Lay Us Gently to Rest

By Jeffrey Matthews

Zeph and Lee are an elderly couple living a simple life on their Tennessee farm, their hearts deeply wounded long ago by the tragic death of their little boy, killed in a hit-and-run.
When Zeph’s brother passes away, the couple take in their nephew and try their best to provide him with a stable, loving home. Though the couple never speak of their past heartache, not even with each other, the nephew grows up resentful, never feeling he “measures up” to the son they lost.
Zeph bears the worst scars from the couple’s painful day, having been the one to discover his son’s broken body on the side of the road. Though he remains stoic and solid, always caring for his wife and nephew the best he can, he burrows ever deeper into himself and his personal sorrow.
One day, while at his favorite fishing hole, a stranger enters the carefully insulated world Zeph has created for himself, and Zeph is unexpectedly confronted by thoughts of what his own son could have grown to be.
The young man is afflicted with a strange amnesia, making him a mystery even to himself, his identity and origins unknown. Odd burn scars across his palms suggest a painful past, and he is ever haunted by fleeting glimpses of another place and time—fragmented memories he can’t be sure are even true.
The two men form an unexpected bond from the unexpressed needs of their souls—one for a lost son, the other for a lost identity and home.
What’s been kept secret for far too long hovers between these two men like the morning mist on a serene pond—secrets that, once uncovered, may bring healing to one, a path home for the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973653189

Jeffrey Matthews

Jeffrey Matthews is a native of the Sunshine State. He woke up one morning in his adopted home of New Ulm, Minnesota, remembering he was meant to be a storyteller. His debut novel, Carry Us All, was honored with inclusion in the National Carousel Association’s Archives.

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Copyright © 2019 Jeffrey Matthews.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5317-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5319-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5318-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019901357

WestBow Press rev. date:  03/28/2019

Contents

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Acknowledgements

For my father

The remnant of Israel shall not do iniquity,

nor speak lies;

neither shall a deceitful tongue be found in their mouth:

for they shall feed and lie down,

and none shall make them afraid.

Zephaniah 3:13 (KJV)

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THE POND STARED into the pale-blue Tennessee sky - a great unblinking eye, reflecting back to the heavens all that passed above it.

From the pond’s reedy banks, a deep-green meadow stretched away in every direction, and at its edge, wildflowers danced and swayed to the slightest breeze. Farther out, young saplings stood tall and alert, like brave, young soldiers marching out from the older, darker forest beyond.

Above the ancient treetops, billowy clouds hunched together, making their slow, sulking trek from west to east. Against their stark whiteness, a hawk lazily circled, enjoying the last of the afternoon thermals sweeping up the mountainsides.

The sun, dipping to the crest of the western ridge, had turned from the sharp yellow of midday to the restful orange of late afternoon - its rays puncturing small openings in the clouds and spilling across the landscape, creating sharp contrasts, defining edges, lengthening shadows. The air, sharp and clean, held the whisper of winter’s approaching footsteps.

And on a log, at the edge of the pond, sat an old man.

He held a fishing pole, light and easy, in his farmwork-hardened hands. His eyes, bright and undimmed by age, were intent on the red-and-white bobber at the end of his line. He could almost see into the pond’s murky depths - even the old, recalcitrant catfish lying there in the bottom mud.

Long as a man’s arm, the old cat stubbornly considered the baited hook dangling before it, every bit as intent and concentrated as his worthy adversary on the other end of the line.

Locked in this silent, patient, and well-rehearsed battle - both rivals obstinate beyond measure - the two foes considered one another.

They had done this many times before.

This was not a battle to be won, but a battle to be fought and savored. A battle to be survived and later bragged about. A battle with no victory, other than the respect earned by each stalwart combatant. A battle of equals.

But while the old man trained his attention on his venerable aquatic opponent, his still-keen hearing was focused on something else.

There were footsteps within the forest depths.

A shadow moved near the tree line.

Someone - or some thing - was nearing the edge of the meadow.

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A LEAF, BRITTLE and orange, fluttered and rattled in the reeds.

Set free by a gust of wind, it skittered across the rippling water and was immediately set upon by a school of minnows, all pecking and nudging, testing the new object for its edibility. A dragonfly swooped onto the leaf, scattering the minnows back to the safety of the reeds. The ungainly insect, indifferent and obtuse, flitted away like a stone skipped from a boy’s hand.

The old man observed this minor commotion, but his posture remained perfectly still - patient and waiting - waiting for a nibble at his bait, and waiting for the shadow to step out from the forest and into the light.

He didn’t need to watch his bobber so intently; it was simply habit. He knew his long-practiced fingers would feel the slightest tug on the line long before his eyes would register the telltale bump of the bobber.

He felt a slight unease about the forest shadow. It would move and stop, then move again. But he didn’t want to look up - not yet.

