Living the Promise: Chapter Four

The little bunny took an undeserved plunge out of the safeconfines of quilts and sheets, to land with a muffled thud on thestone floor of the chamber, at his feet. It startled Vincent back toconsciousness, that, and the fact that Jacob was now moving aboutrestlessly in his bed.

He fought hard to bring some small semblance of order to hischaotic spirit, to keep the child free of anxiety, tried to settlehis heart. Bending to the floor, he retrieved the small rabbit fromits hard resting place and came slowly back to his own feet. Dustingthe treasure off, Vincent placed it close to his son's small hand, onhis pillow. A gentle kiss to the tousled curls, and a soft caress tothe little hand managed to still the child's growing anxiousness.Without coming totally awake, the boy found his small friend that hadbeen returned to him and settled once again into what his fatherhoped would be a continued, undisturbed sleep.

Easing his powerful frame back into the venerable old rocker,Vincent tried to let the peaceful sight of his resting child comforthis own heart. In the subdued lighting of the chamber, the sweetlittle face could still not help but radiate the innocence of heaven.His father fought to cling to that blessed reality.

But, the pain would not leave him so readily, it would appear,this time. For the past three nights, he'd been able to draw himselfout of it, tell himself it meant nothing. Still, today, the visionhad remained with him even after he'd come awake, fought its hold onhis

sleeping consciousness. It was still there, before his eyes, theminute details searing into him with a force he wasn't certain hecould stand.

He'd been jolted awake by it this morning, once more, but hecouldn't seem to draw his heart from it yet:

The pain had assaulted every fiber of his body, cold, hard,impossible to endure, robbing him literally of his breath. He bothsaw himself, and felt himself, gasping, attempting to fill his lungswith air, but the weight he had felt on his chest, in his heart, wastoo heavy for a breath to remove.

He was battling . . . loss . . . the blackness of grief . . . buthe was losing.

And in his sight before him, maddeningly just out of reach, wasthe confirmation of that sense of loss: Diana, heavy with child,pale, trembling, collapsing to her knees with a soul-tearing cry ofher own grief. She was clutching at her body, holding her arms aroundher swollen figure, attempting to . . . shelter . . . their child,their unborn child, from some nameless, sourceless anguish . . .crying out his name.

Vincent had come awake with a horrific start. He'd felt the weighton his chest still, sought frantically to understand what it wascaused by, but he found only Diana cushioned lovingly across hisbody.

With trembling hands, he had brushed her burnished hair back fromher face and she had turned then, a bit more to her side in hersleep. Vincent was able to watch, in relief, her breathing that was asteady, deep rhythm. She was safe.

Closing his eyes again, he'd forced his beseiged spirit to realignitself, dragged it past the terror to a momentary lull of pain. Thebaby's heartbeat had sounded within his awareness then, still strongand well, too. Vincent didn't even need to hold his hand over thechild sheltered within its mother's womb to connect with the tinyheart. He'd only needed to set his love and wonderfilled expectationto it to touch the child's essence within his own heart.

Gratefully, he'd pulled back a breath from the fear and pain yetagain, understanding once more that his terror had come only from adream -- the same dream he'd been haunted by for three nights now.His hands had been shaking as he ran them over his face, beaded withcold sweat. But, this morning he was not going to be able to simplywill the vision away from his consciousness, attribute it to somebenign bit of anxiousness rooted in merely logical apprehension oreven just physical weariness.

Because Diana had felt him move, picked up the fright that he'dbeen only able to rear back into anxiety and disbelief, even in hersleep. He'd known he wasn't going to be able to keep it from her forlong.

She had attempted to come fully awake, and Vincent had steeledhimself to the unacceptable possibility that he'd need to lie to herto keep her from worry, but the exhaustion that was often his wife'sstate of health lately refused to honor her urgings to herconsciousness. She'd only managed to whisper quietly, with her eyesstill closed, "Vincent, what is it?"

It was more confirmation of the fact that it was becomingincreasingly difficult for him to protect Diana from his inexplicablyhaunted heart. She'd become so attuned, so receptive to his spiritthat he could keep little from her these days. Ordinarily thatthought had given him comfort; he'd viewed it as a blessed gift tohim, because when he had struggled for words or actions to offer heras evidence of the beloved and treasured reality of their intertwinedsouls, she'd been able to pick up on his spirit with remarkable,startling, clarity. She could read his heart and cherish all that wasin it for her.

At that instant, though, Vincent had prayed he could conceal hisheart from her -- at least until the time he was able to understandwhy he was being subjected to such nightly anguish when their liveshad been at their most wondrously gifted.

