Chapter 18

The next pen was colored with a red tartan pattern and had been found by the old man on the cobblestone floor of the Wilfordrshire castle, in the shepherding country of Scotland. The pen was immediately recognized by the tour guide when the old man took it out of his coat upon his return there. "Doesn't belong to the castle-'tis the pen of a good friend of mine, John Isaacson,"he said,"See the initials engraved there?"

The old man obliged. "Aha–know where I can find the lad?" he asked in his best Scottish accent, for the old man had a habit of trying to match his voice and manner to that of whomever he conversed with though he was never very convincing. 

"In the pasture just on the other side of this hill tending, he'd be."
 
"Sheep?"

"I like to think of his as wooly acrobats," said the tour guide showing a bird's eye picture on his phone of a smiley face formed from the furry white animals,"That's John's flock-all 100."

"Amazing-how do they do it?"

"Follow the sheepdogs...who follow the shepherd."

But when the old man walked over the hillside and found the apparent local celebrity, he was anything but "smiley". John Isaacson, a burly looking fellow was heading toward the woods, beside the pasture where his flock was grazing, when the old man approached.

"This is yours, I believe," said the old man trying to hand him the pen, but he was ignored.


"Dot!" John cried out,"Dottie-my love!!"

"Did you lose your wife?" asked the old man.

"No, my sheep–wife ran off years ago,"answered John," Now she's deserted me, too–'less that bloody thief, Ivan Malloy stole 'er. Dottie!!"

"Perhaps a wolf got her?" suggested the old man.

"In Scotland??" laughed the shepherd,"ain't been wolves here since the 14th century, lad. King eradicated 'em."

The old man tried to hold his tongue but he couldn't. "Where there is sheep there are always wolves,"he said.

The shepherd stopped at the tree-line. "The only ravenous, blood-thirsty animals 'round here are down at the pub-now if you'll excuse–"


"Can I just give you this?" the old man tried to return the pen but again was unsuccessful as the shepherd disappeared into the forest. "Wait!!" The old man reluctantly followed, "Bloody wait!"

"God help us with that accent," sighed John, sarcastically.

"Oh, He will-of that I have no doubt,"replied the old man.

"Makes one of us."

"Why do you doubt Him?"

"Well he certainly ain't cared nothin' about the falling fleece prices. A shepherd can't feed his family on pennies a clip. Mind you–I haven't lived a godly life like the long line of cross–bearers 'fore me. Let's just say I'm the black sheep of the clan, not worth–Oh, what am I bloody confessing to an old man–and what do you bloody want, anyway??"

Just then, a rustling noise was heard in the nearby thicket.

"Dottie is...is that?–" said John.

"Look–"interrupted the old man,"The way you live is no business of mine, I've come to simply return this pen to you." The old man placed the pen right in front of John and this time the shepherd took it and examined it like a sword distracting him from the noise in the bushes.

"Oh yes-must've dropped this in Wilfordshire castle when–" A ferocious growl masked his last words like thunder clapping, as a large aggressive beast sprang from the bushes and assaulted the shepherd, knocking him to the ground.

Then, just as suddenly, the terrifying growl turned into a painful yipe that faded 'til the animal went limp and turned into furry silver and grey blanket covering John Isaacson.

"A wolf??" said the bewildered shepherd.

"Aye laddy 'tis so."

John rolled it off, revealing the blood-soaked pen with which he had stabbed the animal.

As the two men stared silently, a sheep came sauntering out of the fauna.

"Dottie! Dottie!" the  shepherd laughed until crying, as the sheep licked his face, "perhaps God has left the ninety and nine to find us both, my love."

"No doubt he has,"said the old man,"for He is the Good Shepherd."

As the three walked back to the pasture the shepherd said,"God has looked out for me today, but tomorrow I have have a commodity that I cannot sell for a profit in this dark cruel world?" 

"I understand you have quite a talented flock,"said the old man,"perhaps there is more than wool you have to sell. Do not doubt, John Isaacson, the Light of this dark cruel world will show you the way and when He does, I should like to hear about it."