Whatever, or whomever, was lurking inside the forest’s blackness, he wanted it to think he hadn’t noticed. So he continued to sit, still and quiet, concentrated on his line.

The shadow separated now from the darkness of the forest, but remained nothing more than a dark shape.

Though still a shadow, it moved like a man.

It was tall and lanky.

It stood knee-deep in the wildflowers - just stopped there - perhaps regarding for itself the suddenness of having come upon its own unexpected company in the form of an old man, fishing from a log at the edge of a pond.

The old man moved slowly, laying his pole aside so he could rummage through the rucksack at his feet. He pulled out a soup can and spoon. Setting both on his lap and leaning back, he stretched out a leg so he could fit his hand down his pocket. He brought out an aging Swiss Army knife. The knife’s red casing was dull and scratched from a lifetime of use, but its blades and various attachments still gleamed from careful cleaning and oiling. He flicked out the can opener and began working it smoothly around the can’s rim. The smell of bean and bacon soup came to his nose and he smiled at the thought of his forbearing wife - how she hated it when he ate cold soup from a can as a snack.

The water rippled near his bobber.

In one smooth motion he lowered the knife and soup can to the ground and carefully took up his pole. He sat solid as a stone, lightly pinching the line between his finger and thumb.

He could feel the weight of the fish on the other end of the line.

That big, dumb cat, he smiled to himself, his luck may have just run out.

Another slight tug and the bobber sat low in the water, but the old man waited.

The bobber began to move, ever so slowly, gliding against the wind. It then sat motionless again.

A cloud passed above the pond, and the sun’s gleam on the water’s surface went dull. The cloud moved on and the gleam returned, as if the pond had winked at him.

The bobber suddenly jerked below the water’s surface.

The old man yanked back on the pole, feeling his hook set firmly in his adversary’s mouth.

The tip of his pole bent sharply over, nearly straight down, and he stood from the force of it.

He knew the big cat was heading for the deepest murk of the pond.

The old man pulled, straining, reeling in line, fighting against the cat’s run.

He pointed the tip of his pole at the water, reeling in the slack before steadily pulling the pole up in a quivering arc.

This time he felt the line go impossibly tight, twanging in the air as if firmly tied to the bottom. And with that, he knew the fight was over.

Just before the line snapped - just a breath before - the old man knew with great clarity that it had reached its limit.

When the snap came, sharp as a plucked guitar string, it was no surprise to him.

And in his mind’s eye, he could see once again into the depths of the pond.

There, in the murk, the big cat lay in the mud - fat and smug - another trophy hook dangling from its big, toothless grin.

And at the forest’s edge, the shadow man was still there.

He’d been watching all this from the wildflowers.

The old man turned now and looked straight in the shadow man’s direction.

The dark figure froze in place.

The old man clucked his tongue, eased himself back down on the log, and took up his soup can and spoon.

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THE SHADOW MAN stepped into the sunlight of the open meadow, crossing the field in long, easy strides.

The old man glanced sideways at the shadow man’s approach while he bent over to pull his tackle box nearer. He pondered over his arsenal of hooks and sinkers, wondering if he had time to throw out one more line.

He didn’t own a watch. His good sense of time had always served him well. In fact, he could almost hear his wife setting the table for supper. He knew exactly how long it would take him to pack things up – and exactly how long to walk back to the house. He knew he could arrive at his doorstep mere seconds before his wife would come to the porch looking for him.

While he made his calculations on the time he had left, he glanced again at the approaching figure, but continued to feign unawareness of the intruder’s existence.

Howdy, the shadow man called out, raising a hand in greeting.

The old man frowned to himself. He didn’t want company, much less from a stranger who knew no better than to come walking up to a pond, shouting and waving, and all from a direction where he cast a shadow over the water. The big fish were probably already diving for cover, from where they were likely to call it a day. Only the small dumb ones would still be feeding.

Howdy, the stranger repeated. I’m just passing through, he added, standing now at the pond’s edge, hands on his hips, staring out across the water.

You’re making a shadow, the old man said, slow and deliberate.

Oh! the man exclaimed, sliding his backpack off and sitting carefully on the other end of the log. Sorry about that.

The old man shook his head to himself while he baited the new hook he’d just tied to his line. He cast the line out in a single fluid motion, the bobber plunking soft as a feather onto the water, creating the barest of ripples.

He didn’t want company, he thought again to himself. But he also couldn’t keep himself from the curiosity and conversation that flowed so naturally from him.

Been on the road long? he asked toward the water.

Awhile, said the stranger.

Not so sure?

No, just haven’t been keeping track.

The old man allowed himself a long sideways look at the stranger. He was young, fairly clean shaven, probably in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. His face and eyes were sharp and keen, but his clothes and boots told another story - one of hard hiking and long days on the road. The man was thin, with long, finely chiseled muscles showing along the top of his hands, up his forearms, and straight up along the sides of his neck.

