Lazarus Rising Revisited (3 + 4)

"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.

He woke with a start and was disorientated by his surroundings. He had expected to wake in the church in La Hulpe, but he was not there. He was in a small bed with a clean white sheet pulled over him and his head was on a soft, white pillow. He looked around him and saw that the room was small and cosy. Light was coming in through a small window that illuminated a modest looking dresser which had a porcelien wash basin on it. The basin was decorated with hand painted flowers.

Before he called out he wanted to test his strength so he tentatively stretched his legs out of the bed and stood up. He immediately felt the room begin to spin and he sat down quickly onto the firm mattress. The floor was bare and cold on his bare feet but there was a simple rug on the floor and he shuffled himself along the bed so that his feet were on the thin material. The rug itself was frayed and worn from years of use.

Beside the bed was a single nightstand and on top of this was a single candle in a brass candle holder. He briefly caught sight of himself in a small mirror on the  wall beside the nightstand.
'Who are you?" he asked his reflection.

THe door to the room was made ok oak and looked sturdy. It was shut but he could hear footsteps somewhere beyond it. He could not make out if they were right outside or further away in the house, or wherever he was. He listened to the creaking footfalls and realised they were getting closer. Suddenly panicked he got back into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chest,

The door, which had been locked, clicked open and then creaked under pressure from whoever was pushing it. A head poked itself quickly around the door. The owner of the head was a boy aged about 12. He had curly, brown hair looked like it had never been brushed and brown eyes that seemed to gleam with the curiosity of youth. His cheeks were flushed and glowed with energy. When he saw that Lazarus was awake, he smiled warmly.

"Hello, I'm Samuel" he said. "Who are you?"
"I don't know" Lazarus replied. "I was hoping you might know."
"Why should I know who you are" the boy asked. "And how come you don't know? That's  silly."
The boy was still half in and half out of the room.
"It's a long story Samuel and it's hard to explain" Lazarus said.
"I have time, I like stories" the boy said with a childish grin.
The boy stepped fully into the room and the man saw that the boy was still dressed in his night clothes.
"Is it morning Samuel?"
"Yes, just past seven" the boy said. "You have been sleeping for nearly a whole day."
"A whole day!" Lazarus was shocked.
"Mr Jennings, the churchwarden, found you passed out in the graveyard and called my father to come help you. My father is the village doctor, just like my grandfather before him." Samuel said this with pride.
" Then I should like to thank them both."
Suddenly a woman's voice came shouting from somewhere below.
"Samuel!, Are you in with the stranger?"
"Damn" he swore,"Sorry  sir, I must go. My mother will tan my hide  if she finds out I disturbed you. But I wanted to see for myself."
"Then go, before she catches you."

Samuel turned to leave then stopped, turned back to Lazarus and smiled broadly. "I am glad that you woke up."
With that he slipped quietly out of the room and relocked the door.

Lazarus heard the boy go down the stairs and then a muffled conversation between Samuel and his mother. She was talking about him lying to her and he kept denying any  responsibility. Eventually, as mothers seem to know how, he was worn down  and admitted he had spoken to the stranger.

Lazatus heard the woman say, "Then go get your father and Mr Spring, quickly now."

He went to the window and looked out.  Samuel, still dressed in his nightgown, ran into the street and disappeared around a corner. Lazarus decide there was little he could do so he sat back down and waited.
He began to feel strange again, Like the feeling of deja-vu he had felt before. He went back to the window and looked harder. Through the dirty glass he could see a house, it was large and grey and surrounded by trees. Only the top floors were visible above the little copse that encircled it. He could't see the lower floors of the house, but he knew it. He knew it.

Chapter 4 1798

The gardens behind the house were small and neatly laid out. The rows of flowers had been carefully designed by his mother to maximize the colours of spring and summer. The boy would run around in between the colourful displays and stop to gaze at the deep pond that seemed like it had been carved into the garden. His mother had warned him not to go too close because he had not yet learned how to swim. His father had not taken the time to do it. Young Robert, for this was his name, loved to watch the huge fish, that his father had placed into the pond at great expense, rise to the surface flashing gold, yellow and red, before diving again into the inky depths.

The gardener, a stout man with the strangely appropriate name of Green, had explained that his father had spared no expense in providing Robert's mother with a garden to spend her days enjoying. The pond was approximately 6 yards wide and was the shape of a broad bean. At the centre of the pond, like an island in an ocean, rose a statue of a bare breasted woman who was reaching to the sky with one hand as if seeking help from above. In the womans other arm was a baby looking up at her with wonder in her eyes. The boy always liked the look on the child's face because it made him smile to see such a young baby who loved his mother the way he loved his..