"Then you shall,"said John. 

And so the old man left his address with the shepherd and went on his way...

Chapter 17

The Hotel of Inconsequences was a spacious seven story lodge-one for each deadly sin-perched on the edge of a very high cliff overlooking a deep valley below.

Paying guests arriving via sky lift were treated to a twenty-four hour, guilt-free, consequence-free, all-u-can sin buffet. 

At least that was the brochure's promise...

The old man's previous stay was quite brief. In fact, he never actually entered the iniquitous building having become so nauseated from the bumpy ride up and, consequently, left with a full refund.


The long unbreakable carbon fiber pen he had slipped into his pocket, belonged to the front desk at the ticket counter at the bottom, but he was told he could keep it. 

He turned to leave but felt compelled to take another ride in the sky lift.

"Why would you send me back into the den of iniquity?" the old man asked the voice.

"Art thou better than He who was found among sinners?" 

The old man rolled his eyes and entered the tram mumbling,"Ok, but this could get messy." 

As the lift began the ascent up the mountainside, he noticed an approaching storm and that the only other occupant in the tram was a young boy that couldn't be more than fourteen years old, looking defiantly at the shrinking town below.

"I hate to disturb you but do you mind if I ask your weight?" asked the old man.

"75 pounds, I think,"said the boy.


The old man did some quick mental math and, stepping to one side, concluded,"That would put me right about...here."


"What's it matter?"said the boy.


"I am trying to stand in the optimal position for equal weight distribution so that this thing doesn't rock back and forth so much. But if you don't mind me throwing up in this tram, I suppose you're right–it doesn't matter."

The boy's sneer turned into a look of concern."What do you mean rocking back and forth?"

"Oh yeah-last time it almost came off the hinges-a consequence of poor design, I'm sure. So what brings you up here?"


"Parents,"said the teenager.


"What kind of parents would send a kid to a place like this?"


"My parents didn't send me here-I ran away, dude."


"Let me guess,"said the old man as the tram reached mid-point,"they told you that you can make your own choices but you can't choose the consequences of your choices."


"Yeah-they don't think a place like this exists. But I found it, man–and I'm never going back."


A deafening thunder clap muted the boy's last words as a vein of lightening streaked down from the sky.


"Assuming we even make it to the top,"said the old man as the car suddenly stopped.

"Is it supposed to do this?" said the boy.


"Yes, it's completely normal..."

The boy sighed with relief.

"...when the top of the tram is hit by lightening," finished the old man.


A heavy wind began blowing across the valley that tossed the car violently like a beaten pinata.

"You see having no consequences puts us in a difficult position!"shouted the old man trying to hang on.


"What's that?!" cried the terrified kid clinging to a floor rail.


"Without consequences there is no future!"


"What're you talking about, dude?!"

"The future is only made up of two things, and one is the consequences of our choices!"


"What's the other one?!"


"The acts of God!"


The two braced themselves as another bolt hit the top of the tram and they dropped like an airplane in turbulence as sparks rained past the windows.

The old man tried to pry open the doors but they were locked tight. 

Then, he saw a hatch above him that he managed to open,"C'mon-there is only one way out!"

The young man followed the old man thru the hatch onto the top of the tram which was teetering. They could see the connection was badly damaged and barely attached to the steel cable above it. One of the pulley wheels suddenly broke free and fell 'til it dissappeared into the fog below.


"It's coming off and we're going with it!"screamed the boy.

"Not if we hold onto this cable and zip-line back down to the bottom of this mountain,"said the old man.

"What in God's name are we gonna use for that?"


"A pen, of course." 

The old man pulled the unbreakable carbon fiber writing utensil out of his coat pocket and placed it over the steel cable, his hands grasping the two ends,"Jump on my back, son."


The boy obeyed and just as their four feet left the roof of the tram, it separated completely from the line and disappeared into the abyss.