Gently, tenderly, he had raised her hand up to his parched lips,and kissed it. "I must have heard something and come awake suddenly.Go back to sleep. It is still very early."

But, she'd felt the tension in his body, noted the fact that he'dnot simply wrapped his arms more closely about her to rejoin herhimself in his rest. The tiny, nagging doubt she thought she'd hearddeep within her mind had drawn her past the sweet shelter she'dalways felt being close to his body. "You're not coming back tosleep?" she'd asked softly. I'll make us some tea, then."

The movement she'd made to pull herself from beside him had leftVincent suddenly both bereft of her tenderness and anxiouslyprotective of her state of mind and heart. He didn't wish to causeher any pain, couldn't even understand what seemed to be . . .threatening . . . their blessed existences at this point of time.Sliding his hand, then, over her side, he'd reassured her sweetlybeneath the covers. "Don't get up, my love. You need your rest. I'lljust get working on those plans for the deep storage chambers for awhile. Kanin said he was worried about the mixture of rock types wewere coming across down there."

She'd been ready to protest his need to begin their day early andalone, but her body sent out its own complaint and in patientsurrender, she had merely made herself comfortable once again beneaththe covers. Vincent had drawn himself away from her only after he'dleft her with a tender kiss, her sweet breath mingling with his,bringing about a welcome wash of shared possession and fulfillmentthat touched his distressed heart with a caress of relief.

Dressing quickly, he'd sat at the small, circular writing tableand lit the candles there, intending to concentrate his attention tothe rolled up plans of their latest stonework project, but his efforthad been in vain. Not even the complicated math calculations he wasworking on for the project could keep his mind free of the imagesthat had assailed him, and he'd set the papers aside infrustration.

That is when he'd come, defensively, to sit at Jacob's side on therocking chair, trying fervently to settle his heart, drawing aroundhim the beautiful wonder of his life of past months. Praying that theready hope he'd always been able to touch to within it would onceagain relieve his anxious pain. For a few moments, it did.

The truth of his life at this point in time . . . it was a gift hestill had a hard time believing was really his, complete with itswonder and its worry:

Diana, his bride of five and a half months, was indeed heavy withchild, a confounding, unexplainable miracle. In and of itself, thatsimple reality would have shown itself to be enough of a source foranxious disquiet for any soon-to-be parent. Because of it, Father'sand Peter's professional opinions were torn between what they knew asactual medical fact, and what Diana's condition presented to them asreality before them -- she'd been carrying the child only five andone half months, but every physical indication placed the pregnancyto near full term.

Peter had simply stated that perhaps they'd misjudged conceptionin their calculations of the baby's development, but Vincent, andFather, knew surely that could never be the case -- Vincent'shaunted, fearful terror, of ever touching his questionable humanityto his beloved Diana, backed up the physician's knowledge. There wasno way on God's earth that the child could have been conceived beforehis son's wedding night, Jacob Wells knew. There'd actually beendoubt that the pall of fear could have been pulled back even on thatnight. Father had recalled the paralyzing uncertainty that his sonhad confessed to him only an hour before the ceremony that wouldunite him to his cherished soulmate.

But, love had been able to guide both Vincent and Diana past theanguish, somehow, to the wealth of communion awaiting them in all itsgifting beauty. That the baby Diana now carried was the ultimatehomage to that blessed consumation of spirits, souls, and bodies,neither Father, nor Vincent had any doubts whatever.

Still, Diana seemed, by all evidence, to be in the last stages ofher time. She tired easily, had trouble keeping food down, and wasplagued by backache and a cantankerous resurrection of her injuredleg's temperamental outbursts because of the baby's added weight sheneeded to bear. There was no medical explanation to the evidentlyaccellerated

state of development of the pregnancy, and Father had nothing hecould go by to guide him in the tenderly dedicated care he wasoffering his cherished daughter-in-law. Only Catherine's experienceswith Jacob's birth might have been able to shed some light on what toexpect for the present circumstances, but those experiences had beenburied along with Catherine herself.

Even with the physician's resultant largely instinctive guidanceas their only source of reassurance for her state of health, Diana'sandVincent's acceptance of their impending parenthood had beennothing short of an awesome wonder. The physical uncertainties haddone little to diminish the sheer, astounding . . . blessedness . . .that seemed to totally envelope the mother-to-be within an aura oflove beyond all telling.

That radiant, expectant love burned brightly, with such joy, inVincent's heart, too.

