"And when he thus had spoken, he cried out with a loud voice, Lazarus come forth."
John 11:43
Chapter 3 1816
He was drowning in his memories. He was being inundated by a flood of fractured episodes that flashed by for a second and then were gone. A face here, a flash of colour and noise like thunder. It was as if he were travelling back in time, images from his past he supposed. Memory loss, especially like the one he had apparently undergone, was a funny thing.
Dreams and reality would merge to form the strangest images. He did not know which were true memories resurfacing after a year of having none or a delusion created by his own sub-conscious designed to trick and infuriate.
The images that lingered longer were of a gray house that stood among trees, a cane with a silver handle that dripped with blood and a girl, aged about 16, with bright blond hair and the saddest of pale blue eyes that looked at him pleadingly. These images and sounds were always the ones that haunted him. There were others of course, the sound of a child laughing, fire brighter than the sun and others but it was the name Stelling Minnis, that had bought him here.
The church and the graveyard and the Virgin Mary statue all seemed so familiar but he did not know why. The reason why had been so upset at the newly carved name was a mystery. He feared that finding out would be bad, but not finding out may drive him mad.
He couldn't even remember his name; he couldn't even remember why he couldn't remember his name or anything else. The priest that had cared for him told him he had been wounded so badly in a battle that he had initially been asked to give him the last rites. During the battle, that had happened near a crossroads, the man had been caught by a cannon blast as it had fallen into the line.
All the men around him had been killed and he was given up for dead, so bad were the injuries he had suffered. His neck, back and abdomen were ripped by shrapnel as the cannonball had exploded and fragmented into hundreds of tiny pieces. The man had also taken a major blow to the head which the priest had told him was the cause of his amnesia.
This explanation seemed plausable to the man although he had absolutely no memory of the battle or recieving his wounds. The scars covering his neck and body told a very real story of what he had suffered, The scar on his temple however, the priest informed him, was not from the battle as it was too old. Maybe it was from an earlier battle he had fought in.
Despite the terrible injuries that the man had suffered, he had refused to die. The priest, Father Jaques, nursed him back to health and because the man had no memory of who he was and no identification the priest called him Lazarus. When he was strong enough the priest had him moved to his home village, La Hulpe. Lazarus had also been bought back from the dead and the priest though that the mans new name was apt.
In the months that followed, Lazarus, or whoever he really was, regained his strength and so that he could repay the debt he owed to the man who had given him his life back, he cooked the food, chopped the wood and helped Jaques with his parish. He even learned French despite the priest having excellent English.
4 months after the battle that had caused him to lose his memory, Jacques told Lazarus that he had been shouting out in his sleep. He had been calling for his mother and other people. Lazarus began having flashes of memory and his dreams always caused him pain and anguish. When he awoke from these dreams however, he couldn't remember what they had been about.
Lazarus, as he had even started referring to himself, worked hard for Jaques and for the parishioners in Jacques' flock. He was friendly to everyone and would help anyone who needed it. One spring day, 6 months after he had arrived in La Hulpe, Lazarus was walking back towards the church after running an errand. As he aproached the imposing shape of the church with its life size statue of Jesus on the cross, he was suddenly overtaken by a powerful sense of deja-vi.
The figure of Jesus seemed to come alive and as he watched the stone figure became flesh. The nails in te palms and feet became real and blood began to drip from the wounds. The chest began to rise and fall quickly as if in great pain and finally the twisted neck and face became agonizingly real. Deep blue eyes looked down on Lazarus as blood from the crown of thorns oozed from the forehead and dripped down its tortured face.
"Help me" the figure said in a voice that was not its own.
"I can't, I don't even know who I am. How can I help uou?" Lazarus replied
"You are my son and I forgive you. Please son, come home. Come to the house, come to your home."
"Where do I go? Tell me please" Lazarus pleaded desperately.
"Your home. You know where that is. Deep down, you know."
"Lazarus, are you alright?" It was Jacques voice.
"No wait, don't go" Lazarus fell to his knees.
"Father!" he shouted
"I'm here" Jacques answered.
"No Jaques, no" Lazarus said, "I just heard my father's voice."
"And what did your father say to you?"
"To go home."
"Is that what you want?" the priest asked
"Yes, but I hoped I would know who I was first. Aside from my dreams and flashes of memory, I don't have a clue."
"Dreams are God's way of helping you make sense of the world Lazarus. Come inside and rest. Your physical strength has returned but your mental strength still needs time."
"I know you are right father, but my father's voice seemed desperate."
"You cannot know for sure my son. Rest, recover and reflect on the words you heard.
With that the conversation seemed to be over and the younger man allowed the elder to lead him inside the church. THe priest guided Lazarus to a wide pew and encouraged him to sit. He slumped down and rested his had on the back of the pew in front of him and sighed deeply. Jacques left him to fetch water and by the time he had returned Lazarus had laid down on the wooden bench as was sleeping peacefully.
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