Neva opens the bathroom door and finds Rhett standing just outside, holding Rhean in his arms.
"Are you alright?" Rhett asks, concern etched into his face.
She gives a weak nod, wiping her lips with her knuckles.
"Rhean," she murmurs, her gaze softening at the sight of his tear-streaked face.
"Come here," she says, reaching for him.
Rhett gently passes the boy into her arms.
"Should I call a doctor?" he asks.
She shakes her head slightly. "No," she says quietly.
She's been lightheaded and sick ever since what they saw in the forest. The moment they reached the cottage, she ran straight into the bathroom and vomited.
Neva moves to the parlor, carrying Rhean in her arms.
She settles onto the sofa, cradling him in her lap. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, and she holds him close, stroking his hair gently.
"Were they the villagers?" Ace's brooding voice carries through the open door, standing somewhere along the narrow corridor.
"Not the ones from here," Rhett replies in a hushed tone.
He pauses, glancing toward Neva and their son.
He meets Neva's sullen eyes for a moment—before he softly closes the door, trying to shield them from the weight of the conversation.
To prevent the plague from weighing on them further.
A sharp ache pierces her head again.
Neva closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath in—only for her to snap them open as the haunt of the pale and bloated, faceless bodies floating in the lake creeps back in.
A lump forms in her throat, and she tastes salt in her mouth.
Tightening her arms around Rhean, she clings to him as the world begins to spin.
Her breathing turns ragged. The stench of corpses fills the room, seeping into her senses. The horror of what they witnessed pulses through her veins with every beat of her heart.
A chill tingles through her skin and bones. Neva finds herself drowning in a bleak ocean of lingering memories—memories she once begged to fade.
"Mama," Rhean's small, brittle voice pulls her to the surface.
Neva hugs him tightly, her hands trembling, tears now falling freely down her face.
"Are you scared?" she asks softly.
Rhean nods against her shoulder.
"Don't be scared." Neva kisses the crown of his head.
"It'll go away," she murmurs, swallowing hard.
Rhean whimpers and burrows deeper into her warmth.
"Pray with me, baby," she says softly, just as the door creaks open and her reddened eyes threads with his.
Rhett stands in the doorway, unmoving.
His feet too heavy for him to step in.
His eyes mirror the bleakness in her heart, chest heavy with guilt.
He let this happen.
He let another burden weigh her down. Another nightmare to gnaw at her soul.
---
(Two days later)
"Jesus does not sugarcoat discipleship." Pastor Gideon's voice rises with clarity, resonating through the quiet forest clearing.
There are twenty-five men and twenty–five women, children huddled close to their parents who sit quietly around him, babies nestled in their mother's embrace, all gathered beneath the filtered light of the trees.
Even in this time of darkness, they listen with open hearts and enlighten their enduring spirits through the Word of God.
"He says in Matthew 16, verses 24: 'If any man come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." He pauses, letting the words settle.
"He calls us to lay down our pride, our control, our comfort—even our plans for how the story should unfold. It is the surrender of self in a world that worships self."
His voice softens, but the conviction remains, "My brothers and sisters in Christ, it is not about escaping the trial, but about trusting Jesus through it.
The cross we carry is heavy, but we never carry it alone.
To follow Him is costly... but it leads to life."
"In verses 25 and 26, our Lord says, "For whoever will to save his life shall lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake shall find it.
For what is a man profited, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
Pastor Gideon holds a weathered Bible open in his hands, though his eyes rarely fall to the page.
He stands firm in a washed out mesh–green tunic, worn with age but stitched with grace—much like the man himself.
At age eighty–two, his voice carries the strength and clarity, frighteningly honest, forged by a life lived in truth.
He has been a great teacher, a guidance to Neva in these past three days, helping her prepare for tomorrow's sermon, in showing her the way, the truth and the life.
Neva sits among the women near the edge of the circle, beneath the looming shelter of an oak tree.
Rhean lies asleep in her lap, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep.
Isaiah sits quietly beside her, leaning against her, idly plucking grass.
Just behind them, Rhett stands like a sentinel—half in the Word, half in the world. Watchful. Guarding.
Other men of the village form a silent perimeter around the gathering.
At the recitation of the verse, Neva's gaze drifts toward a broken trunk farther out in the clearing.
There sits Ishmael, with Inaya on his lap, holding Rhean's hand-knitted lamb to her chest. Ace stands beside him, arms crossed, the idle posture defying the sharpness in his eyes, ever watchful.
Letting Ishmael join this public gathering had been a controversial decision—after all that had happened, his freedom is a tenuous thing.
But Pastor Gideon had insisted. After learning the full truth from Neva, he'd said simply, "Even the vilest heart is not beyond the reach of grace."
And Neva wishes, truly wishes he'd repent and be guided back to light. That the darkness of the world veiling his eyes shall one day lift.
Just then, Ishmael turns, and her breath catches as their eyes meet.
His gaze is sharp, grim, unpredictable—like a sky swollen with dark clouds, and she can't tell whether it will bring rain... or a storm.
A chill runs down her spine.
Neva quickly looks away and sees Pastor Gideon lower the Bible.
He raises his voice once more. "You can have all the power, all the riches and the praise of men—but if your soul is not in Christ, you have absolutely nothing," his hands rise and fall, as though lifting the burdens shielding the truth.
"But if you give your life to Christ, you will find something that the world cannot offer: peace that stands in the storm, and a life that never dies.
Don't trade your life for something that will not last a year. Lose your life to Him—and you shall find who you were meant to be."
The wind stirs through the clearing, rustling the leaves and tugging at the pastor's tunic. Pastor Gideon's gaze drifts toward Ishmael, though he does not speak his name.
"There is no soul so lost that the Shepherd cannot find," he says softly, taking a breath in.
"No chain so strong the Spirit cannot break.
But it begins with repentance.
And repentance begins with truth."
The congregation listens in stillness, some nodding their heads as the words deeply resonates with them.
Even the children are calmed by a sacred hush in the air of this Sunday service.
"Some of you have seen things no heart should bear and carry the wounds that remain unhealed.
But our Lord sees. The Lord knows. And God will redeem what man has broken."
Neva feels Rhean stir slightly in her arms. "Shh..." she coos, stroking his hair gently, her eyes becoming misty.
It is the first time he slept so peacefully after that terrible morning. He'd often awake from sleep in a startle because of the nightmares, confused, scared, drenched in sweat.
He cried, blaming himself for Neva's sickness, which had lifted gradually over the past day, leaving only the ache of memory behind.
He asked painful questions about why those people had to die.
Neva and Rhett gave him all the comfort and truth they could, but some grief can only be carried, and be patient with to lighten gradually.
"Do not be afraid," Pastor Gideon finishes. "The night is dark, but the morning will come. And when it does, let Him find you prepared. Let Him find you faithful."
"When are we going home?'' Isaiah asks, looking up at her.
"Soon," Neva murmurs, pulling him closer and kissing his forehead.
The sky darkens.
Leaves from the oak tree scatter around them, drifted by the wind.
The cold evening wind stirs Neva's hair beneath the thin, lacy white scarf draped over her head.
Pastor Gideon closes the Bible with Reverence.
"Let us pray."
One by one, the circle bows their heads—not out of ritual, but because their souls are stirred by a sacred hush that moves among them like breath on the wind.
"Don't let us fall away, Lord.
Let us not be afraid," Neva whispers, closing her eyes as she bows her head.
And behind them Rhett slightly bows his head, eyes open, watching still. A man torn between guard, duty and grace.