To everyone's eyes in the Underworld community, Diana had evolvedinto an auburn-haired vision of imminent maternal tenderness in allits compelling resplendence and generosity. She barely evercomplained about anything, not her accentuated physical tribulations,nor the belovedly overprotective attentions of every soul within theextended family of the tunnel chambers.

Taking it all in stride, she nevertheless refused to relinquishher teaching responsibilities in favor of Father's cautiously biasedmedical admonishments. She kept taking on her communal chores witheasy patience, and always had time to listen to the concerned adviceof those around her who would rejoice no less than the new parents inthe birth of a healthy child.

Even physically, she'd become a sight that stirred the hearts ofall those around her. In the long, comfortable, flowing tunnelmaternity gowns Mary had supplied her with, her hair as often loosedupon her shoulders as it was braided sensibly off her face, therounded enlargement of her belly unmistakable now, she had become asource of everyone's delighted hope and promise.

To Vincent, she had become nothing less than a treasured,awesomely beautiful madonna bearing heaven's own light about her intohis life.

The emotional and spiritual reality he and his beloved soulmatehad been offered with the impending birth of their child, nurturingand gifting their relationship these past months, had been far morecompelling than even Diana's arresting transformation: Her state ofheart was nothing less than glorious -- Vincent's was nothing lessthan blessed.

Until three nights ago.

Vincent quietly drew himself again from out of the rocking chairand around the screened partition that separated Jacob's sleepingarea from the rest of the main chamber. The need was still soyearning within him, despite the pain he'd been attempting todistance himself from . . . the need to hold himself to the realityof Diana's love at that instant. It was the only thing that couldquell his uncertainty, he knew, soothe his troubled spirit. Even ashe'd ever seek to protect her and shelter her all the days of hislife, he knew, without question, that only her own protective,sheltering reassurance in love could steady his heart.

Gently easing down again to their bed on top of the covers, he sethis body to rest gratefully along the length of Diana's back,enveloping her in his soft embrace. Because of her ripenedproportions, they'd found that the tenderly spooning posture wasstill able to offer them the closeness their bodies craved from eachother. Vincent set a kiss to her hair, reached his beyond human handto her grace-filled form. She nestled gratefully against him, and,almost as if in relief itself, the baby stirred beneath his touch.

Closing his eyes, Vincent focused his spirit to the astoundingsensation.

The baby was moving often now, quickening with vital frequency.Just the other night, when Diana had been sitting up in bed writingto Joe, she had set her pen down onto the lap tray and moved it overa moment; then she had called Vincent away from his own journalwriting to her side.

He could tell instantly, from the awe-filled look on her etherealface, that she'd felt the baby.

"Give me your hand, Vincent."

She knew how much her husband treasured being able to touch hischild as well, feel the life thriving, and always gave him theopportunity to, whenever he was near. She'd smoothed out the gathersof her gown and set Vincent's hand across her belly, pressing itgently a minute with her own.

For a second, there was nothing noticeable to detect, beyond theirmutually breathless anticipation; then Vincent felt the tender fleshsheltered by linen and wool beneath his hand move perceptibly,actually seeming to nuzzle, nestle beneath his hand. His heartstopped in wonder. Resting his head gently down on Diana's abdomen,he stroked it softly with otherworldly hands that were merely afather's hands at the moment, then placed a tender kiss above hisyoungest child's cherished little body.

Diana had rested her own hand onto Vincent's lowered,golden-haired head, drawing her fingers through the thick silk withfamiliar devotion and peaceful marvel. She had been describing painand guilt and turmoil, to Joe in her letter, a few moments ago. She'dbeen blessed, instead, with the reality of sheltering love. They'dbeen blessed.

Why then, was that shelter suddenly threatened? Vincent fought tounderstand the emotions assailing him . . . and let the truth of hisheart surface within that nurturing reality of his life.

The truth rested, on a simple, profoundly saddening observation --today was September 2l.

It was the third anniversary of Catherine's death.

A sudden shudder coursed through Vincent's body and he buried hisbreath within

Diana's auburn hair. "I love you," he heard her whisper softly.

Not surprised that she was still awake, still connecting to histroubled heart, he drew her more securely within his arms,intertwined his hand with hers, and rested a tender kiss to hershoulder. "My sweetest love," he breathed to her in response, neveronce wavering in his belief that she had held him safe from thedesolation of regretful grief..

It had been three years. Through some mercy of heaven, he'd beenable to rest his soul on enough of a foundation of hope and lovingpromise in the present to make it through the remembered anguish ofthe past with his spirit intact. Vincent blessed the providentialguidance that had brought about such a life-giving transfirmationwithin him, that had brought Diana to him.

