Down in the River to Pray

A Guardians of the Galaxy Story

"I've got something I need to do," Peter says.

They all glance up expectantly from their various pursuits: Gamora is rubbing oil into a leather scabbard, Rocket is adjusting the trigger mechanism on a tiny, malevolent-looking blaster while Drax polishes a dagger and eyes Rocket's work with an expression of deepening skepticism, and Groot sways gently to the low music drifting through the ship. A silence stretches: one breath, then two. Peter's not looking back at them. He's studying the Milano's deck plating as if its state of filthiness were a new revelation. A muscle tightens under the stubble along his jawline.

Finally, Rocket shifts impatiently. "And that's . . . what? Care to share?"

Peter's head swings up, the careless grin fixing itself in place on his lips. "It might involve breaking a few laws. Minor ones."

Fine brows arch over Gamora's eyes. Drax rumbles, "What laws?"

"The laws that say we can't visit a planet under interdict."

A thoughtful moment passes, and then there's a general shrug. Rocket blows a sarcastic hiss out through his teeth.

Gamora's frowning, though; her gaze measures Peter. His thumbs are hooked into his belt, his stance easy, but his neck is bowed with tension. His eyes are tracing the contours of Rocket's latest unholy weapon, half in pieces on the worktable, but she suspects that's not really what he's seeing.

Slowly, she lifts her chin and asks, "Which planet?"

Peter looks over at her.

"Earth," he says. He smiles, but its warmth doesn't banish the shadow from his eyes.

"Home sweet home."

An old man stands on the bank of a river, swaying to its murmur as it rolls past his feet. A river at night is a mysterious presence, a black ribbon unspooling itself in ripples edged with starlight. This old man likes it that way. When the vacationers in the other cabins along the banks have long since doused their porchlights and sought their beds, and the moon hasn't risen to transform the water into a stream of liquid silver, he revels in the silence and the darkness. He probably should be sleeping right now, too. But he doesn't sleep well. He hasn't slept well for twenty-six years.

The weight of eight and a half decades lies heavy on his back, but he's still standing on his own two feet. Or three feet, really; he figures you might as well count the cane, since he's having to use it constantly now. The uneven ground along the river's bank is tricky, especially at night, but that doesn't stop him from coming down here, to watch the stars and listen to the river. He's watching them now, glittering in the great swath of the galaxy's arm spread overhead. He's turned away from the meadows surrounding his cabin, and so he doesn't see the huge, graceful shadow sweeping down to hover there, starlight gleaming on its skin.

When he returns to the cabin, he doesn't switch on the lights; instead he makes his way carefully through the spaces, moving by instinct and long familiarity. In the kitchen, he pauses by the sideboard and taps an iPod to life, there in its little nest of dock and speakers. Quiet music laps at the pooled darkness in the room.

If I was cast off on the sea

Would you come and look for me

Or would you just let me sink

Beneath the waves so blue . . .

He's reaching for the water carafe on the counter, leaning heavily on his stick, when he realizes, with a sick thud of his heart against his ribs, that someone's standing there, in the doorway between the kitchen and the mudroom.

He stumbles backward, one hand to chest, the other gripping the head of his stick with the outsize strength of fear. The shape in the shadows grunts a voiceless exclamation; he can see, dimly, an arm stretching out towards him.

He backs, another shuffling stumble, and cries out, "Who are you? How'd you get in here?"

The shape edges nearer, into the rectangle of silver-gray starlight falling through the kitchen window. It's a man, he can see that now. And a man's voice answers him.

"Well, you always did leave the back door unlocked, Pop."

Pop.

His head is whirling. He retreats one more step, his free hand groping behind to find the back of a chair. He lowers himself into it, falls into it, really.

Pop.

Only one person on Earth has ever called him that.

The man strides quickly across the room, and flicks a light switch. As the small bulb over the sink flares into life, Pop finds himself staring up, arrested, into a face he's never seen. He lifts a hand to his mouth, presses it against his trembling jaw. The irresistible, irrational, stupid hope is burning through his veins like fine whiskey.

The man crouches before him; his face is creased with concern. He says gently, "Pop. I know this is real hard. Real hard. I don't know if you can believe me, but I've got to tell you that . . . "

"Peter?" Pop interrupts. He leans forward, peering into the man's eyes. "Pete?"

The man inhales sharply, and lets it out, slow. Then he smiles, dipping his head to meet Pop's gaze. "Yeah."

Pop reaches out, to touch the face. His eyes narrow; he sees nothing, nothing of Meredith in this face, nothing of the child he once knew.

Except for that smile.

Peter.

"I can't believe it," he says.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry." The man straightens, and gazes around the room a bit wildly. "But I'm Peter, I promise. Look, I know this cabin. Um, up in the attic there's a box full of wooden decoys. Ducks. And I used to always drag them down here to play with them on the porch. Remember? And, yeah, over there, in that cupboard, that's where Gram used to keep all of her canning jars. And there's this blue canoe down by . . .

Pop's laughing, though. He feels his heart pounding with the adrenaline of joy.

"Peter. It's you."

Peter stops talking. His face softens, and he crouches again to look up into Pop's face. "It's me. I'm sorry, Pop, that I was gone for so long."

"Where were you? What happened? Are you all right?"