"Don't let go!" yelled the old man as wind and rain pelted their faces. 

The boy held tight as the two zip-lined all the way down to the bottom, safely.

But just as they got on firm ground, it began to shake violently.


"Earthquake!"yelled the boy. 

The two ran into an open field and watched as the cliff upon which the hotel was perched which gave way and sent the seven-story Hotel of Inconsequences plunging into the valley below.

"How did that–?" began the boy when the smoke cleared.

"Consequence of trying to eliminate all consequences, I suppose," said the old man.

"Thanks for turning me around."

"Thank God,"said the old man,"Like the steel cable, He is The Iron Rod. And remember what I said up there."

"What?"

"Don't let go." 

Then the old man said,"I should like to hear about the consequences of your future choices, do you have a small piece of paper I can write my address on?"

"Consequently, I do."said the boy. 

And with that the old man gave him his address and went on his way...

Chapter 16

The next pen belonged to the St. Joseph Cathedral in the old man's hometown. It was large parish with a   school beside it where the old man had attended as a youth, being raised Catholic. But he had not returned there since, except for his neighbor's wedding which was the occasion where he swiped the black pen from the table in the foyer where the guestbook lay, being the ninety-eighth and final recorded guest at the affair.

After finding no clergy in the foyer, the old man entered the chapel. The ornate and spacious sanctuary full of statues, Sistine-like murals on the
rotunda ceiling, and the hanging crucifix had not changed in the sixty years since he had taken his first communion. In fact, it seemed the very same Gregorian choir–whom the old man as a boy thought lived in the walls–had never aged nor stopped for so much as a breathe of air, but continued their eternal sanctus faintly heard through the sound system.

And there it was...the old wooden confessional with scarlet curtains-still just off the stage-which he had often entered to receive sacramental penance for the misdeeds of his youth. 

Suddenly, out of the confessional, stepped a parishoner-a dark-looking young man in a hooded sweatshirt-who profaned the reverent air with cursing as he rushed out of the sanctum.

Still unable to find someone to return the pen to, the old man approached the confessional and knocked on the wood and whispered,"Pardon me, Father-"


"Enter, my son, and I shall hear your confession,"whispered a voice thru the curtain.


"Oh I don't think I need to confess, I just wanted to-"


"The Lord will judge that, my son."


Reluctantly, the old man entered the confession booth and rested on the kneeler. It was much smaller and lighter than the dark dungeon he remembered as a teenager, but as he knelt he seemed to magically regress to the age of sixteen.

The screen opened and he could see the meshed and gravity worn face of a priest who oddly resembled one whom he had confessed his dangerous and immoral behavior to long ago. He still remembered his words:

"Be grateful you did not die in your sin, my son–for no unclean thing can enter the Kingdom of God." 

He recalled the murky swamp of guilt bathing and pickling his soul and then the tsunami of peace that washed over him when the priest uttered the words,"You are forgiven, my son." 

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,"said the old man as if addressing the crucifix hanging in the small window.

"Continue..."said the Father.


"Well, I don't know if it is a sin, actually,"continued the old man," but a few years ago, I was attending a wedding here and upon signing the guestbook, I pocketed this long black pen." 

Then old man slid the pen thru a small grid hole to the priest.

"Was this a pen you coveted, my son?"

"No, I have no need for pens..I have plenty of others."


"And how did you obtain these other pens?"


"Well...in the same way, I guess-"


" Are you familiar with the commandment: Thou Shalt Not Steal?"


"Yes, Father. but I have been returning them all.."


"Ahh, restitution is as important as confession. A truth some young people do not like to hear."


"Yes-he seemed very upset," agreed the old man, assuming the Father referred to the young man who had stormed out. When he realized–by the Father's silence–that he was challenging a confidence, the old man redirected the conversation,"Are there sins for which no restitution can be made?"


"Yes."

"Which ones, Father?"


"Thou shalt not commit adultery. For once the virtue of a woman is taken it cannot be returned."


"Then what hope is there for such a sinner?"


