A THOUSAND MAY FALL AT YOUR SIDE

As soon as Alistair got to the front of the platform, he knew this wasn't going to work, but there he was and now he had to make the best of it. Always he stood on one side so there was nothing between him and the people he was speaking to, but he moved over to the pulpit like a ship to its dock and held on, knowing he needed the support. Just showering and getting his suit on this morning had taken more energy than he'd expected.

Ahnna, on the front pew, watched anxiously as Alistair stood behind the pulpit. He never used the pulpit, didn't like being behind it, but today on his first attempt to do a Sunday service, he not only stood behind it, but gripped its top edges with both hands. That worried her. She could see his chest rising and falling in a concentrated effort to breathe evenly without his oxygen  pack.

"Good morning," he said, managing a smile. "I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to be back here with all of you again. I have missed your faces, all of them, and I am so thankful that...."  He began to cough. He was wearing a lapel microphone but still the strain of trying to project his voice brought on enough irritation that the coughs began to rise up from his core. "Ex...excuse me," he murmured, turning away for a long moment, trying to bring it under control. He had a glass of water on the pulpit shelf and took a sip. "...thankful that today I can once again...*cough*  *cough*...once again speak to you of the things dear to my heart."

He did like being back there, but kept shaking his head slightly from time to time, feeling like he needed to clear it. And the coughing hurt. It simply...hurt. He could feel himself starting to tremble with fatigue.

For ten minutes he spoke, coughing once in a while, but Ahnna was aware she was growing tenser with each passing minute. She was watching his hands as they gripped the pulpit. He was increasing the pressure of that so much that his knuckles were becoming white with it. His face, too, was paling and she knew the effort it was taking for him to remain standing there. Turning her head briefly, she noted many of the faces in the church were beginning to look concerned.

"And so it is," he continued then stopped, spreading his right hand over his chest, lowering his eyes. "And so...." He made a rather gasping sound. "I...I'm sorry," he murmured. "I...I thought I...could...."  His legs were shaking and suddenly didn't want to support him any longer and he began almost sliding down the back of the small pulpit, landing on his knees.

Instantly both Maximus and Cort were on the platform. Alistair would have toppled over onto his left side had they not gotten to him in time to gently lay him down. He was coughing and gasping and saying, "I'm sorry...," over and over.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Maximus soothed. "It is simply too soon."

Cort sprinted to the little office where Alistair's portable oxygen was and by the time Ahnna had gotten it fastened in place, Alistair's eyes were half open and he seemed on the verge of passing out. Maximus and Cort carried him through the door behind the altar. There were only two small chairs in his little office and no place to lay him down but on the floor in the short hallway. Maximus took off his suitcoat, folded it and put it under Alistair's head. Ahnna crouched beside him, smoothing his hair back, whispering to him.

Maximus looked at Cort, "There is a church full of people out there who came for a Sunday morning service, Cort. It looks like you are going to be the one to give it to them."

"Me? But...but...."

"You, Cort," Maximus repeated. "You can do it. I know you can."

"I...I...don't...I...."

"Try, Cort. For Alistair. Please...try."

Cort sucked in a long breath, his heart beating faster, and looked down at Alistair.
For Alistair, Maximus had said. He couldn't do this for himself, but perhaps he could
do it for Alistair. Turning, he opened the door to the sanctuary. Half the people were
on their feet, talking in little groups, casting looks toward the doorway where he stood.
Taking another long breath, he stepped through and walked out to the pulpit, needing the
slight bit of shielding it offered. "Be seated, folks," he said, "please. Alistair's going to be fine. Was just a bit too early in the game for him to be out here doin'...this." He lay a palm atop the pulpit. "So you get me. As most of you are aware, I don't even know that this is what I do so I'm askin' you to bear with me."

His eyes found Claire, who had moved up to the front to where Ahnna usually sat. She was looking at him, smiling encouragement with her whole face. A closed Bible lay just to the right of his hand and he let it open where it willed, grasping for some sense of direction, some guidance as to what to do. It was the 91st Psalm. "Psalms," he said aloud, closed his eyes briefly, then surprised himself entirely by adding, "Of the 283 times the New Testament quotes from the Old, 116 are from Psalms." He blinked. "They were made to be sung, you know, sort of the national hymn book of Israel."

He said that and then the world around him exploded with a flash of light and through his
eyes he could see the stars, clear and bright in their millions like they were in the desert
night. He was sitting on a horse and was singing the 23rd Psalm as he looked up at the vast, sparkling panoply.

What...?

Shaking his head, he looked desperately down at the Bible and began to read. "He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."

Another flash came, almost staggering him and he was seeing a small stuccoed room, candlelight yellowing its whitewash, and right in front of him instead of the pulpit and the open Bible, he saw his own clasped hands, a string of beads draping over his fingers.

Blinking several times he continued to read, skipping several verses as he'd lost his place.
"You will not fear the terror by night, nor the arrow that flies by day...." He blinked. "A
thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will...."

Again the flash blotted out what actually lay before him, replaced by gunfire, the sound of breaking windows, of children screaming, running. His head hurt terribly from where a gun butt had impacted his left temple and his view was from ground level where he lay in deep dust, his hands lashed behind him so tightly his shoulders were pulled almost out of joint. A boot kicked his ribs several times, doubling him up so that his face went into the dust, filling his mouth as he gasped in pain. He choked, coughing, and the boot kicked him again, sending him rolling back onto his side.

"You ain't gonna die in no dust, preacher," a voice laughed. "Someone waitin' fer you has got hisself a better way for you to die than that."

More laughter came, more gunshots, and then he heard the crackling sound of fire. Straining, he craned his neck. The orphanage, it was ablaze. The children! My God, some of the children were still inside! He tried to call out, but his throat was too caked with dust and a mere croak was all the sound he could make. The roof caught, tall spires of flame shooting up into the pure blueness of the sky. Then it began to collapse just as he caught sight of Maria and little Pedro at a broken window. "No!" he croaked. "Oh, God...nooo!"

Elena, the old nun who helped him teach the children, came running across the courtyard toward the door. Someone shot her in the back just as she reached it and she fell into the building, the roof coming down atop her, atop the children. He moaned, tears streaking down the dust on his face. More laughter roared in his ears and then the little mission church caught fire, too. He watched, helpless, as the stained glass window, brought from Philadelphia and the only decorative thing the simple little church had boasted, he watched as it burst outward from the flaming interior.

A lasso curled through the heated air, settling around the wooden cross that graced the peak over the doorway, and accompanied by whoops and shouts, it toppled into the dust.

Young Michael, an older teenaged boy who assisted him, saw him lying there and sprinted toward him. Again he opened his mouth, trying to shout to him to stay back, but he couldn't shout and Michael kept coming, coming to within a few feet of him and another shot rang out dropping the boy. Michael lay there, his face close to Cort's, his eyes wide open, startled, dead.

"C'mon, preacher," one of the two men said, "you got yerself an appointment to keep."

He turned his head, glaring up at the man. "Well, lookie that," the other man laughed. "We done got ourselfs a preacher knows how to hate." He laughed and Cort felt a rifle butt slam against the back of his head and the world disappeared into merciful darkness.

Then there had been the field, the field and the white puffy seedheads. He looked desperately at Claire, who was staring at him, her eyes wide, almost round. He felt ill and pushed himself back from the pulpit, sending it crashing over off the platform, the water glass shattering wetly on the floor. Then he ran. Blindly he ran, tripping, almost falling, down the aisle, out the front doors. Half way across the lawn he went to his knees, vomiting and vomiting, as people began to come out of the church behind him, not quite able to believe they'd lost two pastors in one Sunday.