The Bishop of Cambridge

It was customary for a bishop of such eminence to arrive at the courts via the royal guard. This bishop, however, was anything but traditional. He did not follow customary plans; did not execute his schedule according to some old dusty tome of etiquette and protocol. Bishop Farnesworth was a man of whimsical nature. Spontaneity was his guiding post and his heart his lamp unto the darkness. And so it was that he always, without fail, arrived by a local cab. Preferably one that tried to defraud him of his money, for wasn't it Jesus who sat with the sinners and the tax collectors? Thus, why shouldn't he, a disciple of Jesus, follow suit? Why shouldn't he lead others by the example that Christ set forth those thousands of years before? And wasn't it also Jesus that arrived into town on the back of donkey? Then why should he then arrive by gilded chariot and armed guard?

Such were the thoughts of Bishop Farnesworth. Humble, to a fault, which is why the bishop did not notice that this particular dodgy cab driver hid a pistol under an old copy of Le Monde on the front seat of the cab. And that the eyes of the man in the picture on the cab license did not match the harsh ones that peered back at him from the rearview mirror. Cold, dark brown eyes, stared at Farnesworth. The cab driver conducted the vehicle in silence. His right hand hovered inconspicuously close to Le Monde. A bead of sweat glistened above his brow. His left hand gripped the steering wheel, turning the skin of his knuckles white.

"Do you believe in fate Father?"

The cab driver's voice felt distantly familiar, like that of an old mate and touched the outermost edges of his memory. Farnesworth dismissed the thought though, electing to answer promptly and thoughtfully, without seeming distracted. "I believe that things happen for a reason, yes. But I do not ascribe to fate as you would know it. Fate implies that we are without agency, that life merely happens to us and thus we have no input, that we have no control. Is this what you believe?"

The cab driver snorted and then replied, "You religious folk are all cut the same. Always waxin' philosophical, eh? Tell me this, if you count yourself so wise: Two men of the same ilk stand side by side. One is a loving father. Dotes on his daughters. Brings 'ome a modest sum and does right by the law. The other is a liar; steals and cheats. He's got kids but he barely sees 'em; doesn't make time for 'em."

The bishop sits, hands folded neatly in his lap and says nothing, an expression of deep and thoughtful contemplation settles on him. He has a feeling he knows where the cabby's story is headed, but does not interrupt. Just listens.

"My question for one so wise such as yourself is this: Is it fate that the loving father should die before he gets to see his daughters off to college? Or to walk them down the aisle of their wedding? Is it fate Father that the other, vile in his ways, should prosper via his ill deeds?"

Bishop Farnesworth let that last question linger in the quiet space between them, allowed it to simmer and watched the emotion change the cabby's eyes, for that's all he could really see. "I think what you're really asking does not concern fate at all, but instead is that aged problem of evil that has plagued mankind since forever. No, I do not think what you have described is fate. I think what you have laid bare is the anger one feels at the incongruity of life. Why should a man such as yourself fall to an untimely death at such a crucial time in your daughter's life? Tell me, how long did the doctors give you?"

The cab driver's brow furrowed slightly. His eyes shifted to emote a sense of panic and dismay. His right hand slipped under the newspaper. His left hand gripped the wheel harder. The bishop now locked onto the photo that had been staring at him since he boarded some fifteen minutes ago. Farnesworth's eyes narrowed as he took in what he could see of the cab driver, who wasn't a cab driver at all.

"You should know."

Now all became clear. The voice. The eyes. The accent. Everything connected and recognition fell upon him with such expediency that he almost gave an audible start, but he remained composed, as composed as he could and said, "Xander? By God Himself, is that really you?"

Xander's hand shifted from underneath the paper. His arm curled and the gun now butted against his temple.

"Xander..."

"Don't...don't you fucking talk..." His eyes welled with the tears of eternal pain and suffering.