The old man looked the stranger full in the face and narrowed his eyes.

You headed somewhere purposeful? he asked, before intently returning his eyes to his fishing.

Hmm, the stranger exhaled.

This made the old man look back at him, his eyes narrowing again.

More like, the stranger continued slowly, more like I’m looking for someone.

And who’d that be?

My mother, I guess. He paused and his expression became wistful and deep. But also something else. Something I’m not quite sure of yet, he finished.

The old man unconsciously grimaced.

The stranger brightened and smiled quickly. Looking out over the pond, he motioned toward the bobber. Looked like you almost had yourself a big one.

That was Ben, the old man said flatly, turning his gaze back to the pond. He’s a big, surly catfish, the likes of which you ain’t never seen. He sits out there, mockin’ me.

How do you know it was that particular catfish?

Oh, it was him alright. Know him by his weight on the line. By the way he runs out when he’s hooked.

The two men sat in silence, perhaps both thinking of what to say next, perhaps just thinking about big catfish, or perhaps thinking about one big catfish in particular named Ben, sleeping peacefully in the mud at the bottom of the pond.

The old man spoke up first.

You ain’t one of them hippies, are you? Out here tryin’ to find yourself? Communing with nature or some such nonsense?

The stranger laughed, but it had a warmth to it.

No, he said. Nothing like that.

You said, just a might ago, you were lookin’ for somethin’ you ain’t sure of. That sure as shootin’ sounds like hippie-talk to me.

That’s because I’m not exactly sure who I am or where I’m from.

The old man pondered this a moment. He didn’t much care for flippancy or word play. But the stranger had an ease with himself - a genuineness. The old man liked to think he was able to discern things like that in folks at first glance. He knew his wife didn’t like it - the way he tended to size people up so fast and so certain. But he also felt he hadn’t been wrong very much in his long life - especially when it came to knowing people. And besides, his wife wasn’t here right now to see him exercising his God-given talent.

The old man grimaced, working his jaw like he was softly chewing on something.

Name’s Zeph, he said, somewhat resolute, slightly squinting one eye at the stranger before focusing on reeling in his line.

Nice to meet you, Zeph. I’m Campbell.

Zeph reached out and caught his hook as it swung toward him, securing it to his pole. He then turned and looked the young man directly in the eyes.

The young man returned his gaze straight on - easy and unflinching.

Zeph liked that.

But something tugged at the back of Zeph’s mind.

Something familiar. Something suspicious. Something this stranger had just said.

It was his name - Campbell.

Zeph was fast approaching eighty-five, but his mind was still honed as sharp as a shaving razor. His eyes fell to the red-and-white soup can lying at his feet - its readily familiar brand name scripted across it in white letters. The can sat there on the ground between him and the stranger like some kind of silent warning beacon.

It was too easy.

Maybe just coincidence.

But against all of Zeph’s good nature, the smallest hint of doubt took root in his mind.

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ZEPH METHODICALLY PACKED up his things, furtively eyeing his unexpected and unwanted company.

The young man had wandered over to the pond’s edge and was idly skipping rocks across its surface. His movements seemed to have a playful and childlike quality to them, thought Zeph. But he mentally shook this off, trying to keep his attention keen and focused - his guard up. Especially when the young man turned to face him.

Zeph warily noted that while the stranger was a little on the thin side, he was definitely well-toned, standing an easy few inches above his own six-foot height. And he suddenly became very conscious of what this stranger could do to him if he had any ill intent.

Which way you headed, young fella? Zeph asked.

South, said Campbell, hoisting up his heavy appearing backpack, but swinging it effortlessly onto his back as though it were filled with feathers. And east, he added. Mostly east, I guess.

Don’t think you’ll be wantin’ to go directly east from here. Not lessin’ you enjoy mountain hiking, said Zeph. He held out an open hand to the young man and questioningly cocked his head to one side.

It took Campbell a moment to realize the old man was motioning for his rucksack, that Campbell had unconsciously picked up as a courtesy.

Mountains? he asked, handing the rucksack over.

The Smokies, said Zeph, stepping over the log he had used as a bench. If’n you ain’t up to crossin’ ‘em, he said over his shoulder, raising his voice a little with every step, you’ll be wantin’ to go on south from here. And keep on goin’ south a good bit before you turn east.

He thought he had put a comfortable distance between himself and the stranger, but when he stopped speaking, he could hear the young man’s boots steadily crunching along behind him.

Zeph drew in a deep breath and kept on walking, tightening his grip on the rucksack in his one hand, his pole and tackle box in the other. He tried to stay aware of the stranger’s position behind him while acting as though he were paying him no mind - and he wondered how far the young man intended to follow him.

I see, said Campbell, taking a few bounding steps to catch up. Guess I’ll have to think about that.

