Well, I just realized that, as I'm at the end of the time for the Inklings Challenge, I better post what I have rather than keep thinking that I will be able come up with something new. So, @inklings-challenge and Tumblr friends, here is Part 1 of Again and Again!
Mira no longer cared about the sharp edge that crept into the words. Exhaustion leaked through her until every movement hurt, and every word was an effort. She would not tell the Story today. Not again.
Mira looked pointedly into the flames, and zipped her coat all the way up, hunching down until she was burrowed up to her eyes like a turtle, hiding from the world, and from the eyes that looked up at her pleadingly from a too-thin face.
From within the warm coat-cocoon, she wearily laid out her stores of energy in her mind, and calculated how much it might take for her to tell Peter the Story. How much it might take if she was to go find something to eat. How much it might take for her to Move them (again). How much energy she even had left. Every thought floated in the air, just barely evading her; as if they waited in the moment behind or the moment ahead, taunting her in her weakness.
“I’ll tell you the short version. If you’ll be quiet.”
She felt, rather than saw, the little arms wrap around her waist; the scruffy head burrowing against her side; the sore feet stretching toward the warmth of the fire.
“There was a people once.”
“The Brave and the True,” the muffled correction floated towards her through the coat barrier.
“Something like that. And—” they died. They failed. They lost their way and the Bravery and Truth gave way to lies that fled into the night. Nothing but Lies and Fear time and time and time again.
“And they were waiting for a Leader, because they could not stay Brave and True and Good on their own.”
They waited for their King. And their King did not come.
“The world was dark, as they waited.”
The world is dark now. And cold, and cruel, and—
“But these People were given one thing to push away the darkness.” A vain hope. A foolish chance. A vision that kept them frozen in time, looking for that which would never come.
“A Story of what would come.” A story that was a lie.
The fire snapped, and sparks flew up, burning little black freckles into the faded pink of Mira’s coat.
“So,” Peter said, as relentless as ever. “Tell me the Story.”
She sighed, and spoke the ancient words:
“The King will come; a life after death, a branch from a tree they cut down.
The Spirit of God will rest upon him; the spirit of wisdom, of counsel and might, of knowledge and fear of the Lord.
He will never judge by the things his eyes see, or decide by the lies that he hears.
But in what is good will be his delight, With righteousness he will decide what is right, and judge with all fairness the poor.
The wolf then shall dwell right beside the young lambs, the leopard lie down with the goat. The deserts shall run full of springs overflowed, the lion shall eat only straw and be filled, and a child, still small, then shall lead them.”
“Hush. The earth shall be full of the Goodness of Him, like the waters that cover the sea. His people shall never be hurt or destroyed, the tree that was cut will stand tall and rejoice, and the peace they will have will be glorious.”
Mira closed her eyes against the hopeful silence.
“I can’t wait until He comes,” he whispered at last, looking into the flames with a hunger deeper than an empty stomach. “Maybe if we Move enough, someday we’ll find Him. Maybe, if we find Him, we can bring Him home.”
Maybe pigs will fly. Maybe people could actually be Brave and True and Good.
“Go to sleep,” Mira said again, and waited until his breaths had evened out to carefully extract him from her side, and tiptoe out of the cave and into the night.
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