"Xander...I"

"I said don't fucking talk!" Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

The man's grip tightened around the wooden handle. His forefinger eased back on the trigger.

Bishop Farnesworth's hand shot out toward the weapon that now threatened his friend's life.

"Tell me daughter's I love 'em." His last words came in a sharp gasp.

There was a loud crack, a flash and a spray of dark crimson shot out against the driver's side window. The cab careened out of control and into on coming traffic. Bishop Farnesworth had little time to react, accepted his fate and bowed his head in prayer. "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me..."

When the Bishop awoke, blood dripped from his nose, his head ached and his vision was blurred. The strap of the seat belt cut into his shoulder and neck. From out of the front windscreen, the sky line had flipped and he could now stare up at his feet. He winced in pain. Every bone creaked; every muscle and sinew throbbed and pulsed. Bishop Farnseworth let out a low guttural moan. His right hand fumbled for the seat belt's release button. A click and he was free. He paid for it, however, with one last thud against the cab's glass littered ceiling. The smell of petrol made his nose curl.

Farnesworth fought the weave and tangle of the lap and shoulder belt. Bloodied and bruised hands clawed and pulled his body from the wreckage. He coughed and sputtered dark wine colored blood. He wasn't a large man, but still found it difficult to maneuver out of the small rear driver's side window. Glass crunched and cracked beneath the palms of his hands. And yet...and yet, he would change nothing. Had he been given the choice of climbing into Xander's stolen cab or riding with his elite entourage, he would have chosen the cab a thousand times over.

At last he freed himself and sat upright next to the rear door, just behind where Xander now lay, lifeless. It had been a clean shot, straight through. The smell of petrol grew more potent. Farnesworth's vision swirled, and once the ebb and flow of consciousness settled on conscious and mildly alert, a small photograph came into focus, gripped between Xander's thumb and forefinger.

The bruised and battered Bishop Farnesworth took the photo from his recently departed friend, giving the hand that held it a gentle squeeze, and gazed upon the fair visage who could only have been one of his two daughters. The Bishop wept and cried out. A distant wail could be heard. He now saw that a crowd had begun to gather and he could now begin to truly survey the damage caused by what had just happened.

The horror wrenched his heart. Smoke and fire now filled his vision. Other victims of his friend's tragedy screamed and yelled for their loved ones. The image further coalesced and he could just barely make out a mother and her son leaning one against the other. The life had drained from them and their souls were now with God. He could not of course know this for certain, but his heart felt sure of it nonetheless. And his heart was rarely wrong. 

Tucking the photograph deep within the inside breast pocket of his overcoat, Farnesworth struggled to his feet and began staggering towards safety. The air now wreaked of oil and petrol and something had begun to burn. His vision still swam and his head felt as if the greek god of thunder was pounding away on his skull. Each step he took felt as though it could be his last. His breath came in short wheezing gasps. But he was determined to reach the mother and her boy. Needed to reach them. He didn't care if they weren't Catholic. He would give them their last rites. He would send them off properly. 

A high pitched screech sounded from behind him. And then everything fell silent before, for the second time today, he felt himself jerk forward. Pain rocked him from between his shoulder blades. The blast propelled him forward the last ten feet from where he intended to be. Slumped now between them, he began reciting the ritual.

The words came in gasps, stilted yet resolute. A hand rested on each of them. "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Go, each of you, into God's Holy Grace I send thee." Bishop Farnesworth having made the sign of the cross, kissed each of them on the forehead. He could feel his heart trying to break free from the ribbed cage that had held it firm some sixty odd years. A single tear fell along the valleyed lines of his saddened face. The landscape of terror, fire and billowing black smoke narrowed. He could feel himself slipping. And yet, he still accepted what had happened and would not make even the slightest alteration.

The corners of his weathered and cracked lips curled upwards in one last smile. "Beautiful." He whispered, and then everything faded. Bishop Farnesworth, at age sixty and two, slept one final long, eternal rest.