The Sacrament
by
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Alessandro closed his eyes for just a moment and when opened, his focus fell to the blood slowly exiting from his mid-section as a tear immediately welled and dropped from the corner of his eye with his first thought of dying.
Before he could allow himself to travel down that path of defeat, a rustling sound from farther down the mountain startled him into defensive action. Gripping his empty rifle, he turned toward the direction of the sound to see a man coming toward him, carrying only a backpack with his hands raised in surrender.
The stranger continued his approach, calling out to Alessandro, “This fight has seen its end. Allow me to come to you and see to your wounds.” Alessandro immediately felt relaxed with the unarmed man's advance and motioned for him to proceed. He continued to stare into the stranger's face as the man returned his attention with a confident, steady gaze. Pale features, yet speaking Alessandro’s dialect of Spanish confused the young Tacneno as to whom the man’s loyalty belonged.
When the stranger was within fifty yards, Alessandro noticed the man’s vivid blue eyes, suggesting North American or English descent. There was something kind, yet pained within the stranger's eyes that eased his own defenses. “Have they retreated down the mountain?” Alessandro inquired of the man, as the stranger knelt beside him and began tending to the wound.
“Yes, my friend. The rebels have passed beyond the base of the mountain and cross the river as we speak. We will be safe long enough to help those in need.”
No longer fearing another attack, Alessandro rested his head against the tree watching the man focus on mending the damage the bullet had left. “Who are you?”, he asked sharply, the intense pain shooting through his abdomen.
The man only paused before answering without looking up, “I am just a simple man of God here at your time of need, in the hope you find that which allows you to move forward.”
He gauged the stranger to be near his father's age. With an intake of air and the pain beginning to subside, he pressed on with his questions. “I know many who live in Tacna, yet you’re unfamiliar to me. Do you know my father, Antonio Fuentes? He mends and sells fish nets near the north shore.”
The man placed gauze over the injured area before looking into Alessandro's eyes. “Your father looks to the mountains every nightfall, awaiting your return. He loves his only son with the entirety of his heart and prays to God for his safety.”
Alessandro neither questioned the stranger concerning his knowledge of his deepest desires, nor did he fathom the chance encounter. He simply looked up to the darkening turquoise sky as it slowly began its turn to dusk. He listened to the stranger's gentle voice lull him into a peaceful trance. “And what of Miranda; is she there with my father watching for my return?” the young man inquired. Alessandro pushed himself up with his elbows before quickly settling back against the tree, exhausted from the momentary exertion.
The stranger gently placed a hand on Alessandro's forehead, saying, “Rest, weary one. Reserve your strength for the journey home.” Checking the gauze and seeing it already soaked through, the man looked back up to the sky, as if recalling a memory, saying, “Ah, yes, the lovely Miranda. I heard a story, many years ago, of a host of angels that collected a decade’s worth of beauty and descended it all upon one fortunate child; a girl from the Tacna Region. Could this be the same Miranda?”
Alessandro unashamedly smiled, answering, “This would be the one. This would be my Miranda.”
The stranger smiled along with the young Peruvian before continuing, “I see her sitting gracefully upon a bench near the sea, with your father standing behind her with his hand resting gently upon her shoulder, like a father watches over a daughter. He speaks with great pride and tells her of his son's bravery in his fight for their freedom. They laugh at stories that they share with each other of better times when their Alessandro was not in the mountains fighting and lived happily with his father and many loved ones.”
The stranger looked down at Alessandro, the smile slowly fading from his lips and from his eyes. Reaching down, he tenderly took the young man’s hand into his, continuing, “Your father sees the love Miranda has for his son in how she speaks of him and how her face lights up at the very mention of his name. He imagines them, years later, married with many beautiful children, with tears caressing his cheek at the joy his son has brought forth.”
The stranger took in a deep breath before gently taking Alessandro's head from its uncomfortable position against the tree, lowering him to the ground near the base of the tree where the grass was softest. He placed his palm upon Alessandro's head and quietly directed a prayer to the heavens for his safe journey.
When his prayer was complete, he stared at the scar upon the back of his own right hand. Closing his eyes at the memory from so long ago, he slowly shook his head at the realization of how long it had been since he considered or even looked upon the damaged hand.
Touching the scarred flesh with his fingertips, a flood of visions returned, as they always did when he touched the tender area. The stranger slowly rose, gathering his backpack, and ventured farther up the mountain into the darkening forest in search of his next passing soul.
He came to the mountain aware of the six, including the young Tacneno, in need of his attention. The other five scattered about the mountain top who wouldn’t see their earthly demise, he would only leave them food, bandages, and some cauterizing agents, for their fate was unwritten and not for him to interact. The stranger didn’t travel far before he found the older Chilean soldier with a punctured lung and shrapnel lodged within his spine. He raised his hands and slowed his pace of approach, preparing to assist another life enter its last and final stage.
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About the Book
What if no one ever had to die alone?
In 1923, in the mountains of eastern Peru, a stranger approaches eleven injured men shortly after a battle has ended. He assists only six of the wounded, all of whom die shortly after he sees to their needs; then, without a word or glance toward the other five, he leaves. The remaining men survive the journey home, telling the story of the man with bright-blue eyes and a scar upon his right hand. The tale becomes the legend of El Padre, passed down to their children and their children’s children.
As time goes by, the legend spreads beyond Peru, crossing decades and continents.
In 2008, New York investigative reporter Sam Noll has a front-page political scandal in the works—that is, until his editor reassigns him to chronicle the El Padre sightings. Although he’s frustrated, Sam slowly lets the new article become personal and persuades a quirky colleague, Ira Nevins, to assist him in the search. The discoveries lead Sam to some dangerous destinations and bring him new revelations about El Padre’s intentions—and hopefully his true identity. When Sam uncovers a strange pattern to the sightings, however, it places him on the direct path of a man many believe to be some type of angel.
Although Sam is determined to solve the mystery, he may be facing something more sinister than he originally believed—and finding the answer may be the last thing he ever does.
About the Author
Born in Tacoma, Washington, David Houser currently lives with his wife, Michelle, in Salem, Oregon. The love of novels has been his greatest draw toward writing—not just in the building story but in the distinctive impressions to all the senses from a hardcover. Telling whoppers as a child was simply the precursor to his current pursuits.