Chaos Theory
*not mine. However, I do not remember credit where it is due*
It was ten o'clock in the morning and Trent already felt his legs beginning to ache. He groaned and sat down on a tree stump for a momentary reprieve.
Trent had taken this particular trail before numerous times with his brother but didn't remember the climb being so dauntingly steep. He wasn't cut out for this. If it was up to him, he would much rather be intellectually stimulated than be forced to endure such physical anguish. But he had no other choice. Where else would he find the right plants for his science experiment?
He staggered up the slopes, stopping only to wipe the sweat from his glistening face. Beyond him, tall pine and spruce trees cast their shadows over Trickle Lake while a flock of geese soared overhead. A fresh blanket of brown fallen leaves crunched beneath his feet. As Trent rounded a corner, he noticed a cluster of small wooden shacks a couple hundred feet away. Quickly, he clambered up the path to investigate what appeared to be an abandoned clearing.
Two dusty windows adorned each of the rundown shanties, all of which were covered by graffiti. Trent scratched his head, perplexed by the scene. Maybe if he looked inside one of the shacks, he could solve the mystery that stood in front of him.
He grasped the door handle of one of the shacks and stepped inside...
Dried leaves skittered away from him as he entered the shack.
The room was bare. Empty bottles stood in one corner, some of them cracked, and some of them still half-full of some sort of liquid. On the other side of the room was a chair, whose paint had almost finished flaking off.
He had the feeling it was inhabited. But by whom? This was all very curious.
It was quiet: too quiet. Aside from the creak of the dusty floorboards under his feet, he heard almost nothing. The rustling trees and the birdcalls he had heard outside seemed oddly muted here, to the point of being barely audible. He felt the urge to break the silence somehow and cleared his throat consciously.
"Hello?" His voice echoed through the room. "Anyone here?"
There was no answer.
Maybe he would find something-or something-in one of the other two shanties.
Pushing a disturbing thought-the thought that sensibly reminded him of just how foolish this was-aside, Trent left the shack and headed for the one next-door. This next shack looked larger, but its windows had been boarded up. Shards of glass lay outside what had been the windows.
After hesitating for a few seconds, he walked up to the door and gave the handle a tug. The door opened into thick, almost palpable darkness. Trent pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. He took one step inside; the door slammed closed behind him, and he jumped. He mentally kicked himself for not propping it open.
It was chilly. He smelled smoke.
Perhaps it really was about time he left…
Click.
It sounded suspiciously like the sound of a gun being cocked.
A shiver ran down his spine. Definitely time to leave; but it was probably a bad idea to move at this moment.
A hoarse voice spoke from behind him. "What are you doing here?"
Trent tried to think but found it difficult-his mind kept straying to just what sort of gun the man was pointing at him. A shotgun? A machine gun? A death ray? He pictured a large man standing behind him, his skin nearly invisible under tattoos. He probably had tattoos on his face as well. Along with a dozen or so piercings.
The man spoke again, interrupting Trent's thoughts. "I said, what are you doing here?"
"Uh… I… um-plants." Just how much did guns hurt? "I… was… are you going to shoot me?"
"You haven't answered my question."
"P-plants. I was looking for… plants. You… you won't shoot me, will you?"
The man sighed. "No, kid. I'm not going to kill you. I… thought you were someone else."
"Whew. Uh. Thanks. Really. I should be going, I won't be bothering you again-"
The light blinked on, and Trent now saw a man standing by the wall, flicking the safety of his gun on. His shaggy hair fell away from his face as he looked up-his face was smudged, his eyes haggard. "Who are you?"
Trent swallowed. "I'm… Trent. You?"
The man glanced at him as he put his gun down on the table next to him. "No one in particular."
There was an uncomfortable silence, which Trent finally decided to break. "Well. I guess I should be leaving now, huh? As nice as this visit was…" He awkwardly tried to grin, and headed for the door.
"Wait."
"…yeah?"
"You know anyone called Cunningham-Schultz?"
Trent shook his head. "Who's that?"
"What about Tom Riley?"
Trent turned around in surprise. "Sure, I know Mr. Riley. …you know him too?"
"Sort of."
"Just who are you anyway?" Trent asked again, and then began to regret it; but to his relief, the man did not seem to take any offense.
Silence again.
The man finally spoke. "Maxwell."
"Oh." He thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but did not recognize it all the same. "Hi… Maxwell."
"…so. How is Riley doing these days? I see he's built a camp."
