Everything Under The Sun

Thais reached out and touched my cheek. “Tomorrow we’ll be heading that way,” she said. “Their plan was to stay until morning and then they’ll be packing up.”

Frustration washed over me. It felt like we had been on The Road for more than a year, despite the reality of it being only a couple of months. Here we were, just hours from our destination, and having to wait even another minute felt unbearable.

I sighed.

“Okay,” I agreed. “We need them. So, we’ll stay here until the morning.”

“Thank you.” She kissed my cheek.




THAIS




Silence, awkward and noticeable, fell between us. I sensed something was off, but I just stared at the camp behind Atticus, thinking little of it. He had been out of it for a few days, and before that he had been ravaged by thirst and hunger and exhaustion and injury—I imagined it would take a few days more before he could feel like himself again.

“Thais—.” He reached out to touch my hair, but stopped just shy, and his hand dropped back into his lap.

“What’s wrong?” I slid my fingers through his ever-growing beard, troubled by his reluctance.

He looked downward.

“Remember when we first met,” he began, his voice fringed with stifled emotion, “and I vowed to get you somewhere safe? I told you I would do whatever I had to do to get you to Shreveport, and then…”

My hand fell away from his face in an instant; I felt something crushing my heart, and I stood up, as if I needed to be more prepared to handle the pain of his coming words. So I could run away? So I could kick him? So I could look stronger than I would be?

Atticus stood after me. And he just looked at me. And I hated the way he looked at me—I wanted to lay my hand across the side of his face.

“Just say it, Atticus…just say it,” I barked, my face I felt shadowed by resentment.

Atticus’ gaze veered off, and I reached out and grabbed his chin in my hand, forcing him to face me. How dare you! Don’t you look away from me! Don’t be a coward! I did not have to say the words aloud for him to know them.

He sighed.

“I told you I’d help you,” he finally said. “And then I’d leave you to live your life.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! Tears seeped from my eyes, burning, blurring my vision, but I could not wipe them away because my fists were balled, and my arms were stiff at my sides and I could not move them. “Say it!”

Hadn’t he already said it? Yes, he told me he would leave me to my life. But why did it feel so incomplete? What more could he possibly say?

Finally, I wiped the tears from my face, and then turned my back to him, because if I looked at him any longer I would…I would hate him. No. I could never hate him—I would hate myself for ever loving him.

“But I’m selfish, Thais Fenwick,” he told me in a soft voice. “I’m selfish and I want to be with you, and I’ll never leave you, even if you tell me you hate everything about me, I’ll never leave you.”

I turned to face him again, my heart in my throat, and before I could respond, or even understand how to respond, he said:

“I want you to marry me.”

He stepped up closer—I forgot how to breathe.

“Before we leave this camp,” he said, “I want you to be my wife. Because tomorrow is never guaranteed, now more than ever. And if I’m going to die, I want to die knowing you were mine, in every way.”

Overwhelmed by a tumult of incompatible emotions, I didn’t know what to do with myself; I was frozen inside my skin.

But then I fell into his arms. “I will be your wife.”

He smiled, and kissed the top of my head.

“Are you sure?”

I pulled away and looked up at him.

“Well”—I chewed on the inside of my mouth—“I mean, there’s not many men to choose from anymore—”

I cackled when his fingertips dig into my ribs.

“Yes, Atticus! I’m sure! I love you!”

He stopped tickling me. And he looked into my eyes. And I looked into his. And we loved one another and belonged to one another and I knew nothing would ever change that.

“Yes…more than anything in this world, Atticus Hunt, I want to be your wife.”





68


ATTICUS





Flames crawled high, spiraling into the blue-black, star-filled sky; branches popped and crackled under the fire, and spit sparks that became ash carried off by the light August wind. The gypsies, made up of all shapes and sizes and races and religions, danced around the bonfire, men dipping women, women dipping men, children spinning around hand-in-hand. The pounding of drums, the twang of acoustic guitars, the picking of two fiddles. The night was animated with joy; it was as if the world had never ended.

Thais danced with Ossie. I—carefully, because of my injuries—danced with Edith. Everybody danced with somebody. And then we switched. Ossie with Edith. Thais with me. And when we were all tired, everybody sat around the bonfire, and we ate until we were bursting and some drank until they were drunk and others told stories of their adventures. But no one spoke of death or hardship or about any of the terrible things they had witnessed or experienced; they spoke only of happiness and of love and of how life could be and would be. Someday.

The gypsies were a free people, who refused to be intimidated or enslaved by what they called “The Devil’s Disciples”, or, “The False Prophets”, or, “The Scourge of the Earth”, or, “The Damned”, or “The Unclean”. “We are The Resistance! We are the Lord’s Fingers, sweeping across the world like wind across the sands! We are the Protectors of all things good! We live and die for His Purpose!” And the crowd cheered, some raised their arms high into the air, eyes closed, and they praised the Lord with their full hearts and their full souls. Even those who didn’t fit into the same Faith, they too praised their gods and vowed to do Their work. Because in the end, it didn’t matter the god’s name, or the name of their religion—the work was the same, and every Faith a religion of peace. And, perhaps, unbeknownst to the people who worshipped Them, they were all the same God, too, speaking to them in tongues they understood, revealing Himself to them in ways they could relate. Different. But the same. I still had my reservations about religion, but I would’ve been lying if I’d said I wasn’t moved by the gypsies’ faith and devotion.

As promised, Thais sang Hallelujah for the children, but it was not only the children whose souls filled up with love and joy and wonder: the camp fell silent when she began to sing, her angelic voice carried through the forest.

Hallelujah…

Hallelujah…

Hallelujah…

“She’s a remarkable young woman,” Edith told me, sitting next to me on a log near the fire.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of Thais; she walked around the crowd, and amid the crowd, and she sang, and sang, and sang; there were few dry faces amongst the audience when she came to the last line, and mine was no exception.

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