Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
EAMON
The potato plants were blighted again.
I knelt in the cold mud, turning over blackened leaves with fingers already numb from the morning chill, and tried not to think about what this meant for the winter ahead.
Three years running now, the crop had failed.
Three years of watching my neighbors grow thinner and more desperate, of hearing children cry from hunger in the night.
At thirty-six, I was considered an oddity in our small village—a man past his prime with no wife, no children, no family to speak of save for the memory of my dear mother, gone for two years now. My grief was still a sharp ache, not dulled yet as I’d been promised.
The other men my age had married young, filled their cottages with squalling babes and the comfort of a woman’s presence. But I’d never felt the pull toward such a life, much as I’d tried to convince myself I should.
My desires lay in a different direction entirely, toward broad shoulders and calloused hands and the low rumble of masculine laughter.
’Twas a sin according to Father McMahon, an abomination that would see me burn in the fires of hell for all eternity.
So I kept my longings to myself and tended my mother’s flowers, the only beauty left in a world gone gray with want.
“Eamon!” a voice called from the road. “Eamon O’Rourke!”
I looked up from the ruined plants to see young Timothy Brennan running toward me, his face flushed with exertion. “What is it, lad?”
“Me da says you’re to come quick if you’ve a mind to. There’s work to be had at the Finnegan place—they need men to help bring in what grain they’ve managed to save.”
Work meant coin, even if only a few pence. Coin meant bread, maybe even a bit of meat if I were careful with the spending. I wiped my hands on my worn breeches and nodded. “Tell your da I’ll be along directly.”
The walk to the Finnegan farm took me through the village proper, such as it was.
A collection of stone cottages huddled around a crossroads, with Father McMahon’s church standing sentinel over them all.
Children played in the muddy streets despite the cold, their laughter a bright counterpoint to the grimness that had settled over our corner of Ireland like a shroud.
I was nearly to the outskirts when I heard the thunder of hooves and the sharp crack of breaking wood. I spun around.
Murphy Concannon’s horses had broken free from their traces, and the cart they’d been pulling had overturned behind them. Two massive beasts, mad with fear and pain from where the harness had tangled around their legs, careened straight toward the cluster of children playing in the road.
Time slowed to honey-thick syrup. Little Mary Fitzgerald, no more than six years old, stood frozen in terror as a ton of panicked horseflesh bore down on her. The other children scattered like leaves in a gale, some fast enough to reach safety, others too small, too slow.
My body moved before my mind could catch up. I ran toward them, arms spread wide, shouting at the top of my lungs to turn the horses’ attention to me instead.
“Here! Over here, you great beasts! Come for me!”
It worked. Both animals veered toward me, away from the children, their eyes rolling white with terror. I had just enough time to push young Mary aside, to see her tumble safely into the ditch at the roadside, before the first horse struck me.
The impact drove all thought from my head. I felt my ribs crack, felt my shoulder separate with a wet pop, felt myself lifted and thrown like a child’s rag doll. Then the second horse was on me, iron-shod hooves crushing down with the weight of the world behind them.
Pain beyond description. The taste of blood and mud in my mouth. The curious sensation of my life running out of me like water from a broken cask.
But the children were safe. Through the growing darkness, I could hear them crying—frightened, but alive. Mary Fitzgerald would see another sunrise. That had to be enough.
The cold was leaving me now, replaced by a strange warmth that seemed to come from within.
The hunger that had been my constant companion for so long was fading, along with the ache in my bones from too many nights on a straw mattress.
The voices of the villagers grew distant, as if they were calling to me from across a great chasm.
’Twas not so bad, dying. Rather peaceful, once you accepted it.
But then the peace shattered like glass, and I found myself standing in a place that was neither light nor dark, neither warm nor cold. A place that simply was, without beginning or end, without up or down to give it meaning.
And I was not alone.
“Eamon O’Rourke.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, spoken in tones that resonated in my bones.
When I turned toward the sound, I saw…not a person, exactly, but a presence.
Sometimes it seemed masculine, broad-shouldered and strong.
Sometimes feminine, graceful and nurturing.
Sometimes neither, sometimes both, shifting like flame or flowing water.
“Who…? What are you?” I managed, though speech seemed an unnecessary thing in this place.
“I am El. The source, the beginning, the love that binds all things together.” The presence moved closer, and I felt warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. “You have done something beautiful, Eamon O’Rourke.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You gave your life for children who were not your own. Asked nothing in return, expected no reward. That kind of love, that selfless protection of the innocent, is what makes humans most precious to me.”
I thought of Mary Fitzgerald’s face, frozen with terror. Of the other children, some no older than she. “’Twas no choice at all, really. Could hardly stand by and watch them be trampled.”
“Could you not? Others might have. Others have.” The presence that was El shifted, showing me glimpses of infinite compassion. “But not you. Never you.”