Trent stared at him rather confusedly. "He's doing fine. You could… go see him, you know."
The man stared back.
"…you know, if you need a better place to live, I'm sure Mr. Riley would hire you or something. I mean-"
"I don't belong in Odyssey, all right?" Maxwell's voice rose.
Trent's hands were growing cold. He stuck them in his pockets. "But…well, you wouldn't know that before you even live there."
"I have been there." Maxwell's voice had gone flat. "Many times."
"Then-"
"I don't belong there, because I hurt the people there."
"Eh… what do you mean?"
"Did you ever hear about what happened to Riley's barn? I burned it down. I almost ruined him. And Lucy. I…" Maxwell abruptly stopped and gave what sounded like a short laugh. "I don't belong there."
"But I'm sure they'd forgive you if you apologized…" Trent ventured.
"I know. They said they did."
"See? Then they did forgive you."
Maxwell laughed again. "And you think that's enough?"
"…yeah. It should be enough." Trent said slowly. Where was Mr. Whittaker when he needed him? "But you haven't gotten over it."
"Do I look like I have?"
"So… you stay here. What for?"
"Because I can't just walk away. I need to make it up to them."
Trent frowned. "But they forgave you."
"And?"
"And… maybe you need to ask God to forgive you."
"Heh." Maxwell gave him a skeptical look. "Even if a God does exist, he'd never do that."
"Yeah, He would..." Trent took a cautious step toward him, all the while racking his brain for something to say that actually made sense. "Maxwell, you can't keep carrying all this guilt around." All those sessions at Sunday school, all his talks with Mr. Whittaker, his devotions-why were they eluding him now?
"I have to." Maxwell's eyes had begun to glaze over.
"No, you don't! You don't have to be like this. I mean. God… He… He'd forgive you. Ask Him, Maxwell…"
"And then what? My guilt will stay, regardless. It will never go away. You don't know what you're talking about." Maxwell's hand began to creep toward his gun.
He remembered something he had learned, just a short time ago… "But if God forgives you, and you don't forgive yourself, you-" Trent struggled for words. "Isn't that…being… proud?"
"Proud?" Maxwell snatched the gun off the table. "I have nothing to be proud about. Nothing! Do you understand?" He cocked the gun.
Run. Run! Trent stood rooted to the spot.
"Nothing… to live for. Except guilt." As if in a daze, Maxwell lifted the gun and pressed it to his own head. His finger found the trigger, began to squeeze-
"No!" Trent launched himself at Maxwell, swung his arm at the gun. The gunshot exploded right next to his ear, and the metal shell clinked on the floor. Smoke. Trent's ears rang. Blinking away the tears that filled his stinging eyes, Trent picked himself up off Maxwell. Maxwell lay on the floor-alive. His gun lay inches from his hand, still smoking.
"You can't do this," Trent managed between ragged breaths. "He'll-He'll take away your guilt. Ask Him to. Please."
Maxwell made no reply. Slowly, he sat up; he did not look at the gun.
"Maxwell!"
He looked up, despair in his eyes. "What if you're wrong?"
"I'm not." Trent dropped his backpack on the floor and yanked out his small Bible. "I'm not." He held it out toward Maxwell.
Maxwell stared at it-and then took it.
"Maxwell, I don't even know what to tell you. But I-I mean… can you… read it? I mean, you have to." Trent found himself at a loss for words yet again.
"Kid…"
"Yeah?"
"Go home."
Suddenly feeling weary, Trent looked at him.
"Go home," Maxwell repeated. "Don't worry… I won't use that gun. At least not yet… but it's time you went home."
"But-"
"There isn't anything you can do, kid….although I appreciate it." Maxwell sighed. "Just go."
Trent stood up and lifted his backpack. It felt lighter. "Goodbye, then, Maxwell." He walked to the door and pulled it open.
"...Richard," the man said.
"Richard."
Trent walked away from the shack, down the trail.
He did not remember the plants for the experiment until much later.
-=-
Years passed.
Trent walked down the street along McCalister Park, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on his face. He had returned to Odyssey after graduating college, had met many familiar faces. The wedding was scheduled for next week in the First Church. Life was good.
A middle-aged man came walking around the corner; he nodded and slightly grinned as he passed by. Trent suddenly frowned, attempting to determine whether he recognized that face or not.
And the memories began to return.
Richard.
He stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around; but the man was already gone.
Trent presently began to walk again. He felt a smile stretching across his face.