Loving Catherine, losing her. . . cherished remembrance andfathomless grief . . .would always be a presence in his life, thetwists and trials of Fate that had shaped his destiny and clung tohis hopes. They would always remain inside his heart, but, he'd beenable, somehow, with Diana's love, to see life and possibility . . .fulfillment . . . as well as pain there, too.

He'd been able to see this day as the blessed beginning of newlife, also, of Jacob's life, his birth, of the wondrous little soulthat seemed destined as well, to be the very embodiment of hisfather's tender heart and most deeply cherished dreams. He'd beenable to accept those dreams, even on this day.

The quietly uplifting confirmation of that acceptance would comeabout this very evening: For the first time, the Underworld communitywas preparing to celebrate the day for Jacob's promise, and not onlyhonor it for Catherine's memory.

Vincent had been the one to suggest the need for such a communaloccasion, that would acknowledge the child's gifting presence amongthem, freed of conflicting turmoil.

Diana, he knew, had breathed a prayer of grateful relief becauseof his decision.

Yet, despite the hopeful promise he could welcome within his life,something insisted, still, on claiming a portion of his soul withinexplicable pain.

He must understand why.

Diana had fallen back asleep, and Vincent knew he had to leave thesheltering warmth of her body for the cold of his anxiousuncertainties, if they were to keep some hold on promise for thisday. He needed, desperately, to understand his present state of mindand heart, what they meant for his family. And beyond Diana'sinsights and understanding, he valued only on other's counsel.

Quietly drawing himself to his feet, Vincent looked a long momentto his wife and unborn child. Then he purposefully turned out intothe rock corridor to seek out his father's guidance.

Though the hour was still quite early, probably before six, JacobWells was already seated at his massive old desk, pouring over thecommunity ledgers he'd be presenting to

Peter later on this evening. The always providential generosity ofHelpers this past month would allow the Underworld to once againreach out in its mission of quietly nurturing spirits into the cityAbove. The frugal community had barely touched the monthly stipendthat came from Peter. There would be much left with which to do good,beyond their own needs.

Father removed his reading glasses and drew his dressing gown abit more closely about his body, conceding to himself that he'd begunfeeling the cold in the tunnel climes a bit more frequently. Well,one doesn't stay young forever, he reminded himself silently, with asmile. Then, he smelled the delicious aroma of a freshly steeped cupof tea heading his way. His heart warmed, instantly.

Vincent reached Father's chambers at the same time that thefragrance of the tea did.

Both men were greeted unexpectedly by a tender sight that readilyset burdens aside:

The moment that Vincent came fully into his parent's publicchamber area to greet him quietly, Mary had exited Father's privatequarters as well, carrying a teapot and a tray to him at his place.There were two cups already on the desk, and she gracefully set downa plate of toast and fruit beside them.

What had totally captured Vincent's heart, in that instant thathad begun in turmoil, but ended with a sweep of astonishingtenderness that belied his earlier burden of heart, was the image henow caught of the beloved lady he'd always considered his ownfoster-mother. Father warmed to the same sight.

Mary was still wearing her dressing robe, too, over a soft andbright muslin gown that graced the elder lady's figure withattractive presence. Even more remarkable was the fact that hergently greying light brown hair was not carefully knotted atop herhead, but still flowed freely along her shoulders to the middle ofher back.

She set the tray down before Jacob Wells with practiced ease, lether hand linger long over the physician's shoulder, and then liftedher eyes with quiet purpose to hold Vincent's from across theroom.

Vincent felt his breath catch.

It was no secret to anyone in the Underworld community that Fatherand Mary had, after half a lifetime of trials, heartaches, anddenials, finally allowed themselves the incredible blessing ofaccepting one another's devotion as romantic, emotional love. Thechange of spirit between them was hardly earth-shattering . . .they'd long sheltered one another's souls with tender care andobvious commitment.

But, what came to Vincent as a sweet, wondrous shock, was thereality that his two adoptive parents had apparently been able totouch to all the awesome gifts a life shared in love could bring tothem, as they made their way through the daily tribulations ofleading a community of souls in a remarkable world.

There was a warm, radiant glow reaching out to Father from Mary'sbeautiful, careworn face that Vincent recognized instantly -- He'dseen it time and again in Diana's emerald eyes. It was the look oflove given and accepted, of hearts at peace and bodies treasured.

It drew a comforting shelter of hope over his own presently testedheart.

"Vincent, you are up early this morning," came Father'sobservation.