When tired from playing he would come and sit on the bench beside the pond; count the fish and stare at the statue. His father, whose visits were too infrequent for the boys liking, had encouraged him to embrace his independence and discover things for himself, When his father did come home, he would bring tales of the Americas and Africa that the young Robert would beg to hear over and over again until his father grew impatient and had Mrs Stokes take him away to the nursery. Mrs Stokes was strict and would not allow any behaviour that was unbecoming of a young gentleman. She was also kind and she took the time, not only to care for the boy but also to educate him in literature, mathematics and the natural sciences.

Robert's mother was a goddess however, she would hug, kiss and spoil the boy whenever she could and he loved her totally for it. She would read and sing to him whenever she could and when he played in the garden, she would sit on the terrace and watch him happily from her lofty position. Robert longed for her to join him down by the pond but she could not. On the night of his birth, she had undergone severe trauma and she could no longer walk. Although the doctors had hoped it would be temporary, she had not walked since that stormy night 9 years earlier and Robert's father had been so guilty that he had sone all he could to ensure that his wife and child had everything they needed.

Even though he was a way on business for months at a time he hired maids, nurses and other staff to care for his family. No expense was spared on ensuring the wellbeing and security of his son and heir. He felt guilty that he was away so much, but business was business and the slave trade was still booming. Politicians and reformers were still talking about abolishion but he knew that as long as so many people were making so much money, it would never happen. Times were good, money was plentiful and he was a success. He often shared his philosophy with his young son and taught him that the negroes were  just commodities that belonged to the superior white race.

When Robert was seven years old, his father had taken him to London, where he had seen the beauty and the horror of his father's world. His father's offices, at the fashionable end of Regent's Street, were ornately decorated and furnished beautifully. Exquisite rugs from Africa and the Empire covered the highly polished floor. A huge gold framed mirror seemed to dominate one wall of the office and the other walls were covered with paintings of ships and exotic looking landscapes.

On the wall directly behind his father's large oak desk was a portrait of his mother which his father told him was painted before Robert was born. THe young boy stared at the image for so long that it became burned into his memory. In thepicture she was sitting on a white, wooden bench in a garden that was bursting with colourful flowers. She was wearing a simple, yet elegant, white dress that came all the way to the ground and around her waist a blue ribbon had been tied. Her long golden hair was tied into a pony tail and fell over her left shoulder. She looked very young in the portarit and even at his tender age he could tell that there were many years age difference between his parents.

Because of his fathers business matters, Robert had been left aalone in the office and as he wondered around looking at all the pictures he heard, through the slightly open window, his fathers distinctive voice. Not, however, the kindly voice he was so familiar with, but a more sinister tone.

"Captain Morgan! To me Sir. Now!" his father's voice sounded full of rage.

Robert moved closer to the window and stood up on a chair so he cold look out into the stone courtyard at the rear of the building. For years later, he wished he had not been so curious.

His father was addressing a man dressed in Merchant Navy attire. Captain Morgan was looking very uncomfortable indeed.

His father continued, "Captain, what are my standing orders regarding the transportation of sick slaves?"

"Sir, I can explain" the captain started.

"I didn't ask you for an explanation Captain Morgan. I asked what my standing orders were. Tell me know Sir."

"That sick slaves are to be seperated from the other livestock and thrown overboard Sir."

"So, you do know the order. I'm curious as to why you disobeyed those orders."

"The boy didn't seem that sick sir and his condition was improving. As a christian, I saw no good reason to murder the boy."

"No reason!" his father erupted with rage. "I shall give you reason Sir. Dysentary Sir. Half the nigger scum on that ship caught it Sir, because youcould not or would not throw one worthless child into the ocean."

Robert could not believe what he was hearing from his own father. He knew that murder was wrong. The vicar, Reverend Wainwright had told him so in his Sunday School classes. Here was his father, talking about throwing a sick child into the ocean to drown. He gazed down into the courtyard again.

"So one boy, who died anyway, cost me money. I will not have an employee make decisions based on his own moral opinions. You Sir, are dismissed."

"Sir, please" the captain began, but before he could protest further, Roberts father brought his cane down onto the sailors chest with such a force that he fell to the ground.

"Do I have to do it agin Captain? his father asked.

The captain just lay there in silent shock.

"I will take that as a no then."

His father turned to an associate who had been standing nearby.

"Get this wretch out of my sight. I shall be in my study"

Robert jumped down from his elevated position by the window. He wanted to hide, to run away, to do anything but see his father in such a rage. He had never seen this side of his father before and he was terrified. He sat down nervously on the chair he had been standing on and realised that he was crying.The door handle turned and his father entered the room.
"Where's my boy?" he called with a cheerful grin.
"Here father/" Robert replied/
"So how do you like my office?"
"It's very grand and so big." the boy replied.