The rhythm of their conversation was broken again by a long pause. Then the Father said, "You are forgiven, my son. Go thy way and sin no more."

Seconds later, what sounded like a gun shot echoed thru the cathedral. And then sneakers squeaking across the marble floor.

The old man quickly slid his curtain and saw the hooded young man run out of the cathedral. 

Then he saw the quarter-size hole in the curtain of the center booth and flung the cloth open.

The priest had his hand over his heart on his black robe.

"Oh dear...dear God!" he cried in a trembling voice, seeing the wet crimson stain on his palm.

"You're shot! I'll get help-where's–"the old man began.

"No..time...please take this," begged the dying priest, handing the black pen back to the old man,"Take my confession."

The old man snatched a program from the previous day's mass in a nearby pew,"Okay...go ahead."

"Father, f..forgive me...for I have sinned..."he whispered laboring,"I...always tried...bring honor to the Church...but I...I was weak once... fathered a child...Will not implicate her...know they are taken care of...Oh God, Please...forgive...will sign..." 

The priest scribbled his initials at the bottom,"Give to the bishop–"

Suddenly, the priest's whole countenance changed from the heavy forlorn look to one of tranquility and joy, as if the heavens had opened to his view and light had filled his veins.    

"Oh, such peace!...finally, the burden gone...H..How is it done?" cried the priest.


"His name is The Restitution,"said the old man as he held the old priest's face. Then he whispered the words again so that the priest could inhale them with his last breathe,"His name is The Restitution."

And the priest died.



Soon, the ambulance arrived along with the bishop to whom the old man gave the note, and the pen, and he went on his way...

Chapter 15

It was a clear plastic pen, except for the lettering on the side and apparent piece of wadded up paper stuffed around the ink tube which the old man had never bothered to removed. But the mere sight of it made him hungry for blueberry pancakes, for the cabin resort that the Graves Bed and Breakfast monogram on the pen represented was famous for its hotcakes, eggs and sausage griddled over an open fire, served at sunrise sharp.  Although the cozy rustic accommodations and peaceful secluded countryside were more relaxing than a drugstore sedative, the old man got little sleep in the bed anticipating the breakfast the last time he came and hoped to return in time for another generous helping.

But when he stopped for gas pre-sunrise in the nearby town he learned he would likely never taste the famous blueberry pancakes again.


"The whole place burned down a year ago,"said the station clerk,"Barn's still there...and one very sad atheist."


"Who's that?


"Milton Graves-the owner. Buried his wife and child on the property,"said the clerk.

"That is very disheartening to hear."


"Not to mention what it does to your stomach. But I can offer you donuts and coffee."


"No thanks-you say he's still up there?"


"Never left since."


In dawn's early light, the old man went on his way, down the long country road that winded around the mountain just beyond the town until he ended up at a barn and a large pile of wood and rubble where the bed and breakfast once stood. After knocking on the barn door for some time and getting no response, he found some deep muddy tire tracks near the burned ruins that he followed over a blind hill behind the property. They led him to an overturned tractor peaking out of a large debris-filled hole at the foot of the mountaintop.

As the old man climbed his way down he could see the thin torso and peach colored head and beard of a seemingly lifeless middle-aged man, his legs trapped under the massive machine.


"Sir!" he called to the man,"are you alive? Milton!"


There was no response.


As if on cue, a ray of sunshine peaking over the mountaintop spotlighted the stranded man's face and his eyes began twitching their way open. His parched lips soon followed as he saw a blurry human figure over him.

"No...I w..wish,"he cried in a scratchy faint voice,"Can't die and  I can't get out."


"Well I'm here to help!"said the old man,"with the latter." I don't know how!

The old man assessed the situation, for he did not want to worsen it: The man's legs were apparently caught under the bucket of the front end loader.


"Is anything broken?" asked the old man.


"Just me...and the tractor."

"I mean any bones?"


"Legs, maybe. But I can't hardly feel them to know."


