M.J. Downing

Some time ago, now, Ray Grider sat at the front of his cardboard castle in the quiet alley behind the shoe repair shop, wondering of Mr. French, the owner, would bring him a meal tonight, not that he wanted one. His hunger faded after the diagnosis given him by young doctor,  earlier that afternoon: “Tests you need cost lots,” the doc murmured, barely able to speak English, “and you have no money, no insurance. Tests only show, maybe, days, maybe hours you live.  Sorry.”

            Everything in him ached, but Ray had limped home, bereft of the desire for booze or some narcotic to take the pain away. They had taken his life, piece by piece already. He made it slowly back to his small pile,  the plastic covered refrigerator carton.  It sat atop two pallets, which Mr. French stuffed with straw—for insulation. With several dry, thick blankets, this was the most comfortable squat he could remember in his twenty years on the street. In the early spring warmth, Ray sat on his” porch,” the lip of the pallet, staring at nothing, thinking less, until a flash of light from above caught his attention. He saw that there were many flashes, tiny tongues of fire making an oddly bright net in the small square of sky he could see.

            His narrow spot, though open to a clean alley way, was closed in by the back of Mr. French’s garage on his right and the auto parts warehouse building on his left. The view above him rendered his patch of sky darker, even during the day. Blinking, he studied the lights, which disappeared in seconds.

            Ray gaped at the sky, wondering if the lights would return, wondering, too, if they were a sign of his approaching death. Hours, the doctor had said, and the idea calmed rather than startled him. It was not a bad thing, at all. He chuckled a little at his own fancy that those tiny flickers of flame knew he was there, saw him, that such a vision was a prelude to death. He blinked away a sudden, thankful tear.

            A quiet movement near his feet made Ray look down, brush away a tear or two.  There, before him, a small, pure white parcel lay, where none had been before. It had never been handled by soiled hands like his. As Ray stared, its folds opened by slow, graceful moves, like flower petals opening to the sun. Perhaps, he thought, someone had just wrapped it in a hurry and set it down. Ray saw, heard, no one, and the scent coming from the parcel made his mouth water.  Ray wiped his grubby fingers on his shirt and leaned over to help the white wrapper unfold.

            “Mr. French?” Ray called, folding the wrapper back to reveal one perfect fried chicken slider, with extra pickles, he was sure, “did you bring me this? Mr. French?”

            His benefactor wasn’t there.  Ray would have heard the gate behind him creak open, and no one had darkened the alley entrance to his spot. With the partially wrapped slider in his shaking hands, smelling like a little slice of heaven, Ray was startled by an even stranger thing: in front of him in the narrow opening onto the alley, a tongue of flame, perhaps half a foot high, hung in the air, as though watching him.  Ray held his treasured slider in his hands and whispered “hello,” for the flame, despite its lack of a face, was looking at him.

            It came nearer.  Ray held out the opened package toward the flame and said, “if it’s yours, take it.” The flame flickered but made no noise. The small hovel grew darker in comparison to the brilliance before him, though the flame made no motion to take sandwich. Instead, speech echoed in Ray’s skull.

            “It is for you, if you will help.” The voice, like a cunningly played violin or perhaps a flute, mimicked human speech.

            “Help? Help who?” Ray whispered.

            “Us. We are near.”

            “You one of those lights in the sky, huh?” Ray ventured.  The flame inclined its top portion to him, wavering.  Ray took it for a ‘yes.’ “So, are you…some kind of …alien?”

            The flame moved its top portion from side to side, back and forth, too. “Not…alien. We are not like you…we offer help,” it said, faltering over the words. Ray guessed that tongues of flame do not often converse with humans. More than anything, though, he wished to eat the slider in his hands.  Its perfect aroma fueled his desire more than mere hunger.

            “If this is your help,” he said, lifting the sandwich, “I am grateful.” He reached for it, but suddenly, it was not there. “Oh,” Ray ventured, “Is there a catch?”

            “There is a question,” the flame replied.

            “I get it right, do I get the sandwich?” Ray asked.

            “Merely answering gives you the reward, which is greater than this food,” the flame said.

            “What? Do I get fries with it, or, maybe a second sandwich?” Ray asked, his curiosity mounting with a newfound hunger.  His reply appeared to confuse the flame, for, again, it swayed back and forth, side to side before saying,

“We seek no correct answer, only your answer. The food will offer…changes to anyone who consumes it. We require one of your kind to determine who will receive those changes.”