His father removed his jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door.
"Is that all? Big and Grand?"
His father saw that Robert had been crying and he knelt down on one knee so they wee face to face.
"Whats the matter Robert? Tell me."
"I heard and saw what you did to Captain Morgan father. Why did you do that?"

His father was shocked at this revelation and was temporarily struck dumb. He rose to his feet and walked slowly to the corner of the room where stood a large wooden globe. He opened the top of the globe to reveal some crystal glasses and two decanters with gold coloured stoppers. He lifted one of the decanters opened it and poured himself a drink. He carefully restoppered the decanter, picked up his glass and rejoined his son where hee sat in a chair next to the boy.
"That man, Captain Morgan, disobeyed my orders." his father began. "In my business there can be no straying from my decrees. That would show weakness and I am not weak."
"Why did you strike him?"
"I apologise to you because you had to see that son, but by losing me money he is losing you money as well. Your future is based on how profitable my business is."
"But you order the death of children father, children like me."
"God no son, these are not children at all. They are Godless savages." his father explained. "They are nothing but cargo and if cargo is damaged, it must be disposed of."
"That is horrible father." It was not a question.
"That is business son. The strong thrive and the weak get discarded. Do you want to be strong or weak?"
Robert stayed silent for what seemed like an eternity before he looked his father in te eye and declared,"I want to be strong father."
"Good boy" his father said. "Lets go and take some luncheon at my club."
The boy took his fathers hand and he was led gently to the door. Robert turned to take another look at the portrait of his mother before they left the room.

________________________________________

Now two years had passed and Robert had grown into a strong boy. Independent and capable, curious and courteous. His father's son. He did not think of how the money was made that paid for his clothes, books or toys. As his father had told him, it was just business.

On a fine summers day in his garden he didnt have a care in the world and he was happy to run and play. He had toys and books and his mother. What more could a boy want? He waved to his mother who sat in her usual place on the terrace at the back of the house, looking down towards him and she raised her own arm to wave back.

His father had been gone for three months but he had promised Robert that he would return before summers end and that he would be there for his 10th birthday. What stories would his father bring? What tales of heroes and explorers? He wanted to share his high spirits with his mother, so he ran up the steps, two at a time, to be by her side.

"Mother, mother my sweet Mama. When will father be home?" he asked excitedly.

"Soon Robert, you must be patient." she replied calmly.

"Please come down to the pond Mama; its so lovely and warm in the sunshine. Mr Green can help us, please."

'Alright my love, you go and fetch him and then we can have a turn around the garden."

A few minutes later Green, almost being dragged along by Robert, arrived and he gently pushed his mistress down the short but steep steps to the garden. Green, although well into his 60's, was a s strong as an ox and when they reasched the bottom he asked, "Shall I push you madam?"

"No thank you Green" she replied. "My young companion can help with that."

"Thank you Ma'am. I have a few errands to run. Just get young master Robert to fetch me when you are done." The gardener headed back up the steep steps, leaving mother and son alone.

"Can I really push you Mama?"

"Of course darling, you are big and strong like your father."

So Robert pushed his mother around the flower beds stopping now and again so she could admire the colours and smell the aromas.

"It is so beautiful Robert, I wish I could do more for you." she sighed sadly.

"Please mama, you do so much for me already" Robert said encouragingly.

"Take me to the pond" she asked.

"Of course, I would be honoured" he said with a grin.

When they got there, Robert pushed the chair as close as he could to the pond and applied the brake.

"Look Mama, look at the fish, see how they have grown."

"Oh my, they are like the sea monsters of old" she joked and she laughed.

"Do you like the statue Mama? I like the baby. He looks so sweet and innocent."

"Just like you then" she replied

Suddenly Robert seemed to disappear from view and this was followed by a loud splash. He had been skipping around the side of the pond and had slipped, As he fell he had hit his head on the marble edge and now he was floating face down in the water.

His mother screamed for Green, but no answer came. The lifeless body of her child was so close but there was nothing she could do.

A mother will always strive to protect her young. There is a primal force that compels all mothers be they human or animal to do that. This force was awakened in her now. The legs that had been useless started to move. She used her arms as levers and propelled herself out of the chair and she also fell into the water. Gasping for air, she surfaced and grabbed for her son, pushing him to the edge with the last of her strength onto  the pond edge. Exhausted she tried to stand, but found all her strength had gone and she slipped under the surface.

When Green returned he found the boy alive. His mother though was at the bottom of the pond, her arms stretched upward as the giant fish swam past her lifeless upturned face.