Fiction Friday:
The Book of Micah, Ep. X

Since childhood, I'd feared a burdensome foresight, a vague intuition of changes approaching from just beyond the horizon. As Micah and I walked in the renewed excitement of full candor, compassion, and, I believed, desire, I felt dissipate my dread of his choosing to leave. Yet what remained was a growing fear that he would be taken away from me.

Moon and stars shone from the rare cloudless sky as we walked, arms entwined. A few paces behind, Mother was pulled slightly ahead of Father, our excitedly babbling children grasping each of her hands. For the first time in their memory, the small village square played host to our own harvest festival. We had met pipers and bards and tumblers, followed games and pageants, supped on sweets and drinks and every lovely thing young makers of mischief might dream. The corners of my mouth curved into a grin as I relished these moments of simple celebration with those I most loved.

A tug on my arm caused me to look up into Micah’s face. He glanced down at me with a crooked grin and an unexpected wink. My smile grew more broad and I tightened my fingers on his arm. At his next footfall, Micah stumbled. An instant drew out to an eternity as he fell forward, his arm yanked from my grasp.

“Micah!” I shouted, dropping to my knees beside him.

“Daddy! Daddy!” The children’s voices sounded as though they came from a distant place.

Micah had caught the edge of a rock in the path and his forehead was bloodied, we saw, as Father helped me roll him to his back. Micah held his whole body stiff, yet his arms and legs jerked. His eyes remained open, but as I looked into his face, he appeared to see right through me. His breath sounded harsh and rough, as if he were caught in a nightmare, calling out, yet unable to shout.

Faintly, I was aware of the commotion surrounding us. The children pulled more urgently at Mother’s hands, trying to reach us, yet she held them back. Father rushed back to the village, hoping to find the surgeon. I felt the pounding of my heart, but my mind was oddly calm. Even as his breathing slowly returned to normal, I recognized the end for which I’d been waiting. My sense of foreboding was gone; Micah’s departure was at hand.

In truth, Micah lingered for a full moon. The surgeon offered little hope, yet Micah continued to sip broth, speak in muddled fragments of words, and move himself using only one side of his body. Though he’d been able to stumble back to our home with the help of strong neighbors, he rarely left his bed, spending most days sleeping longer than he was wakeful. Day by day, Micah’s eyes lost their recognition of anything familiar. He refused food and drink. He slept even more. I'd taken to sleeping close to the hearth, so as not to disturb him. His breathing grew ragged and shallow. One morning, I awoke with a start and raced to his side. Micah gasped one final, terrible breath, and he left us.

The children and I walked the journey of the dead. Micah’s body was raised on the funeral pyre and burned to dusty ash. Priests called on the gods to honor his life, his death, his immortality in the small bodies of our children. Winter came mildly that year. I spent hours outdoors overnight, after the children slept. I spoke to Micah as if he were still beside me. I asked questions that would never be answered. I wept. I shouted. I sat in silence, simply breathing in the chilly air before letting it back out in steamy puffs. It was in these moments, I found the foresight no longer felt so disquieting.

A prophet, I was taught, speaks to those who have forgotten to listen. I have little power and no wealth to influence gods or men. I am flush only with stories to share. May those who hear find truth within my tales.

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