“Am I dead then?”
“Your mortal form has ceased, yes. But your soul…” El moved closer still, and I felt myself embraced by something vast and loving beyond human comprehension. “Your soul has choices yet to make.”
“Choices?”
“The first is simple enough. You may proceed to whatever destination awaits you in the hereafter—judgment, reward, punishment, whatever your mortal beliefs have prepared you to expect.”
My stomach clenched with old, familiar fear. Father McMahon’s voice echoed in my memory, thundering about the torments that awaited those who lay with their own kind, who harbored unnatural desires in their hearts.
“And if…” I swallowed hard. “If that destination is not a pleasant one?”
El’s laugh was like music, like spring rain on new flowers. “Oh, my dear child. You think I would condemn you for love?”
“’Tis not natural love, what I feel. The Church says—”
“The Church says many things, not all of them in keeping with my will.” El’s presence surrounded me, warm and accepting in a way I’d never experienced in life.
“Love is love, Eamon. Whether it flows between man and woman, man and man, woman and woman—all of it springs from the same sacred source. The human heart’s capacity to love another soul is what makes your species so precious to me. ”
The words hit me like a physical blow, driving out fear I’d carried for decades. “You… You don’t condemn such feelings?”
“I created them,” El said simply. “Every form of love that brings joy without causing harm is holy in my sight. Your desires are no more sinful than your need for bread or water or the warmth of sunlight on your face.”
Tears I didn’t know I could still shed ran down my face. “Then why do they preach otherwise?”
“Because mortals fear what they do not understand, and sometimes, that fear corrupts even the most well-meaning teachings.” El’s voice grew gentle. “But you need not fear judgment from me, Eamon O’Rourke. Your heart is good, your soul pure. Paradise awaits you, should you choose it.”
“You said there were choices. What else might I choose?”
“To serve. To protect. To become something more than mortal, tasked with guarding those who cannot guard themselves.” The space around us shifted, showing me glimpses of other realms, other possibilities.
“I have need of guardians, Eamon. Angels to watch over the innocent, to stand between them and those who would do them harm.”
“Angels?” The word felt strange on my tongue. “You mean like in the scriptures?”
“Like that, yes, though perhaps not quite as your priests imagine them.” Warmth touched me again, reassuring. “You would be immortal, powerful beyond mortal understanding. But you would also be bound to service, to protecting those in need wherever they might be found.”
I thought of the children in the road, of Mary Fitzgerald’s terrified face. Of all the other innocents in the world who faced dangers they could not overcome alone.
“Would I…? Would I remember this life? Remember who I was?”
“Every moment of it. Your memories, your experiences, your capacity for love—all of that would remain. Indeed, those very qualities would make you effective in such service.”
“And if I chose this path, would it be forever?”
El was quiet for a long moment, and when they spoke again, there was something almost…knowing in their voice. “Every soul’s journey has both a beginning and an end, Eamon. Some endings become new beginnings when the heart learns its truest purpose.”
I frowned, trying to parse the meaning behind the words. “I don’t understand.”
“You need not, just now. Understanding will come in its own time, when your heart is ready to receive it.” El moved closer again, and I felt their infinite patience. “What matters now is this: will you choose to serve? Will you become my guardian, my protector of the innocent?”
I thought of paradise, of eternal rest and the promise of seeing my dear mother again. Then I thought of children like Mary Fitzgerald, facing dangers they could not overcome alone.
The choice, when it came to it, was no choice at all.
“Aye,” I said, my voice steady despite the magnitude of what I was accepting. “I’ll serve. I’ll protect them.”
El’s joy washed over me like sunlight after a storm. “Then welcome, Guardian Eamon O’Rourke. Welcome to your new existence.”
The pain that followed was unlike anything I’d experienced in life or death—a searing, transformative agony that felt like being unmade and rebuilt at the most fundamental level. My mortal form dissolved and reformed, my human limitations stripped away and replaced by something vast and powerful.
When it finally ended, I stood changed. Immortal. The hunger and cold and bone-deep weariness that had defined my mortal existence were gone, replaced by strength beyond human comprehension.
And from my shoulders unfurled wings—great, magnificent things of shadow and silver light, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They spread wide, spanning impossible distances, and I felt the weight of my new purpose settle into my bones.
I was no longer Eamon O’Rourke, poor Irish farmer. I was Guardian Eamon, protector of the innocent, servant of El’s will.
The last thing I saw before the vision faded was El’s presence, still shifting and beautiful, watching me with pride and something that might have been anticipation.
“Go well, my guardian,” they said. “Your true purpose awaits you, though you may not recognize it when it comes. Trust your heart, Eamon. It will not lead you astray.”
Then I was soaring through infinite space, my new wings carrying me toward my first assignment, my first charge to protect.