| Choices Chapter Six |
Carter stared at the gun, barely believing he was repeating what had brought him to this
world, barely believing he was once again staring into the barrel of a gun, faced with a simple
choice - barely believing that he had another chance.
And perhaps most of all, barely believing that enough time had passed for the society which
had grown around him was advanced enough for such things. He knew a lot of time had
passed, but . . .
The wind rustled around, throwing dust up into the air - the branches of the trees moved,
laden with thick clumps of leaves. It seemed as though they should be waving more from the
force of the wind, but his eyes told him the truth as far as how much they were waving. It was
his other senses that were fooling him.
One of the soldiers, a huge man with a tattoo covering his entire face, held his bag. There
were more than three thousand doses of the Anilox vaccine, enough to cover a small clump
of three villages and the people living in between them. Not that much depending on it,
Carter told himself - only fifty percent of the people caught the disease, and only one out of
three died.
Carter tried not to do the math, but he had always had the gift for numbers. And he had
memorized those statistics. About 2700 people in the small villages - farmers and small goat
and pig ranchers, a couple of pottery makers. One of his coffee pots at home had ben made
by one of them. People that he knew were going to die - people whose porches he had sat on
with a glass of milk or water, whose barns he had helped raise and sometimes slept in - if the
statistics were right, about 440 - 450 of them.
Carter’s stomach turned at the thought.
He wished he knew where the soldiers were coming from, but he had no answer for that. All
he knew was the choice that lay before him. It was not his daughter at risk this time - it was
not his daughter, but he realized with sickening dismay that he still held lives in his hands,
and if he allowed himself to be killed those lives would be forfeit.
Seconds only had passed since the fat pale skinned man had asked the question, ‘Do you
deny that Christ is the Lord?’, and not a muscle had twitched inn Carter’s face. His heart
turning, his soul cringing, he uttered the words a second time - “Christ is not the lord,” he
said, his voice steady. For the second time he was denying Christ, and this time without
hesitation. It was not a hesitating kind of moment.
There was no gunshot this time - he was uttering the words to save his own life; only he knew
that he did not count that in the least bit; his own life, if he would even call it that, did not
come into consideration for a second. No one else would have or could have believed him -
no one, except, perhaps, for Shahhan.
And that made this betrayal perhaps all the more damning. The soldiers slung their weapons,
and they were gone in minutes. It fell like an hour before he could climb to his feet, and sling
the sack about his shoulder.
He stumbled on, into the gathering gloom, the sky a bright blue behind him, a deepening
violet ahead.
“Into the darkness of hell I stumble,” he said softly, but then smiled at the thought of the
people he had saved by renouncing, for a second time, the Lord. He would sit on their
porches more and again - and around him, around his little valley and the steep mountains
containing it, the tribes of men grew. Legends formed and were discounted, and the adopted
sons of Carter spread out as well, each delivering the message that Carter had taught them -
that love and compassion and mercy were the deepest wishes of the Creator, and that
nothing else mattered.
world, barely believing he was once again staring into the barrel of a gun, faced with a simple
choice - barely believing that he had another chance.
And perhaps most of all, barely believing that enough time had passed for the society which
had grown around him was advanced enough for such things. He knew a lot of time had
passed, but . . .
The wind rustled around, throwing dust up into the air - the branches of the trees moved,
laden with thick clumps of leaves. It seemed as though they should be waving more from the
force of the wind, but his eyes told him the truth as far as how much they were waving. It was
his other senses that were fooling him.
One of the soldiers, a huge man with a tattoo covering his entire face, held his bag. There
were more than three thousand doses of the Anilox vaccine, enough to cover a small clump
of three villages and the people living in between them. Not that much depending on it,
Carter told himself - only fifty percent of the people caught the disease, and only one out of
three died.
Carter tried not to do the math, but he had always had the gift for numbers. And he had
memorized those statistics. About 2700 people in the small villages - farmers and small goat
and pig ranchers, a couple of pottery makers. One of his coffee pots at home had ben made
by one of them. People that he knew were going to die - people whose porches he had sat on
with a glass of milk or water, whose barns he had helped raise and sometimes slept in - if the
statistics were right, about 440 - 450 of them.
Carter’s stomach turned at the thought.
He wished he knew where the soldiers were coming from, but he had no answer for that. All
he knew was the choice that lay before him. It was not his daughter at risk this time - it was
not his daughter, but he realized with sickening dismay that he still held lives in his hands,
and if he allowed himself to be killed those lives would be forfeit.
Seconds only had passed since the fat pale skinned man had asked the question, ‘Do you
deny that Christ is the Lord?’, and not a muscle had twitched inn Carter’s face. His heart
turning, his soul cringing, he uttered the words a second time - “Christ is not the lord,” he
said, his voice steady. For the second time he was denying Christ, and this time without
hesitation. It was not a hesitating kind of moment.
There was no gunshot this time - he was uttering the words to save his own life; only he knew
that he did not count that in the least bit; his own life, if he would even call it that, did not
come into consideration for a second. No one else would have or could have believed him -
no one, except, perhaps, for Shahhan.
And that made this betrayal perhaps all the more damning. The soldiers slung their weapons,
and they were gone in minutes. It fell like an hour before he could climb to his feet, and sling
the sack about his shoulder.
He stumbled on, into the gathering gloom, the sky a bright blue behind him, a deepening
violet ahead.
“Into the darkness of hell I stumble,” he said softly, but then smiled at the thought of the
people he had saved by renouncing, for a second time, the Lord. He would sit on their
porches more and again - and around him, around his little valley and the steep mountains
containing it, the tribes of men grew. Legends formed and were discounted, and the adopted
sons of Carter spread out as well, each delivering the message that Carter had taught them -
that love and compassion and mercy were the deepest wishes of the Creator, and that
nothing else mattered.
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