"Is anything wrong? With Diana?" Mary's softly voicedacknowledgement of his presence, without preamble or explanation ofher own situation at the moment, drew Vincent's instinctive,protective care out. He'd never wish to burden her with anything thatcould cloud the quiet fulfillment within those hazel eyes, those eyesthat had always looked upon him with nothing but a mother's love formost of his life.

"No, Diana is well and sleeping. I'm sorry to have disturbed youso early."

Father, however, immediately caught Vincent's tone of voice. Heknew that his totally selfless son would not willingly cost someoneelse their peace of mind because of his own turmoil . . . and JacobWells read turmoil in the blue depths that called out to his own wisegaze, a turmoil that had nothing whatever to do with having walked inon a tender moment between the elder couple.

"Come and sit here with us, Vincent, and tell us what is on yourmind. You look troubled despite your reassurances."

In most instances, Vincent had always turned to his father'scounsel in private, sharing his heart easily with the extraordinaryleader of their world who, often burdened as he was in his own right,nevertheless always was able to carry his son's trials personally ashis own with quiet dignity and hope.

On occasion, though, Vincent had also called upon the lovingmaternal instincts that were Mary's softly reassuring presence,seeking guidance from her own tender, gentle soul when not even hisfather could understand. The elder lady had long ago become Diana'sown beloved confidant, something that gave Vincent no end of comfortto know.

He'd never, however, found himself able to call upon both thesenurturing individuals at once with his painful need of direction. Itwas suddenly a solace from heaven to know he could do so now.

Pulling a chair closer to the side of the desk, Vincent sat downand ran his hands momentarily over the books piled atop the table ashe searched for words to describe his unsettled heart. Mary movedfrom her place behind Father to stop beside the remarkable spirit sheloved as a son, letting a gentle hand rest on his shoulder as she haddone only a moment before to the physician she cherished. The softtouch was a reassuring urging. Vincent found his words.

"Is there something about Diana's conditin that you haven't toldme, Father, something that could threaten her or our child?"

The question was not an accusation, only an acknowledgement of aparent's primal urge to protect a child, from harm, from fear, fromthe unknown. It was his own.

Jacob looked to Mary for quiet confirmation, knowing he'd onlyspeak the truth to his son, and hoping that he'd be able to offer himthe reassurance he sought.

"There is nothing that I know of, Vincent, nothing Peter nor Ihave seen, that might cause us alarm. Diana is strong, she's beenrelatively healthy in her life. You've been taking such tender careof her. There is nothing of concern to either Peter or myself, exceptfor the fact we can't explain how her condition can appear to be, howthe baby appears to be, in an accellerated stage of development. Thepregnancy is not yet advanced six months, but all indications showthat the child seems to be already near term."

"Other than that, everything is safe and normal?"

Father looked long into sapphire eyes that always left him feelingin awe of the power of their trusting clarity. He reached his handover to his son's unearthly, taloned one, then, a hand capable ofmeting out death as easily as it was able to nurture life with sweet,gentle care.

He couldn't even come close to guessing what could possibly beconsidered "normal" at a moment like this, and his logical,scientific experiences were giving him nothing to grasp at fordirection. Jacob decided then that he could rely only on his heart torespond.

"Peter and I have been keeping a close watch on Diana, as youyourself have, Vincent. There is no evidence of toxemia. Her bloodpressure is normal. The baby appears to be maturing steadily. All ofits vital signs indicate it is thriving and safe. You, yourself, havebeen able to touch to the child's presence and felt it to besheltered and unthreatened, have you not?"

Attempting to let the body of evidence enter his mind asreassurance, Vincent, however, found it still so difficult todiscount the pall of foreboding he was suddenly carrying within hissoul for both Diana and their child.

"I have heard our baby's steady heartbeat. I know Diana is merelyuncomfortable and tired, for the most part, nothing more thanthat."

"But there is something you are not telling us yourself, isn'tthere, Vincent?" The gentle urging from Mary instantly set theirentire conversation into its proper perspective.

Both men looked at her with quiet wonder. Perhaps Diana'sintuitive sensitivity was not actually her gift alone. Oh, granted,her extraordinary soul had honed that gift to a startling power.Still, Mary appeared just as capable of reaching into a loved one'ssoul. It must be some providential power reserved exclusively forwomen in love, Father and son both conceded, that kept those women soclosely attuned to the hearts they cherished.

Vincent responded after letting a sigh of resigned concern workits way from his spirit.

"For three nights now I have been haunted by a dream, Mary, avision, that brings with it a turmoil and pain of heart I'd believedI'd been able to free myself from. I don't understand it, why it ishappening, and, Father, I am terribly afraid."

