Jebadean Amos

A Moment in the Life

by AR Curtis
This is a work of fiction. All characters within this work are
fictitious. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are
purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by A.R. Curtis. All rights Reserved.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without
express written consent from the author is strictly prohibited.
 Jebadean Amos

Somewhere near downtown Topeka Kansas, in the thick of a bitter

winter, on the ground floor of an abandoned building, a baby was
born to a young and fearful mother.
No magic came around these parts.
The place was dark. Frigid wind howled outside, rattling the
windows. After dressing herself and regaining her strength, the
woman lifted her baby and wrapped it in a blanket she had dug out of
the dumpster down the street.
For a moment, she stared at it, sobbing. The baby was beautiful,
rich and dark as the mother he’ll never know. Gently, she set the
bundle onto the cardboard on which he was born. Then, she left.
The newborn, unlike most, didn’t seem to notice he was hungry.
He marveled at the strange feeling of a fleshy, breathing body
encasing his existence. And the large, fiery seraph staring down at
him from the other side of red.
An hour later, someone burst through the doors, as though looking
for something, and waving a normal firearm. A big, burly man with
legs as thick as tree stumps, and stubby fingers, each wrapped in rings
of gold. A solid gold plate hung heavy from his chest, and a smaller
one behind it, each clinking against the other. He stopped short of the
newborn’s head.
“Naw, naw, it can’t be. She really wasn’t lying.”
Stuffing the weapon into the front of his pants, he kneeled at the
head of the baby. Briefly, he looked back at the rickety door, as if the
one who hadn’t been lying might have followed him here. Or,
perhaps this was a trap to finally bring him down. Soon, it became
clear it was only he and the baby. He lifted the bundle, covered its
head, and headed out into the storm.
Using his body to block the boy from wind, the man stalked down
two city blocks. He stopped at the corner and looked up at a steepled
building, an ominous cross protruding from its highest peak. The man
crossed the street and barreled through the double doors.
Instant relief from the cold found them inside. The place smelled of
frankincense and myrrh, however the man could not identify the
fragrances. He walked the aisle of empty rows, toward the pew at the
front. Soft lights illuminated the place, casting shadows in every
direction. Stained windows kaleidoscoped down at them.
There was no one in sight.
Once he reached the front, he set the infant on the top step. Peeling
the wooly blanket back just enough to see the fresh, new face, whose
eyes were closed, he whispered, “Sorry, man. She wanted you to have
a chance. Can’t take you where I’m goin’. Can’t turn you in, proper,
neither. You understand.”
Then, something happened that the man could not control or do
anything to stop.
A giant tear rolled down his hard cheek, slowly at first, then
dropping off at the edge. And from there, it gushed from him like
blood from a punctured artery. A tear splashed onto the infant’s
cheek, waking it. But, once again, it did not cry. The baby looked up at
the big, dark man. And, somehow, the man knew everything would
be okay.
He chanced a peek further into the blanket and managed a small
smile.
“A boy,” he said heartily, then he added, “You’ll be alright. Can’t
take you where I’m goin.” The man nodded his head, as if convincing
himself. He wiped his face. The next time he looked, the infant’s eyes
were closed.
Fishing the tiny, gold necklace from behind the large one, the man
ripped it from his neck. He looked at it one last time, as though taking
in every detail. It was a simple chain of real gold with a single, round
charm. On the back were two words: Jebadean Amos. Gently, he laid
it next to the boy in the blanket.
“What are you doing!” The voice came from across the vaulted
room.
The man looked up, stole one last glance at the boy, and bolted for
the nearest exit. He was out the door before the old man who’d called
him could get a glimpse of his face.
The old man, a thin, classic wizard-looking kind of guy with a
long, crooked nose, stalked down the aisle to investigate the heap on
the step. Slowing on approach as if it could be a bomb, the old man,
who was not actually a wizard, but a normal, caught movement
within the blanket.
“Mary!” he shouted the moment he realized what it was. “Mary
get in here!”
He stared at the bundle. The boy’s eyes opened. The old man
started.
“Mary!” he shouted, turning around to find Mary standing at his
side. He jumped again.
“Wha—how did this get here?” Mary asked, looking around as if
someone might come forward and claim the kid. But no one else was
in here. Mary’s voice was too strong and confident for her height,
which was about a head shorter than the skinny, old man. She, too,
was old, her short hair well past silver. She was a stubby woman, with
a bosom as round as her plump frame. Kneeling, she lifted the boy
into her arms.
“Don’t touch it,” the old man ordered. “You don’t know where it’s
been! Probably one of those—”
He broke off at the stern look Mary gave her. “You’re right, you
don’t know! This baby needs care.” At that moment, the gold caught
her eye.
“Ah-ha! A clue!” the old man cried as Mary pulled the broken
chain from within the blanket. “We’ll find out who’s responsible.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Whoever left this baby is not going
to be responsible. A person like that did it a favor, as far as I’m
concerned.” She peeked into the blanket, her face scrunching at the
stench emanating from it that had nothing to do with a diaper-less
baby. Newborns simply didn’t smell.
“Well, then, who’s responsible?” The old man rolled his eyes and
scratched his near-bald head.
 At that, Mary was at a loss. “Should we look in the good book?”
From two, small bottles she found on the altar, she sprinkled drops of
frankincense and myrrh on the blanket and sniffed. “It’s a little better,
at least.”
“There’s no instruction for something like this in there!” the old
man dismissed, watching Mary care for the abandoned baby. “It
needs to go to the authorities. There are plenty of families looking for
such an opportunity.”
Mary’s shoulders slumped, looking down at the boy, his innocent
face a dark contrast to the pale finger she trails down his soft cheek.
Still, the boy did not cry. And the fiery angel that no one else saw
stayed with him.
“Alright,” Mary relented. “But he must be hungry. I’ll see if one of
the mothers left a bottle in the fridge yesterday. Someone always
does.” She and the baby disappeared through a door at the side of the
altar, leaving the old man to figure out what to do.

***
Thanks for reading.
Look for Jeb’s story soon.