“So, I eat this, and I get taller, smarter? What? And why me? Why should I get to choose who gets this, this…sandwich?” Ray asked.

“The changes are many and will grow over time as the food enhances the life of the one who consumes it,” the flame replied, adding in slightly lower tones, like a sad violin, “You were chosen because you were the first to see my kind, and you fit the profile of the recipient we need: the changes will not extend your life, for you have entered into death, as it occurs for one of your kind.”

“I suspect a good many people,” Ray mumbled, “are dying right now.”

“They did not witness my kind and open themselves for contact,” the flame said. “They, like you, will experience the end of life soon.  Many have done so as we speak.”

“But others who eat things like this, they will experience good things?  Like what?”

“They will see, comprehend themselves differently, in new ways,  know peace in their hearts, freedom from crippling fear.  Harmful disease processes will be eliminated, and strength according to each one’s innate capabilities, will flow into them. Eventually, they will move as we do, from place to place through thought alone.  Time and distance will no longer hamper them, though this will take generations,” the flame replied.

“Wow,” Ray said, and meant it.

“The changes will manifest slowly in some, quickly in others, according to their willingness to grow, evolve, in short, according to their imaginations and generosity. The changes will improve life for all, though not for you.  Your death, however,  will be peaceful, free of pain, and offer you a vision of what you have done for them.”

            “And the question is…?” Ray asked.

            “We observe that your kind place a great deal of importance on merit, on those who deserve reward. We do not trust our own capabilities to determine such merit.  We have determined that one about to experience death can make the best decision.  We observed it in the instant you saw us.”

            The sandwich appeared again upon the pristine wrapper in Ray’s shaking hands.  The smell rose to his nostrils, awakening his hunger, helping him understand that his last hours, minutes, maybe, were upon him. Still, he could not, now, eat the sandwich.

How to decide who should receive a miracle? He thought of those in power, those who ran the world, so to speak, the wealthy, the elite, the so-called beautiful people. For him, they had long lost any allure ever attached to them. Such were not worthy of such a gift. He thought of others in his situation, the homeless, the helpless, and considered them the neediest.  But deserving? Ray shook his head. They were all just hurt, broken, like him, by the hard realities of the world, of living in society—or just below it.  He thought, then, of those whose hearts were full of compassion for all, those who opposed violence and war, those who sought to help everyone, and found them even more deserving for simply believing. Some of them were church folk, many others just good souls, like Emil French, who gave him this safe place. Ray thought of such people as, truly, the salt of the earth.  He could not count the number of people, the different occasions, when someone simply sought to help him, though he had never taken full advantage.

            “Choose and eat,” the flame whispered. Ray shook his head, wishing to let the helpful flame know that he was not the one to make this choice, that there were many others, wiser, smarter, who should make the choice and get the greatest good out of this powerful gift. “Perhaps we have erred. Perhaps it is a question too large for the human mind,” the flame murmured.

            Ray looked at it.  It appeared to grow a little smaller, to darken a bit. In compassion for the fragile flame, a new thought occurred to him, one that arose first when the image of Emil French’s wrinkled visage came to him. He could do the best thing he could for people, who would never know that he had a hand in it.  He would be gone.

            “Can you give this gift to someone without them knowing that they have received it?” Ray asked.

            “Yes.  That is… in our power,” the flame said, wavering again, as though confused.

            “Give it to everyone,” Ray said, “everyone alive now, even the dying, like me. Just don’t tell them.  Let them all have it, every one of every station and ability, the just, the unjust, and the just plain folk. Let it be theirs because it was always so,” he finished with a smile.  He picked up the sandwich and ate it, chewing it slowly, with relish, knowing that none of those who received this gift would track its origin to this hour, this day. And it was beyond delicious.  Peace settled over him as the flame looked on and whispered,

            “It is so.”

            A warmth that had nothing to do with heat relaxed him.  Pain drifted from him, and he saw that there would be trouble, as well as great peace, with this gift, that the powerful would misuse it–or try to. But this gift, as certain as the Gospel, would change everything. In his death, he found joy ungovernable that turned his last breath into quiet laughter.