach warned him to stop thinking about all of it. Aloud he said, "Fool. Poking a stick through a fence at a bad dog. Just move on." The sound of his voice was affirming. What happened wasn't the real issue. What counted was that he'd
Chapter 6
The first intimation of dawn over Lupine was the shimmering fade of eastern stars. Black-on-black outlines of mountains - stealthy as thieves, confident as lions - shouldered into view bringing increasing expectation. When the sun cascaded over the peaks, however, that was a blast of raw power strong enough to instantly renew the farms, the forests, the Fortymile, the town itself.
Crow drank it in like wine, parked just down the street from Martha’s restaurant. He lowered the pickup window to savor energized air. He wished he could bathe his face in it. It was that good.
Night had been bad. What he called the red dreams came in full force. Wave after wave of faceless, shrieking enemies, obscure in smoke as rich as blood. They carried obsidian black weapons. Their shine pierced the red darkness the same way bullets and steel shards pierced flesh. Friend and foe alike screamed and stank alike in a perverse brotherhood of killing.
Usually he slept through the dreams. If they woke him, however, he never allowed himself to sleep further that night. If he dropped off too soon after a red dream, memories of Patricia always followed. The memories weren’t real dreams. They were abrupt visions that licked across his mind like grass fires and filled his soul with longing. It was the only time he ever admitted being lonely.
The red dreams were preferable. They were evil, an enemy to confront and be crushed. Sometimes they came with real memories. Young men - good men - destroyed. They screamed. Some cried, not always from physical pain. They mourned their own loss. Companions could only mourn with them, for them. And for themselves.
War took too much. A man couldn't let it destroy him once the fighting stopped. It tried. It insinuated itself into the mind. Beating it was as necessary, as ordinary, as taking cover from small arms fire.
Crow listened to the doctors, the nurses, the experts. He admitted nothing, allowed them to see nothing. They knew more than he ever would. What they didn't know was him. He was his problem. No one forced him into the furnace that forged him. He did what he did because it was right. It was his responsibility to get past the leftover damage.
He'd looked at his own torn flesh, watched his blood cascade onto dirt that lapped it up as carelessly as it absorbed rainwater. Later, he told himself was healed. What happened had nothing to do with the thing trying to eat his mind. Bandages and medicines turned wounds into scars, straightforward reminders of injury. There wasn't any medicine for the red dreams. There was resolve.
And he'd avoided the incoherent memory flashes of Patricia. In the semi-dreams, most of the time she seemed sad, or worried. When she did smile, it was the one he remembered most clearly from the goodbyes; courage hiding fear. Not once, not ever, did it occur to him her fear might be for herself as well as for him.
That shamed him. Now. Too late.
More and more now she appeared further away. Still loving, still wanting to help, too often achingly unhappy.
It wasn't the way she'd been when she was by his side. She supported. She voiced her concerns - she could make her point with a vigor that rocked the house - but when he chose a course, she'd set the sails and work to make it happen. This new, sorrowful image was disturbing.
Love was still there.
Crow shook himself as if throwing off rainwater. A quick tremor in his stomach warned him to stop thinking about all of it. Aloud he said, "Fool. Poking a stick through a fence at a bad dog. Just move on." The sound of his voice was affirming. What happened wasn't the real issue. What counted was that he'd
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