Confident there was little risk of further injury the old man tried to budge the bucket. "How long have you been down here?"

"This is the third day. Hydraulics have locked it up, unless you can start it that bucket ain't goin' nowhere."


After failed attempts at starting the engine, the old man said,"I'll call 911. Can I use your phone?"


"Be my guest-you'll just have to find it in the rubble.


"Then I'll drive into town-"


"Nearest firetruck's an hour south a here. If we had local services God knows, I wouldn't be here in the first place...and I'd still have a wife and child. I take that back, God don't know nothin' 'cuz there ain't one."

"I don't nor does He agree with you. But I am sorry to hear about your loss. Perhaps you should give Him one more chance."


The old man examined the arm of the tractor.


"No I've given him too many chances and he blew it. Blew up in my face every time.."


"That gives me an idea: You said hydraulics-isn't this the oil supply line?"asked the old man pointing to a rubber tube.

"Yeah-you'll need somethin' pretty sharp to puncture it though-"


"A pen, perhaps?"said the old man pulling out the pen from his jacket..."By the way this belongs to you. May I borrow it a little longer?"

With consent, the old man stabbed the supply line. Oil squirted onto the face of the trapped man as the loss in pressure nudged the bucket just enough to allow the victim to be pulled out from under it.


"Thank you-I think,"said Milton.


Although the old man helped him significantly, surprisingly, the mud had absorbed enough of the impact to keep the man's legs from breaking and the two made it back to the barn.


"You sure you don't want me to drive you to the hospital?"asked the old man.


"And be trapped again? No-I just need water...and food. I know it's a bit past sunrise, but would you care to join me for some blueberry pancakes and eggs?"


Inside the barn which had been converted into a meager living space,  the old man observed the only picture on the wall-a fire stained family portrait. He recognized the dark-haired, olive skinned, woman as the cook from his previous visit and the child shared her mother's beauty. "You have a beautiful family,"he remarked.

"Had,"Milton corrected,"nothing was left when the place burned down. No letters, no keepsakes, nothin'. That picture is all I have left."

With little more conversation, the two enjoyed a hearty Milton Graves Bed and Breakfast feast cooked over an open fire tasting just as good as the old man remembered.


But as he had a mushy maple syrup-soaked bite of cake still in his mouth–that he would much rather devote his tongue to tasting–the old man felt words come that he could not hold back,"Milton, I appreciate the heavenly meal, but I must tell you whether you believe it or not: God does exist."


"Would be easier to swallow if my wife and child still existed,"said Milton scraping his tin plate.


"They do. And someday you will see them again."

"Oh yeah?...What proof have ya got?" 

"Two thousand years ago a man was buried in a tomb. And on the third day, he rose from the grave with the promise that all will rise one day."

"But that was two thousand years ago. What proof do I have now?"


The old man pulled the pen out of his coat and handed it to Milton."It is this,"he replied,"this pen I came to return."

"A pen?! It's just an old-"began Milton. Then upon closer examination he recognized it as something more meaningful. "Where did you get this?"he said standing and rolling it thru his fingers,"We kept these at the front desk for guests to sign in with...we got so busy Leana and I would put little love notes inside them from time to-" 

Milton paused and swallowed hard as he pried off the plastic cap and pulled out the paper and read...


Dear Love,
I feel impressed to tell you that I have been praying very hard for a miracle that will convince you to believe in God. And I know God will answer my prayer. I love you with all my heart.
Leana

Milton collapsed in his chair and looked at the old man with tears smearing his oil-soaked face and cried,"Okay, okay, dear God, I believe...Oh Lord! Will I really ever see them again?"

"Yes, Milton, as He rose from the pit of death and sent me to raise you from a pit, so will we all be raised from the dead."

"Jesus...Christ?"

"Yes and His name is also The Resurrection."

"Thank you, sir, for...well...stealing this pen."

"Thank God,"said the old man handing another note to Milton,"and here is my address if you ever re-open for business." 

And with that, the old man went on his way...