Soul Searching

A Small White Church

In a sleepy Southern town, sometime around the year 1900, a rooster crowed. It was dawn, and Devon was awake. Isaac took a few moments to remember where, when and most immediately who he was and sat up in bed. It was time to move on from this place.

He cracked the bedroom window and peered outside. It was a muggy and overcast day. Not particularly hot but still weather you'd sweat in. He breathed in the fresh morning air and it filled his lungs, energizing him.

He washed himself at a small ceramic basin in the bedroom using cold water from the hand pump out back, and changed his clothes. He packed his leather satchel with another change of clothes, a jacket and whatever money he could scrounge.

After searching the house for anything that might be useful on his travels, he found a Bible with a secret compartment full of cash. The Good Book indeed. He thought this was as good a hiding place as any. He pocketed the money and went to the kitchen to find some food for the road.

He found some dried meat, another hunk of old bread and a few cans of French sardines. Fancy, he thought, smiling. He actually loved sardines. Well, his old body did.

He thought Devon must have liked them as well since he stocked some at his house. He had learned a very specific fun fact over the course of this journey; vessels keep some of their preferences even after the soul has moved on. He always felt especially disappointed when his borrowed body didn't like chocolate.

After packing up, Devon set off to cover as much ground as he could, scouting any sign of her. He stood outside the front door for a few moments, looking at the small town, considering where to begin. He turned right and headed for mainstreet. Trains seemed like the best option to get around quickly, but he hadn't seen any tracks or heard any horns since he'd been here. There would be a lot of walking involved, he'd bet Devon's canned sardines on it.

He reached what would likely be considered the heart of the small town and saw a small white church with a delicate steeple. It catches his eye so he turns towards it, walking closer. As he approaches the door, he sees a sign that says "Open For Personal Devotion". He glances over his shoulders, making sure he's not drawing any attention. Satisfied that the drunk brute from the bar is still probably sleeping it off, he enters and finds the church empty.

He slips into a pew and sits down awkwardly, hands in his lap. Isaac was never religious. He was raised loosely in the Greek Orthodox church but didn't continue after becoming an adult. Now, churches brought up painful memories from his old life.

His dad, so young and happy with no limp when he walks or stiff joints, taking him to church on Sundays...

His wedding, to the most beautiful bride to have ever existed…

Her funeral.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from falling. He knew if he started crying, it would be hard to stop. He didn't want to draw any more attention to himself than he had by weeping uncontrollably.

He mentally recited the only two official prayers he knew: The Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary. He learned them in Greek as a child but those particular memories had faded and he defaulted to English. He liked to try and think in Greek sometimes. It was the language his Greek immigrant father had taught him as a child and it was precious to him.

After saying his meager prayers, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward. In a silent prayer, he begged for guidance towards Helena. 'God… or whoever is listening. Please. Please let me find her. I'm not asking for anything else. Just point me in the right direction. PLEASE.'

He opened his eyes and a tear escaped, sliding down his cheek. He sat back in his seat and wiped his face with a distracted pawing motion. Then he just sat for a while. He sat in silence, staring up at the altar, thinking of nothing.

His trance was broken when a pastor dressed in black robes opened a side door and walked in, carrying a pitcher of water. Isaac wondered casually if it was holy water. He unceremoniously stood up and walked out of the door, back onto the dusty road.

He walked to the edge of a street and was pleased to see a road sign. It was the type he'd seen in old movies or cartoons. Ones that had several signs poking off in all directions. This sign had 4, each pointing in a compass direction. He had come loosely from the direction of the sign that read Morrel Creek 7 Miles, so he decided to go in the opposite direction. The sign read Winston 23 Miles. He thought that seemed like the name of a town, hopefully one that had a train station.

He rummaged through his pack, checking to see what kind of overnight materials he had. He'd brought the matches from earlier, a folding knife and some rope he found. He had a small folded blanket he intended on using as a lean-to if he needed to spend the night in the wilderness.

And lucky for him, Devon owned a revolver. It was nicely hidden in a dresser drawer under some clothes. He felt mostly prepared for the trip. He wished he had a little more food, but little things didn't matter.

He was a big picture kind of guy now and tried not to sweat the small stuff. He could always ditch this vessel and hop into a new one, though he'd prefer to be a bit more thorough in this location and time.

He stepped onto the fork in the road and started his journey towards Winston.