The elder man came to his feet then and reached his arms aroundthe massive shoulders of the figure bowed over in anxiety. He'd seensuch pain too often in that beloved soul that was his son. He'dbelieved the new life Vincent had been able to create, phoenix-like,from the ashes of that pain in Diana's arms would have put an end tothe undeserved anguish he'd been visited by time and again.

"Tell us this dream, Vincent. Tell us what is disturbing yourpeace of heart so."

Jacob Wells had no trouble whatever reconciling his logical,cultivated mind with the seemingly illogical and irrational twistsand turns of the universe that remained unexplainable, but no lessreal. He'd long ago learned to trust Vincent's empathic powers andimpulses, his unbelievably prophetic dreams and insights. Why shouldthey be any less real than the mystic being from which they wereborn?

More than once, Father knew that Vincent's visions, his dreams,had found basis in reality. His child, Jacob, was alive only becauseof those dreams and the power of that empathic vision, for Vincenthad been able to touch the child's heart and find him when he'd beenstolen away from his dying mother. He'd been able to realize the babyhad been gravely ill himself when the spectoral Gabriel had held thechild captive for months. Vincent had even reached out to Catherineonce in a dream, sensing her danger somehow, even though she was3,000 miles away, working on a case that took her to Los Angeles andunexpected peril.

The temporary loss of that insightful empathy, when he'd sufferedhis near-fatal collapse, had cost Vincent his bond withCatherine,though, an horrifying reality he'd believed with suchanguish to be the ultimate source of her death -- he couldn't findher, couldn't reach out to her when she'd needed him most.

Father could understand why a recurring dream could cause his sonsuch turmoil.

"I found myself within a stone chamber somewhere here Below, "Vincent began to recount quietly, the details of his vision coming tohim with too much ready clarity, "though it was devoid of anyrecognizable article or feature. I couldn't make out where exactly itwas. Without warning, a terrible, debilitating pain gripped me fastwith a searing power, a torment that was both physical andspiritual."

Vincent held his hand to his chest, feeling once again the phantomanguish from the night. "It robbed me of my strength, my very breath.I struggled to fight against it."

"Were you hurt?" came the anxious question from Mary's gentlevoice. Vincent raised his head up to her, reading the love and carein her features for him, always there for him, since he was only achild; a mother's love and care he'd been blessed by, protected andcherished by when he'd known no other.

"I'm not certain if the hurt was physical, Mary, only that thepain was unendurable, made even more so by what I could see mereinches before me, see, but could not touch -- Diana."

Father swallowed hard at the tears he watched well up into theprofound azure eyes that bared the entirety of his son's compellingsoul. At that instant before him, there was raw, desperate grief inthose eyes, disbelief, and a shattering collapse of hope he visiblystruggled against. Father had seen such anguish in Vincent's faceonly once before.

The deep-timbored tones of voice tried to remain even, fought tokeep from cracking in pain, but the vision being described was oneapparently beyond all hope. "I watched Diana crumble to the stonefloor beneath her, holding her arms about herself. I couldn't reachher, couldn't touch her. I could only feel her pain, see her tears,listen to her cry out my name in torment."

The powerful figure before them, capable of beyond human strengthand endurance, had been fully reduced to a haunted soul aching forguidance and reassurance. Father prayed that they could come tounderstand why his beloved son was now being forced to experiencewhat seemed to be a foreboding prophesy of doom.

"Was Diana still with child? Had she delivered yet?" he askedquietly.

"She still sheltered our baby within her body, Father, but sheseemed driven to protect it somehow from the anguish overwhelmingus."

For a long moment, Father held back from asking the next question,the one that could possibly crystalize the essence of what theysought to understand, but a question the mere possibility ofconsidering could very well shatter his son's heart. The elderphysician dreaded what his beloved child could be touching to."Vincent," came the soft sound of a father's own pain, "did you feelyour anguish, your sense of foreboding, for . . . Diana . . . or for. . . the child . . .? "

Sapphire eyes turned suddenly dark with unspeakable pain. Maryreached her hand out to the beyond human one that had gone cold onthe surface of the table before them. She couldn't bring herself toeven contemplate what Vincent had to understand -- whether he wasbeing warned of the impending, destined loss of his bride . . . orhis unborn child.

The words he formed in response were only a whisper. "I don'tknow, Father. I could not distinguish between them."

