Every few days over the next several months I will be posting installments of a novel about life, death, war and politics in America since 9/11. Through the Darkest of Nights is a story of hope, reflection, determination, and redemption. It is a testament to the progressive values we all believe in, have always defended, and always will defend no matter how long this darkness lasts.
All installments are available for reading here on my page, and also here on Docudharma’s Fiction Page, where refuge from politicians, blogging overload, and one BushCo outrage after another can always be found.
As I walk from my car towards the Lincoln Memorial, I see Shannon standing in a small crowd of peace activists, listening to a well-intentioned but amazingly inept speaker berating George W. Bush. I’ve been to enough peace rallies to know I’m not going to hear soaring eloquence from the speakers, but if peace depended on the speaking abilities of this guy, America would be at war with every country on the planet.
When he finished, to the evident relief of everyone within the sound of his voice, Shannon walked to the microphone . . .
“In the name of Justice, I come to you. In the name of Truth, I come to you. In the name of Peace, I come to you.”
She looked out upon the crowd, saw me standing towards the back, and acknowledged me with a look of determination in her eyes that I will never forget.
“Hear me, for what is in my heart is in your heart. Heed my words, for they are your words, they are the words of every seeker of peace, they are the words of every wife who has lost a husband, every mother who has lost a son, every grieving soul who has lost a loved one to war ever since the first soldier of the first king died for nothing on the world’s first battlefield.”
“My heart is as troubled as yours is today, my eyes have seen the same posturing politicians speak of peace while voting for war, my ears have heard the same lies, my soul has felt the same anguish, my conscience has brought me here today, just as yours have.”
Some of the tourists began to drift towards us, drawn by Shannon’s words.
“Those who speak to us from that White House behind us, those who speak to us from that Congress that is no longer ours, those who speak to us with such polished deceit do not hear our pleas for peace, they hear only their own voices. They do not speak to us, they speak to each other, in the language of lies, in the words of deceivers, in the name of power, in the name of wealth, in the name of bloodshed.”
“They do not speak for us, they speak for those who abuse us. They do not work for us, they work for those who enslave us. They do not walk among us as equals, they walk amongst themselves in their corridors of power, and look down upon us with condescension and contempt. They will not confront the evildoers they speak of with such contrived righteousness, they are the evildoers.
The crowd, which was no more than 50 or so when Shannon began speaking, has grown to 200 or more.
“They say they are servants of the people, but they are not, they serve only themselves. They say they will protect us, but they will not, they protect only themselves. They say they do not want war, but they do, for they want what their masters want. The makers of weapons want war, the networks whose ratings soar when the killing starts want war, the oil companies who covet the oil of Iraq want war, so they will get their war. These servants of warmongers will give them that war, and it will go on and on and on.”
“And they will not care, for those about to unleash this bloodshed, those who hold their heads high with such arrogance in that White House behind us, those who bleat what they are told to bleat in that Congress of Sheep, will not suffer the consequences. They will lose no sons or daughters. They will lose no friends. They will lose no sleep. As the carnage mounts and the coffins start coming home, they will not speak of the dead, they will not confess their complicity, they will offer only empty words and empty promises of victory as they fund the bloodshed, and fund it again, and keep on funding it.”
I have been on the National Mall many times. The bustle and chatter of tourists never stops. But as I look out across this end of the Mall, I see no movement, for there is no movement to be seen. I hear no chatter, I hear nothing, all is still. From the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument, no one is moving, no one is speaking. They are watching Shannon, they are listening to her . . .
“Hear me, and heed my words, for iniquity dwells not only in this city of vipers, it dwells across this land. In every city, in every town, on every street. Too many of your neighbors, too many of your co-workers, too many of your own loved ones ignore their conscience, so it speaks no more to them. They see only what they want to see, they hear only what they want to hear, they are walking down this path to destruction because everyone else is. They think security and safety lie ahead of them once this war is won, but this war will never be won, no war is ever won, they are just battles in an endless cycle of conflict that will never stop unless we empower ourselves and stop it. Our leaders never will. They do not care about us. They never have.
So hear me, seekers of peace. Hear me, seekers of justice. Hear me, seekers of a better world for America’s children, and for all the world’s children.
Empowered shall be those who listen, for they shall understand.
Empowered shall be those who seek justice, for they shall find justice.
Empowered shall be those who speak out in the name of peace, for they shall be heard, and peace shall come.
Empowered shall be those who bear witness to the truth, for the truth shall bear witness to them, until deceit, the source of all suffering, is no more.
Empowered shall be those who defy the Darkness of War, for the Light of Peace shall shine upon them, and guide them, and sustain them until the Light of Peace shines throughout this world.”
Shannon looked out over the hushed crowd for a moment, then stepped back from the microphone. I made my way towards her through the crowd as she spoke briefly with one of the peace rally organizers. Then, she turned in my direction, saw me, and walked up to me as a light rain began to fall from the overcast sky.
“Hello Jericho.”
“Hello Shannon, that was . . . I don’t know what to say, it was . . .”
“Well, peace may not break out all over the world for a few minutes yet, so we have time for that talk we need to have.”
We walked through the rain to the Lincoln Memorial. She was silent as we walked up the steps, and silent as she looked up at the inscription on the wall inside:
the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.
She looked into my eyes. “Tell me what is in your heart, Jericho.”
“My heart is broken, Shannon.”
“Then we must heal it.”
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We need more and better Seekers of Peace.
Rusty! O! O my!
this is really, really powerful!
maybe its because i was just having these same thoughts today, but…O my!
of your great novel, Rusty. I’m waiting for the next one.
And you, my dear friend, should be a speech-writer!!
Can we clone Shannon, so we have at least one in every state giving speeches?
Love ya Rusty. 🙂
i just didn’t expect this. honestly, i didn’t expect any of it up to and including this chapter.
intriguing Rusty. soft. heart-broken. and incredibly vulnerable. but it was like Jeff said about being open to the world. funny. everybody finds their openings in different places.
i’m getting into this. and really admire you for writing this…
Shannon strikes me as someone utterly formal. I hope she tells more than a few jokes. But that’s just me- if that’s who she is, that’s who she is, and you’ve then, of course, created the sort of real and believable characters a reader can get invested in.
It may not be the purpose of your novel, and so is obviously a personal hangup of mine, but on this first reading I’m bombarded with lots of HEAVY shit with (so far) little breathing room. Now, that assuredly has its place, and if this is its place and if I’m misreading, or misinterpreting the deployment of uncompromising stuff, please let me know.
On the other hand, you do capture that constrained claustrophobia of the time very well. Now that I consider that, I understand why each testament so far is absolutely relentless. I know dada is less effective against Nazis than, say, baseball bats, and I don’t really tell jokes well myself, so I may be full of shit again. But that’s just my initial impression.
Ah, but you’ve again succeeded in forcing me to take this personally, and that’s always indicative of a job well done, isn’t it?