No; it was not life, on second thought, that was truly good-
God was.
finis
It was ten o'clock in the morning and Trent already felt his legs beginning to ache. He groaned and sat down on a tree stump for a momentary reprieve.
Trent had taken this particular trail before numerous times with his brother but didn't remember the climb being so dauntingly steep. He wasn't cut out for this. If it was up to him, he would much rather be intellectually stimulated than be forced to endure such physical anguish. But he had no other choice. Where else would he find the right plants for his science experiment?
He staggered up the slopes, stopping only to wipe the sweat from his glistening face. Beyond him, tall pine and spruce trees cast their shadows over Trickle Lake while a flock of geese soared overhead. A fresh blanket of brown fallen leaves crunched beneath his feet. As Trent rounded a corner, he noticed a cluster of small wooden shacks a couple hundred feet away. Quickly, he clambered up the path to investigate what appeared to be an abandoned clearing.
Two dusty windows adorned each of the rundown shanties, all of which were covered by graffiti. Trent scratched his head, perplexed by the scene. Maybe if he looked inside one of the shacks, he could solve the mystery that stood in front of him.
He grasped the door handle of one of the shacks and stepped inside...
Dried leaves skittered away from him as he entered the shack.
The room was bare. Empty bottles stood in one corner, some of them cracked, and some of them still half-full of some sort of liquid. On the other side of the room was a chair, whose paint had almost finished flaking off.
He had the feeling it was inhabited. But by whom? This was all very curious.
It was quiet: too quiet. Aside from the creak of the dusty floorboards under his feet, he heard almost nothing. The rustling trees and the birdcalls he had heard outside seemed oddly muted here, to the point of being barely audible. He felt the urge to break the silence somehow and cleared his throat consciously.
"Hello?" His voice echoed through the room. "Anyone here?"
There was no answer.
Maybe he would find something-or something-in one of the other two shanties.
Pushing a disturbing thought-the thought that sensibly reminded him of just how foolish this was-aside, Trent left the shack and headed for the one next-door. This next shack looked larger, but its windows had been boarded up. Shards of glass lay outside what had been the windows.
After hesitating for a few seconds, he walked up to the door and gave the handle a tug. The door opened into thick, almost palpable darkness. Trent pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. He took one step inside; the door slammed closed behind him, and he jumped. He mentally kicked himself for not propping it open.
It was chilly. He smelled smoke.
Perhaps it really was about time he left…
Click.
It sounded suspiciously like the sound of a gun being cocked.
A shiver ran down his spine. Definitely time to leave; but it was probably a bad idea to move at this moment.
A hoarse voice spoke from behind him. "What are you doing here?"
Trent tried to think but found it difficult-his mind kept straying to just what sort of gun the man was pointing at him. A shotgun? A machine gun? A death ray? He pictured a large man standing behind him, his skin nearly invisible under tattoos. He probably had tattoos on his face as well. Along with a dozen or so piercings.
The man spoke again, interrupting Trent's thoughts. "I said, what are you doing here?"
"Uh… I… um-plants." Just how much did guns hurt? "I… was… are you going to shoot me?"
"You haven't answered my question."
"P-plants. I was looking for… plants. You… you won't shoot me, will you?"
The man sighed. "No, kid. I'm not going to kill you. I… thought you were someone else."
"Whew. Uh. Thanks. Really. I should be going, I won't be bothering you again-"
The light blinked on, and Trent now saw a man standing by the wall, flicking the safety of his gun on. His shaggy hair fell away from his face as he looked up-his face was smudged, his eyes haggard. "Who are you?"
Trent swallowed. "I'm… Trent. You?"
The man glanced at him as he put his gun down on the table next to him. "No one in particular."
There was an uncomfortable silence, which Trent finally decided to break. "Well. I guess I should be leaving now, huh? As nice as this visit was…" He awkwardly tried to grin, and headed for the door.
"Wait."
"…yeah?"
"You know anyone called Cunningham-Schultz?"
Trent shook his head. "Who's that?"
"What about Tom Riley?"
Trent turned around in surprise. "Sure, I know Mr. Riley. …you know him too?"
"Sort of."
"Just who are you anyway?" Trent asked again, and then began to regret it; but to his relief, the man did not seem to take any offense.
Silence again.
The man finally spoke. "Maxwell."
"Oh." He thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but did not recognize it all the same. "Hi… Maxwell."
"…so. How is Riley doing these days? I see he's built a camp."
Trent stared at him rather confusedly. "He's doing fine. You could… go see him, you know."