Father turned away from the desk a moment, taking a few difficultsteps on his crutch, to give himself a tiny bit of space from thepain washing over him from his son. He didn't know what he could sayto comfort Vincent, wasn't certain that he, himself, could come tobelieve the vision to be only the anxious disquiet of a new father'sheart. That must be the only answer to the dream . . . anything elsewas too nightmarish to even conceive.

Coming back to sit across from his son, Father took both handsinto his as he'd do to connect with a child, his own little grandson.His grandson: that wondrous little soul, Jacob, had been, continuedto be, a miracle of hope in all their lives. Something deep withinthe distinguished physician's spirit urged him to believe that thesecond life soon to be born of another mystical, never dreamed ofunion of souls, could be no less a blessing and miracle.

"Vincent, if there is one thing I've learned about helping Marybring new life into this community, it has been this: Birth is anoverwhelming, wondrous, beautiful, humbling, terrifying experience,for both mother and father. It is perfectly natural for fear anduncertainty to cloud its presence, especially for a man.

"Look at the rational reality of the process -- Diana, the womanyou love as your own heart, will be very much alone in all this, eventhough you might be standing right there beside her all along. That awoman's body, her mind and spirit, can withstand the physiologicalpressures of birth, is a miracle in itself. I've seen grown men who'dsurvived battle and hardship immeasurable, completely crumble at thesight of their beloved in pain as she struggles in the labor ofchildbirth alone.

"A husband can do very little to help, beyond hoping to keep herfocused and relatively capable of handling the uncertainty andfear."

"Then you feel that the vision is only a manifestation of thatanxiety?" The words were softly expectant, desperate to believe.

"The fear is very real at a time like this, Vincent. Things canand do go wrong." Here, Father momentarily pulled his gaze fromVincent's in quietly-recalled loss. His own. "Sometimes medical carecan do little to help a mother or a child in distress. Lives can belost. I won't tell you otherwise."

Pulling himself back from the depths of his own heart, Father slidhis hand down over Vincent's golden hair gently. "But know this, myson: You, we, have cared for Diana and the baby as best as we'veknown how, given our lack of experience with the uniqueness of hercondition. She is strong and well. The baby appears so also. We needsimply to place them both in God's hands when the time comes."

Mary, who'd silently contemplated the elder physician's words tohis son, prayed that the reassurance would take hold somehow withinVincent's pained heart. But, the barely restrained desolation shestill read in his entire being proved to the gentle lady that sheneeded to offer her own difficult to voice observations.

"Diana is not Catherine, Vincent. You will be there for her."

Father pulled his incredulous gaze from his troubled son to thesteely-souled matriarch of the tunnel world. He couldn't believeshe'd said what she just had . . .

because he knew he himself hadn't been able to gather the courageto speak the other possibility that was forcing its way into hismind.

Vincent looked long into the face of the seemingly fragile elderwoman and caught sight of another characteristic she shared with theamber-haired angel of his hope -- an uncanny courage to seek out thetruth, no matter how presently painful, so that the future may beransomed beyond that pain.

Diana had done so, he'd understood in awe, more times than he'dbeen able to admit,

battled him for the truth so that she could save him from pain.She'd stood before him from their very first moments together,seeking him out in the tunnels after having nursed him back fromdeath, ready to offer him her capacity to guide him to the truth.

She'd offered him her help then, defied him to accept it, as shespoke the reality of his circumstances to him in startlingly honestconviction: What possible chance could he have to find Jacob, hischild, in a world where he couldn't even show his face?

When he'd protested the danger to her, the fact that he could notbe responsible for her life, that he could not keep her safe, Dianahad only let the fire in her voice match that in her eyes -- "I amnot Catherine," she'd flung at him, so ready to take on his pain.

No, she was not Catherine. Their life now, together, was not theexistence he'd shared with Catherine, either.

"That is one other thing that is seeking to overwhelm you now,Vincent, isn't it?" came Mary's soft spoken, heartbreaking truth. "Itis Diana you love now, your child with her you are anticipating withawesome wonder. But it is Catherine's lonely pain you could betouching to in that dream. You couldn't be there for Catherine, forJacob, help them, protect them. You're afraid now that Diana will besomehow placed beyond your protection as well, that she and the babywill be beyond your reach when they need you most."

At first attempting to deny Mary's conclusions, Vincent recognizedthe stab of pain her words had conjured, still capable of shadowinghis soul. He was able to only question the elder lady with silent,unbelievable eyes. Mary understood.

"Diana confessed to me, when I first realized she was expecting,that she was afraid having this child would cause you to revisit allthe anguish within your heart that losing Catherine had left you. Sheprayed you could accept the wonder of your child as the heavenlymercy that it was, but she still feared that the pain of the pastwould cloud your response to it.

