THE PALE COLD LIGHT

  The Rain Collective

  by

  J.R. Rain

  The Rain Collective

  The Body Departed

  Winter Wind

  The Pale Cold Light

  Silent Echo

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  All the Way Back Home

  Killer Whale

  The Grail Quest

  The Lost Ark

  The Pale Cold Light

  Published by Rain Press

  Copyright © 2019 by J.R. Rain

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To Diane Arkenstone.

  Beautiful music, beautiful person.

  Wonderful friend.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Reading Sample: Silver Light

  About J.R. Rain

  The Pale Cold Light

  Chapter One

  It is windy and cold and there is rain, too.

  Not a lot of rain, but enough. Enough to make him think he may never be warm again. Warmth is a luxury. He knows that now. He didn’t know that before. He knows a lot of things now. A lot of terrible and wonderful things.

  He pushes through the dusting of rain and keeps his head down and the weight off his disfigured ankle. He keeps the weight off by pushing a shopping cart that, even to this day, works surprisingly well. A gift to him, surely. A gift from God.

  He loves God and will never stop loving God, not now nor ever, no matter what happens. And a lot has happened.

  Thank you, God, for my life, my clothing, my cart with its oiled wheels. Thank you, God, for the breath in my chest.

  He ducks his head against the wind and maneuvers around the broken sidewalk, and breathes through the scarf that covers his lips and nose—especially his nose—a scarf given to him by an elderly woman a day or so ago. Maybe a week ago. She’d gotten out of her car and wrapped the scarf around him as he crossed the street in the crosswalk. He heard her words again, and had started repeating them often, as he did now:

  “You are loved. Never forget that. You are loved.”

  He looks back often for his dog and calls to her until he remembers that she died in his arms not too long ago. He reminds himself now, again, but he looks anyway, just in case. Maybe she didn’t die. Maybe she had died and come back. Maybe she had gotten better. Maybe he had forgotten what happened. Maybe he was thinking of another dog. Maybe he made it all up.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Maybe another dog would come, as she had, years ago, to comfort him. He looks back again, but no. He looks again, this time faster, and almost trips, but she is still not there. He looks again and again, and thinks he sees her, but it is a shadow. Maybe. He will check later. Yes, maybe she would come back from wherever she had gone off to. She would come back to him where she belongs. Her name is Blessed, and he misses her all over again, and cries for her all over again, the tears lost on his cheeks in the rain.

  Maybe he would see her again in his dreams. Boy, he sure does love Blessed. Never knew a dog like her. Always by his side, a friend to the end. He likes friends. He likes people who are nice to him too. He likes people who smile and nod and think of him as a person. He likes to be thought of as a person. He knows he is dirty and talks to himself too much. He thinks everyone talks to themselves, but most people do it alone at home, or in the shower, or in the car. Except he doesn’t have a shower or a home or a car, and so he talks to himself on the street, his home for now. Or in the park, his home for now. Or under the bridge, his home for now. Or in the shelter, which is his favorite home of all.

  He knows his mind is lost. He knows he can’t think one thought for very long at all. He knows this and he does not care because this is the way God made him and he loves God more than himself. God has been so good to him. God has blessed him with life and he loves life and so he loves God.

  He loves the cold because he loves to be warm too.

  He loves smiles because they remind him of God.

  He loves angry people because he knows life is hard. He tells them that God loves them, and sometimes the words come out right and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the words sound wrong to his ears, too, and he wonders when he last spoke. Days, sometimes weeks.

  But sometimes he will go whole days where he does nothing but speak to himself. He likes his voice, even if he can’t understand what he is saying. He knows what he means to say and that’s all that matters. His mind isn’t right and he knows that but some minds don’t have to be right, right? Some can be wrong. And all are from God and he loves God more than he loves himself.

  He wonders what he says, but then he forgets what he is wondering, and people look at him more and he smiles at their frowns and tells them God loves them. He hopes people can see God in him. Some days he knows that God is with him, walking next to him, holding his hand. He can feel God there. He feels it and knows it.

  Where is Blessed?

  His cart squeaks but he is so very thankful for the cart. Whoever made it has to be a genius. The metal. The curved bars. The hundreds and hundreds of tiny welds. The perfect symmetry of the whole beautiful thing. It wasn’t off balance. It was made to help people carry their groceries. It wasn’t made for him, he knows. It was made for a grocery store and he worries that he has sinned, but didn’t he find it behind a dumpster with a half filled can of Coke that was more delicious than anything he had ever drank in all his life? He had, and he doesn’t think it is a sin to find things. He wishes he could ask his mother if it is a sin, but she is gone to heaven, too, with Blessed.

