The Last Mission
Prologue
1961
A man sat quietly rocking in a plain oak chair. The fading afternoon light illuminated his full and dark head of hair which showed only the beginning traces of grey. In all other respects, however, he appeared old, though his face could not readily be seen. His shoulders slumped with a sagging weight of despondency. The back-and-forth movement of the chair seemed to originate in some ethereal region having no connection whatever to his limbs. Indeed, both arms and legs appeared to hang lifeless from the rest of his frame and, had they been so inclined, did not look as though they would contain even the modicum of strength necessary to give the wooden pendulum upon which he sat the rhythmic movement it now somehow exhibited. He wore the aspect of one altogether dead to life, both the life around him and; if there chanced to be any left, that within him as well. The only sign that he in fact was alive, besides the slow creaking motion of the oak runners over the boards of the floor, was a slight movement of the fingers that lay in his lap, though what they held could not immediately be seen.
Around him, the Bavarian mountainside was idyllic, peaceful, and still. It was just the consoling balm his soul needed after the tragedy. The snow that yet covered parts of the ground, the bells tinkling their random carols from the fields across the valley, and the occasional glimpses far to the south of the towering peaks of purest white – all these added their own soothings to his spirit and reminded him of friends from long ago, even as those who cared for him watched the healing of his wound and leg. Even if he did walk again, however, what did it matter, he thought. What would anything ever mean again…without her to share it with?
Life had been so good, so full of joy. He had never imagined it was possible to know such happiness. Then, cruelly had the evil hand of fate snatched it all away. So it seemed in his more disconsolate moments, though deep inside he tried to convince himself otherwise. He did not believe in fate any more than she had, but during these days of darkness it was very difficult not to slip back into old patterns of thought. He knew what she would say, that all things turned out good in the end. That this catastrophe could ever be called good he would never accept. That it might work for good he occasionally allowed himself to contemplate, though such was an idea equally strenuous to lay hold of. Yet he knew that is exactly what she would say. For the sake of her memory he would do his best to hang on to that truth.
Her memory – it was all he had left. The sound of her voice in his ear…the peculiar sound of her laughter…images of her face, her smile, and her legs…
Her memory…and these few recordings of Handel she had given him. What a treasure they had been to share. Now these too seemed lifeless and old, the once bright coverings now scratched and faded. He could no more keep himself from the bittersweet nostalgia than he could bring her back. Though the sounds seared his heart with hot iron, it was the memory...of her.
He raised one record from his lap, and leaning over the side table, placed it on the turntable. Slowly, he started the mechanism and sank back into the chair.
…Pop…snap…pop…hiss
Behold,
I tell you a mystery
We shall not all sleep,
But we shall all be changed
In a moment
In a twinkling of an eye
At the last trumpet
He had listened a hundred times before this and would a hundred times again. For in the music were many secrets, and his was the only heart that knew them. He placed the cover back in his lap, a lonely tear now falling from his eye and, continuing to rock, he let the memory of her guide his mind back many years to the day he discovered his first love.
The trumpet shall sound!
And the dead shall be raised…
And the dead shall be raised incorruptible.
The trumpet shall sound!
And the dead shall be raised…
Be raised incorruptible.
Be raised incorruptible.
And we shall be changed…and we shall be changed.