"You've managed to come this far with only the anxiousness any newfather endures. I guess you would not be the sensitive, loving soulthat you are, Vincent, if Diana's imminent labor did not bring backthoughts of Catherine and what she was forced to go through."

Vincent pushed back his chair and came to his feet, a bitunsteadily. He leaned on his hands presed against the polisheddesktop, attempting to sort his colliding emotions into their properorder in his heart. But there was no order, he knew, that he couldpress upon them. There was only one single, melded, fusion of pain,fear, loss, and utter helplessness.

"I lie beside Diana," he began in quiet anguish, "cradle here bodynext to mine, rest my hand onto our child within her, and yes, Mary,the ache has passed through my soul beyond the wonder: I was neverable to share such a moment with Catherine, feel Jacob grow andthrive within her body.

"I see the beautiful radiance of Diana's face, the maternal wonderwith which I know she shelters every hope and possibility for thischild of ours . . . and I know that all Catherine was able to realizewas that her baby would be stolen from her by some demon of hellhimself . . . that I could do nothing to help her, keep her safe,keep Jacob safe."

Father came to stand beside his son, considerably overshadowed bythe towering, powerful figure before him. Yet, that figure's heartwas only a haunted shadow at the moment. "That is what you fear,Vincent, son, isn't it? You weren't able to be with Catherine, keepher safe, when she most needed you. You weren't able to shelter Jacobfrom the evil that enveloped him from the instant he was born. Eventhough you were ready to lay your life down for them. And now you arefearful that somehow Diana, too, will be taken beyond your reach,your capability to shelter and protect."

"Oh, Father, I couldn't bear the loss of her, of our child!"

Jacob wrapped his arms around the massive strength of his son'sformidible body, that trembled now with the force of his emotions,drawing the golden crowned head down to his shoulder. Mary rested herown comforting hand onto his back as she swallowed back tears.

"Vincent, you have done everything in your power to protect Diana,to keep your child, safe. You have watched over them with love andcare, met their every physical need, taken on their spiritual andemotional welfare as your own. You love them. There is nothing moreyou can do but wait, and trust in God."

Mary continued. "This is a time when you must look beyond thepast, child. As painful and uncompassing as it has been, there is noneed to look to it for your present reality. Remember that thisevening we are going to celebrate Jacob's life, as well as honorCatherine's memory. There is a place in all our hearts for both.There is a place in your heart for you to grieve as well as one inwhich you can cherish the new life soon to be in your care.

"There are so many possibilities opening up for both you and forDiana, for your children. Don't fear them because of the shadow ofuncertainty and pain. We will never be able to live an existencecompletely free of them, but, we don't need to let thoseuncertainties rule our lives, either. Diana will live to be mother toboth of your children. You both will grow old and delight together inall your blessings, Vincent. I believe it with all my heart."

Vincent pulled back from the shelter of his parents' arms, to lookupon faces filled with love and hope and concern. There was still ashadowing of anxiety within their beloved features, as there alwayswould be when faced with the knowledge that someone they loved wasstruggling and in need of guidance. Yet, the hope and peace born ofthe certain sheltering, nurturing power of love, made it possible forthem to believe.

A weight was suddenly lifted from Vincent beleaguered heart. Heknew, as well, that Providence would not forsake them. All he coulddo now was hope, and pray.

Quite distinctly, a gentle warmth filled Vincent's spirit. Hepulled his attention totally to it, beyond the fear, and realizedwith a sweet, tender ache, its source. Jacob's heart was beatingclose to Diana's . . . both theirs in delighted proximity to thetiniest thythm he sensed.

In their chamber, Diana had come awake again, was probablygathering Jacob to her. The small boy himself must be listeningattentively to his new sibling's stirrings, following the thrivinglife's essence with his own so attuned, generous little soul.

"My family is awake." The quiet words were filled with unconcealedwonder -- and gifting peace -- It was possible for a disquieting,unsettling dream, to be simply that, even for him. He had to believeit, even if he could never be completely certain.

Reaching a tender hand to Mary's still supple cheek, Vincent set asoft kiss there, in gratitude. He wrapped his Father in a finallyunburdened embrace. "I only pray that we can be of as much nurturingsupport to one another over the yers as you both have always been tome."

With a graceful sweep up the few stairs, Vincent turned into thecorridor that woud take him back to the miracle that was his family-- his wife and his children. Another day called out to them, oneshaded with poignant remembrance, surely, always, but still one alivewith hope and possibility and shared, blessed promise.