The man stared back.
"…you know, if you need a better place to live, I'm sure Mr. Riley would hire you or something. I mean-"
"I don't belong in Odyssey, all right?" Maxwell's voice rose.
Trent's hands were growing cold. He stuck them in his pockets. "But…well, you wouldn't know that before you even live there."
"I have been there." Maxwell's voice had gone flat. "Many times."
"Then-"
"I don't belong there, because I hurt the people there."
"Eh… what do you mean?"
"Did you ever hear about what happened to Riley's barn? I burned it down. I almost ruined him. And Lucy. I…" Maxwell abruptly stopped and gave what sounded like a short laugh. "I don't belong there."
"But I'm sure they'd forgive you if you apologized…" Trent ventured.
"I know. They said they did."
"See? Then they did forgive you."
Maxwell laughed again. "And you think that's enough?"
"…yeah. It should be enough." Trent said slowly. Where was Mr. Whittaker when he needed him? "But you haven't gotten over it."
"Do I look like I have?"
"So… you stay here. What for?"
"Because I can't just walk away. I need to make it up to them."
Trent frowned. "But they forgave you."
"And?"
"And… maybe you need to ask God to forgive you."
"Heh." Maxwell gave him a skeptical look. "Even if a God does exist, he'd never do that."
"Yeah, He would..." Trent took a cautious step toward him, all the while racking his brain for something to say that actually made sense. "Maxwell, you can't keep carrying all this guilt around." All those sessions at Sunday school, all his talks with Mr. Whittaker, his devotions-why were they eluding him now?
"I have to." Maxwell's eyes had begun to glaze over.
"No, you don't! You don't have to be like this. I mean. God… He… He'd forgive you. Ask Him, Maxwell…"
"And then what? My guilt will stay, regardless. It will never go away. You don't know what you're talking about." Maxwell's hand began to creep toward his gun.
He remembered something he had learned, just a short time ago… "But if God forgives you, and you don't forgive yourself, you-" Trent struggled for words. "Isn't that…being… proud?"
"Proud?" Maxwell snatched the gun off the table. "I have nothing to be proud about. Nothing! Do you understand?" He cocked the gun.
Run. Run! Trent stood rooted to the spot.
"Nothing… to live for. Except guilt." As if in a daze, Maxwell lifted the gun and pressed it to his own head. His finger found the trigger, began to squeeze-
"No!" Trent launched himself at Maxwell, swung his arm at the gun. The gunshot exploded right next to his ear, and the metal shell clinked on the floor. Smoke. Trent's ears rang. Blinking away the tears that filled his stinging eyes, Trent picked himself up off Maxwell. Maxwell lay on the floor-alive. His gun lay inches from his hand, still smoking.
"You can't do this," Trent managed between ragged breaths. "He'll-He'll take away your guilt. Ask Him to. Please."
Maxwell made no reply. Slowly, he sat up; he did not look at the gun.
"Maxwell!"
He looked up, despair in his eyes. "What if you're wrong?"
"I'm not." Trent dropped his backpack on the floor and yanked out his small Bible. "I'm not." He held it out toward Maxwell.
Maxwell stared at it-and then took it.
"Maxwell, I don't even know what to tell you. But I-I mean… can you… read it? I mean, you have to." Trent found himself at a loss for words yet again.
"Kid…"
"Yeah?"
"Go home."
Suddenly feeling weary, Trent looked at him.
"Go home," Maxwell repeated. "Don't worry… I won't use that gun. At least not yet… but it's time you went home."
"But-"
"There isn't anything you can do, kid….although I appreciate it." Maxwell sighed. "Just go."
Trent stood up and lifted his backpack. It felt lighter. "Goodbye, then, Maxwell." He walked to the door and pulled it open.
"...Richard," the man said.
"Richard."
Trent walked away from the shack, down the trail.
He did not remember the plants for the experiment until much later.
-=-
Years passed.
Trent walked down the street along McCalister Park, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on his face. He had returned to Odyssey after graduating college, had met many familiar faces. The wedding was scheduled for next week in the First Church. Life was good.
A middle-aged man came walking around the corner; he nodded and slightly grinned as he passed by. Trent suddenly frowned, attempting to determine whether he recognized that face or not.
And the memories began to return.
Richard.
He stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around; but the man was already gone.
Trent presently began to walk again. He felt a smile stretching across his face.
No; it was not life, on second thought, that was truly good-
God was.
finis