Zeph glanced over his shoulder, starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t lead this stranger directly to his door. His second glance caught the young man’s eye and he wished he hadn’t looked again. The stranger gave him an easy smile and took the minor attention as a cue to continue.

I’ve been traveling south, said Campbell. Following the highway. He took another bounding step, hustling up alongside the old man. Interstate 75. Do you know it?

Zeph gave a knowing nod, but didn’t look over, trying to do as little as possible in the way of encouraging further conversation.

Every now and then, Campbell continued, I leave the highways and take off across the land. You know? Just to see whatever else I might see.

Zeph fully eyed the young man walking beside him now, this time not caring if he noticed. The stranger was keeping up all too easily, in spite of the weighty looking backpack on his shoulders. He wanted to stay suspicious and aloof, but the young man had an easy way about him that Zeph liked.

Still, he thought, some of the things the kid said sounded like hippie-talk. Purposeless and aimless.

And that, Zeph didn’t like.

The young man suddenly loped past Zeph to hold back a low hanging tree branch. Zeph noticed how the stranger’s backpack seemed tidy and solidly packed. He nodded a silent thanks to the young man, hoping his face wasn’t giving away how deep in thought he was.

For being on the road, the man’s clothes and boots appeared well cared for and neat. That gave Zeph an impression of a man who was prudent and thoughtful. But from the man’s speech and mannerisms, Zeph felt he could easily imagine something different about him - that he was the foolish type he didn’t much like, who cared too much about things that didn’t matter, and too little about things that did.

On the other hand, the kid’s overall appearance and comportment spoke to him of something else. Of something more serious and down-to-earth. The type of stuff Zeph knew and understood. The whole thing was becoming a puzzler to him, and Zeph really didn’t like it when things didn’t add up.

Where’d you say you were from? asked Zeph.

North. Minnesota.

Walked all that way, did you?

No, said Campbell, chuckling a little. I had a pickup truck, but it gave out on me just outside Cincinnati. I don’t know a lot about engines, but I’m pretty sure it was going to be an expensive repair. Didn’t matter, though. I didn’t have any money to get it fixed anyway. A guy at the gas station was willing to pay me cash for it, so I sold it to him. It’s just as well. I kinda prefer walking.

They went on farther through the woods, neither talking.

Campbell thought the old man might be getting winded soon. He’d been leading a brisk pace. He was surprised the old man seemed so spry, barely cutting a sweat. He also started to notice they’d been following a well-worn path, but the woods to either side kept him from seeing very far ahead.

And now Campbell stopped, beginning to wonder if he should follow.

Well, said Zeph, hearing the young man stop and turning back to him. If you want to keep a comin’ on with me, up ahead here I can put you back on a road headin’ south.

Zeph noticed the young man seemed to be confused and thinking hard, and a part of him felt somehow gentler toward him.

If it don’t much matter to you, he offered, you might just want to keep on goin’ south until you’re well into Georgia before you start movin’ east again.

Zeph started to walk on, but stole a look over his shoulder at Campbell. The young man was following again, but carefully minding his steps on the narrow path. Unless that don’t work in with your plans, Zeph finished.

Nope, don’t really have much of a plan, said Campbell. Just going east to the ocean, then south I guess. I’m headed south because I have a few friends down there.

Uh-huh, Zeph breathed out. Hippie-talk, he thought again to himself. Just some foolish, wandering nonsense, instead of good hard work and a solid simple plan.

The trees thinned and they entered an open meadow. On the far side was a fence of waist-high wooden poles, some leaning and twisted in their spots, a few strands of barbed wire strung between them. There was a large wooden gate a little farther down, but Campbell noticed that Zeph seemed determined to cross the fence where they were.

The men dropped their gear over the wires and Zeph held up the top strand so Campbell could slip under. Campbell noticed the path again, how it cut across beneath the fence line, right where they stood. He turned and started to hold the barbed wire for Zeph, but the old man had a long practiced method of doing this for himself, and he slipped under before Campbell was able to do much in the way of help.

Hope we’re not trespassing on someone’s property, Campbell said jokingly.

I’m not, said Zeph, picking up his rucksack, pole and tackle box. But you are. He gave the young man a wry smile before walking on - but not hearing Campbell’s footsteps behind him made him stop and look back. The young man had lifted his backpack up, but stood frozen at the fence.

Zeph chuckled and motioned for Campbell to come along.

All this is mine, he said to the widening path ahead, stretching his arms out to either side as he walked on.

On loan from the good Lord Himself.

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THE TWO MEN walked another hundred yards through cleared pasture.

There were a few cows off in the distance and Zeph glanced over at them when Campbell pointed them out. Zeph muttered something under his breath about them not being his and how one day he was going to figure out just exactly who they belonged to. Campbell wondered at how the old man seemed so blissfully unconcerned about the random appearance of cows