  And someone else, someone else, someone else. A young one. A sweetheart. A precious angel.

  No. No. No.

  Stop. Stop.

  Good. Good.

  Better.

  He pauses, breathes, braces himself.

  It is coming on evening and he knows he needs to find a place to sleep, but he would like to eat, too, although he is less hopeful about eating. He can’t remember when he last ate.

  He pauses, thinks, but nope, he can’t remember.

  He continues on, shuffling, pushing the cart, putting weight on the side of his foot where no weight belongs. His foot hurts. So does his ankle. So does his stomach. His stomach hurts most of all.

  He pauses now and bows his head and feels the wave of panic grip him because he thinks there is a very real chance that he may never eat again, and with his head bowed he thanks the Lord for the food he has provided in the past, and if he is to never to eat again, he understands. More food for others. He likes the idea of others eating, if it’s not him. His stomach hurts. The pain, the pain...

  He continues on and finds tears on his cheeks.

  A woman watches him and shakes her head, and he hears her say something about being pathetic. And he smiles and thanks God that she is healthy and alive and dressed warm and smells good.

  The pain grips him again, a long, slow, sad, throbbing pain.

  His stomach is like a child alone in the forest, alone and afraid and forgotten. He puts his hand on his stomach and tells it everything will be okay because God is good.

  Sometimes he eats well, sometimes he will find a whole meal thrown aside, a half a chicken in a dumpster. Sometimes an angel will buy him a meal while he sits with his dog and looks toward the sun. Sometimes the shelter will give him a hot meal. But the pain always returns, often within hours or days. Sometimes the pain in his stomach is so great that he finds himself weeping in agony, because the child is lost and hungry and he doesn’t know what to do for it.

  But then he prays and asks for forgiveness because he was weak and doubtful and God is great.

  Sometimes angels stop and ask if they can help and
he always points to his dog first and says he is hungry. Sometimes the angels feed his dog, and sometimes they feed him, too. Angels, he knows, are real.

  Blessed.

  He looks back, but she is not there and his heart breaks all over again and he wonders if Blessed is in Heaven with God, and if she has enough to eat, and if someone is taking good care of her, and if her tail is wagging, and if she is happier without him.

  He pauses because his mind is spinning again. It always spins when he thinks of Blessed, it spins and spins, and he can’t see or think and all he feels is loss and fear and worry and hunger. He holds onto his shopping cart with dirty hands and feels the tears and knows his mind might never come back, ever, and he wills it to come back, it has to come back, if his minds goes, then there will be nothing left of him, and he will be gone, gone, gone.

  He breathes and grips the cart and feels a hand on his back and hears an angel’s voice talking to him, now holding his arm. And now the angel is patting his hands, and he thinks this is the first time anyone has touched him in days, weeks, maybe years.

  When he opens his eyes again, he feels the tears on his face and the drool in his beard, and the angel is gone and he is alone again on the broken sidewalk with cars passing and people looking at him and shaking their heads. He grips his shopping cart. He doesn’t remember what just happened or where the daylight went, but he remembers his dog in heaven, and fights another wave of dizziness that threatens to tear his mind away, but he holds on, holds on, holds on.

  And continues forward.

  Evening is coming, and so is the cold wind. He huddles within the many layers of clothing he’s been blessed with. He wonders where he will sleep and if he will eat tonight. If he doesn’t sleep or eat, he is okay with that too.

  He wonders if the angry man will be at the park again, the angry man who had yelled at the crying woman. The angry man in the long black jacket who had taken the woman away, by the hand, deeper into the woods behind the park. He hopes the angry man isn’t so angry anymore, and he hopes the girl is done crying and is happy again. He hopes they ate good today and sat together and held hands and remembered that God loves them. He loves them, too, wherever they are.

  He turns into the park and heads down a slight incline, pushing the cart, and dragging his damaged foot.

  Chapter Two

  Blessed.

  He’d buried her in the park a few nights ago. He’d dug through the mulch and grass and roots and blackberry vines and little worms. He’d used the edge of his hands and scraped up huge chunks of soil. His hands bled. He had spent the past few days picking the dirt and splinters out from under his nails, all while he looked for his doggie, all while wondering where the dirt and splinters had come from.

  He wants nothing more than to sit by the grave of his Blessed, if he can find it. Yes, he remembers where he buried her, behind the trash can and twisted tree. He had placed a marker there. Or so he thinks he did. He is pretty sure he is to look for a branch in the ground. A branch with lots of leaves.

