He stood at the bank of the rapids, hands on his waist with his face askew, twisting to produce some solution tot his problem. The sides of the now quite narrow path Peter was traveling on were of no boon to his plight. To his left was a rocky embankment, almost vertical enough to be considered a cliff. Here the torrent dropped off in an unbounded waterfall. Not peaceful, it was a rush job thrust upon the normally serene setting by a truly blood thirsty storm.
Peter wondered, 'what hand does my god have in this?' and prayed a moment.
To the right side of the path was a slope nearly as steep as the drop to the left. The slope was covered in a layer of leaves and mud which was now threatening to slide downward onto the trail blocking Peter's way in either direction.
After compiling all of his pros and cons, Peter decided he could risk trying to make it across the mess of a stream. 'If i make it into town tonight I can sleep in the church, start a fire and warm up.' The prospect of a warm fire gave Peter the final push he needed to make his attempt.
He once again inspected the turbulent aquatic terrain looking for the best way across. It was all basically the same and Peter settled for a full charge across. Straight line. Pushing off of the edge of solid earth with his left foot, his right was shot down into the freezing cold rapids- to his waist. Upon reaching the bottom, his right foot slid immediately from its landing spot on the mossiest of stones.
Submersion.
Black.
He awoke with water in his nose. This was a feeling he had always dreaded. Such constant discomfort could drive him mad. After coming to terms with the plight of his nose (in what to a perfectly conscious person would seem to be a quarter of a second- to the delirious Peter seemed to be an hour or so) Peter came to be aware of his surroundings. He was not yet warm but was no longer being beaten with the lashes of winter. That devil storm. He was laying down and covered by blankets, he knew this feeling and it lifted his spirits greatly. No longer possessing the fear of opening his eyes and dispelling some dream, he awoke to a warmly light wooden celling. He blinks. His eyes have cleared and in the corner of his newly found vision sits a woman.
'Your alive! Its a wonder!' The woman says. Peter could hear that she was old. He could see her as she stood and hovered over him. She had silver hair and a face shaped like an old vegetable.
'Ive made you soup, whenever you feel as-though you're able to sit up you ought to have some.' She Began moving away, into the room. ' You're very lucky we found you there! How did you manage to land yourself in the stream?'
Peter spoke with a stifled voice,'I was coming down to deliver a letter. I wanted to make it to town.'
'Well you made it boy, I wouldn't suggest the same rout next time' The old woman replied. 'My husband found you washed up against a rock right near the small bridge leading into town, Over the stream. Said you were just a stranded noodle.' She said followed by a laugh.
Peter sat up to inspect the room and capitalize on warm soup. He was still very cold, keeping with him some of the chill he had accrued floating down the stream. He swung his legs off of the bed in which he was laid to find his feet had no feeling in them. ' Miss-' He called to her, starring at the dead feet. 'My feet don't work.' Peter had grown up fast but this was that childish fear, all consuming and real.
'Don't worry, they have to warm up slowly, soon well put them in warm water.' The Old Woman picked up the soup and started toward Peter. ' Now why were you coming down again? Do you come from the Monastery? Awfully young, Do you come from there?' She sounded genuinely interested.
' Yes that is where I'm coming from' Peter said not caring, accepting the soup in his hands, and with all of his mind. This was his focus. It was probably too hot for normal hands to hold, the woman used a rag, but Peter cupped the bottom without a wince. There was no spoon so he sipped from the bowl. It warmed him instantly and his face went flush.
'My son is stuck up in that damned monastery on some tangent. The menace conducting that operation ought to be hung.' The woman said. Peter did not flinch but continued with his soup. ' How did they steal you away eh?' She asked cocking her head.
Peter looked up.' Well my parents were killed so I was sent to there to live. It really isn't so bad.' And for what Peter knew, it wasn't.
'We couldn't pay our proper tax on account of the hard times so they took our boy. Said he had to work doing labor for that monastery for a year. At the end of the year that Cardinal had him thinking he was on a mission from god. Now they call him Brother'
Peter looked up from his bowl.' What was his name, there's a chance I know him. I know a lot of the Brothers up there.' Finishing and taking another sip.
'They call him Brother Isaac.' She said sitting on the bed beside Peter. ' He is Brother Isaac now. That Cardinal changed him somehow. Got into his head. Better hope he hasn't gotten into yours. You really ought to leave that place.You can stay with us. We have raised a boy before.'
She leaned in. She wanted a son again.
Peter forced the sip of soup down his now clenched and nervous throat. This was the mother of that poor wino who killed himself. He looked over at his jacket resting by the wood oven, knowing inside was the death notice of this sweet woman's son. He knew she deserved to know but did not want to be the one to tell her.
The sound of the rain grew louder a moment as the door to the outside swung open and a thoroughly coated man stumbled in. ' Your awake boy! amazing! He's alive!'
Peter Wondered about god.
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