  Once down in the park, he eases the shopping cart into a cozy nook between handicapped parking and the curb. He thinks the carts fit there perfectly, as if the space had been made just for his cart. He looks back once at the cart and smiles. He looks back again for his doggie, too, but remembers she is dead, and he does not think he will ever look back for her again.

  He walks across the grass and misses the steadiness of his cart. He lost his cane a few months ago, although he suspects it was stolen. It had been a fine cane he himself had found leaning against a trash can. The person who stole his cane was surely in worse shape than he is. He is glad they stole it and he hopes they have made good use of it. Maybe someday he will find another cane. Until then, he has his cart.

  Except here on the grass where the cart didn’t roll so good.

  As that thought passes through his mind, he begins looking around for a tree branch and sees one almost instantly. It is all he can do to lean down and pick it up without falling, balancing most of his weight on his one good foot. The ground is uneven and he wobbles and sways and he thinks he might fall but something invisible—surely God—keeps him on his one good leg and now his reaching fingers grab hold of the thick branch. It is a fine branch, still covered in green needles and twigs and offshoots.

  It is also about the right height, too, and he tests it, putting in a little weight on it. It bends but does not break and this is enough for him to smile for the first time all day.

  He moves through the park with his new cane, proud and alive and happy for the first time in a week or so, ever since Blessed died in his arms after panting and not drinking all day. The sun is setting, and he needs to make sure he can see the ground because the woods behind the park are dark and not seeing the ground is what caused him to break his ankle in the first place, years ago.

  Yes, definitely years ago. Maybe just two years ago. Last year, at least.

  He hobbles over the sloping grass and down toward a dark path that leads to where he buried Blessed. More interestingly, he knows this is where the angry man had taken the crying woman last night. This is where he heard them make naked, as he thinks of it, because he cannot get himself to say make love or sex. And he most certainly can’t get himself to say any swear words. Swear words are offensive to his ears, and offensive to God’s ears most of all, and he cringes when he hears them and replaces them in his mind with words that are nicer.

  As the angry man pulled the woman by the hand down into the woods behind the park, the woman had stumbled and falled. Felled? Fellen?

  He feels the panic rise in him until the word ‘fallen’ appears in his thoughts and this settles him down again. He doesn’t like to lose words. He’s lost so many words. He doesn’t want to lose fallen, too.

  From his bench, he watched the angry man yank the woman to her feet and disappear into the trees, where they made naked noises. The naked noises turned into screams, then choking noises. Then gurgling noises. Then nothing. Then, later, the sound of scraping or digging, some grunting. This went on for some time. He thinks it is similar to the sounds he made when he dug a grave for Blessed with his bare hands.

  A little while later the man had emerged alone from the woods. The man wiped his hands on his jeans. His hands were covered in dirt. The man had looked around briefly, wildly, but had mostly kept his head down. The man continued up the path and out of the park, and never once did the man think to look back at the bench.

  That had been last night. He had awakened in the freezing cold, the drool on his face nearly frozen. There had been people already walking in the park but most avoided him and all looked away. He smiled at them anyway.

  He was pretty sure he had dreamed of the angry man and crying woman.

  Now, the grassy slope gave way to low ferns and narrow trails and thick trees that rose higher than skyscrapers. He moved off the trail and did his best to move over rocks and roots and twists and turns. The naked sounds, the whimpering, the choking, the digging, came from around here. He’s sure of it. Okay, maybe not sure of it. He hasn’t really been sure of anything in a long time, except for his love for God and Blessed.

  This is also where he buried Blessed.

  He had carried her here and buried her with his own hands, dragging great heaps of dirt and leaves and branches and rocks, using his hands as a sort of drudge. He doesn’t know where he knows the word drudge but it feels right to him.

  He hadn’t dug very deep. The forest floor had been veritably covered with debris, so many leaves and branches and moss and dead ferns and rotted tree trunks. It had been so easy to use the debris to cover his dog, along with the loose dirt, and he had done a good job building a mound for her, and packing the dirt and debris around the mound, so that she was safe and happy and comfortable. And he had sat next to that mound for the rest of that night, and into the next day, and when he finally stood because he was hungry, he had forgotten why he was sitting next to the mound. And later that day, as he looked for Blessed and didn’t see her, the panic had begun, and then he had lost his mind, he knew, for many days thereafter. He had lost a week or more. He was sure of it.

  He is on the right path now, he is sure of it. Yes, this is where he had buried Blessed. He thinks.