The smile stretches into a grin, and, yes, Pop knows he's seen that grin before. Peter stands and draws another chair forward, slinging himself into it and reaching out to grasp one of Pop's shaking hands with both of his.

"I'm all right. I'm good," Peter says. "But, as for where I've been . . . " He hesitates, reaches up one hand to rub the back of his neck. "Shit. This is gonna be tough for you to hear."

"Nothing can be tougher than that night. The night I lost you."

"You didn't lose me. After Mom . . . after that, I ran out and I was taken. Taken from Earth."

Pop's body stiffens. "Aliens?"

"Yeah. Kind of. I know it's hard to understand."

"No. There were aliens here. Well, not here, but in New York. An invasion."

Peter rocks back in his chair, both brows climbing. "Really? Who would . . . that's . . . weird."

But Pop is staring at him. "They were horrible creatures. Lizards."

Peter grips his hand again. "No. Look, it wasn't lizards. These were human. Ish. Close enough. Sort of like pirates, and they took me over to the other side of the galaxy." He sees the next question coming, and he answers before Pop can speak it. "They didn't hurt me." Much, his mind adds, but he's sure as hell not saying that to Pop.

"Why would they take you?"

Peter's mouth settles into a grim line. "I'm not sure. I always thought it was just chance, but now . . . "

His voice trails off, but he's recalled to the moment by Pop's voice, full of wonder. "And you've been out there, all this time."

"Yeah."

Pop's face is suddenly alight with a smile. "Tell me."

So Peter does. He makes coffee, savoring every movement in the familiar kitchen, and he talks, about Yondu and the Ravagers, about the Milano, about artifacts and abandoned planets and the thrill of the score. And finally, about the Orb, and the Kyln, and Knowhere, and Xandar. When he finally runs out of words, he sits back in his chair and studies Pop's face; the iPod's soft music curls itself around them.

Pop shakes his head. "That's quite a life you've been leading, Pete."

"It's a ride," Peter grins, and lifts his mug to his lips, draining the last swallow. "Shit, that's good. Coffee. I haven't had it in a long time."

"There's more where that came from," Pop says, his eyes intent, suddenly.

Peter nods, and looks away.

"You won't be staying, though."

Peter's eyes tighten at the unspoken hope in Pop's voice, the hope that he'll deny that truth. He takes a deep breath, and then he says, softly, "No, Pop. I can't. I'm not even supposed to be here. This planet is . . . "

He pauses, runs a hand along his jaw, struggling to summarize a Gordian knot of planetary regulation into a few words. "Let's just say that Earth is sort of . . . off-limits."

Pop grins, tremulous. "You bent the rules?"

"Yeah. A little."

"I'm glad you did, son. I'm so glad. It's so good to see you."

Peter's fingers tighten their grasp on Pop's hand.

"And you're not alone, out there," Pop says. There's a faint rise on the last word, a ghost of a question.

"Nope. No, I've got the whole galaxy. Got my ship. And . . . " A slight smile quirks Peter's lips. "I've got my friends. All four of them. I'm not alone."

The faded eyes have left his, though, and Pop's staring out into the dark corners of the room, his expression bleak.

His voice rasps, "You shouldn't have ever been alone. You shouldn't have been alone that night. I left you. I left you alone."

Pop's gaze comes back to Peter's face, full of dim, remembered horror. "I'm so sorry, Pete." A tear traces a grooved track down his cheek. "I left you, and you were taken. Oh, god, Peter. I'm so sorry." His voice shudders and chokes and then he's hunching over under the burden of twenty-six years of guilt and pain.

Peter's frozen, staring at him. Then he falls to his knees before the old man's chair, and gathers him into his arms.

"No, Pop. No! It wasn't your fault. Have you spent all these years thinking that? It wasn't anyone's fault, except maybe Yondu. Not you. Never you. Let it go."

Pop's fragile shoulders shake with the force of his weeping, but the arms that hold him are strong, and Peter bends his head to rest his brow against the silvery hair. Into the silence, a sweet, smoky voice rises from the speakers on the other side of the room.

Oh, brothers, let's go down,

come on down,

lay your burdens on down.

Come on, brothers, let's go down,

down in the river to pray.

Finally, Peter whispers, "You OK?"

Pop raises his head, wiping a smear of tears from his eyelids with the back of his hand, like a child. "I'm OK, son. I'm OK, now."

Peter leans back, to look into his face. "Well, good. 'Cause I want to ask you to do something for me."

"Sure, Pete. Whatever you need."

Peter lifts an arm, and grins, and jerks a thumb toward the iPod, over on the sideboard. "Will you tell me what the hell that is?"

They're passing the outer worlds of the Terran system when Rocket shinnies up the ladder into the bridge, and up the back of the pilot's chair to perch on the headrest. Outside the windows, a lovely bauble of a planet draws nearer, its glittering rings casting an inky shadow over a surface of banded orange and gold.

"Mmmmm," Rocket mutters. "Very scenic. Can't think why we've never been here before?"

From the back of the bridge, where he's adjusting a faulty stator gauge, Drax's voice rumbles, "Because of the interdict."

Rocket sighs, heavily, rolling his eyes over toward the second seat. Its occupant waves a leaflet and winks a tiny, bright eye. "Somebody else explain to Mr. Sunshine back there about frickin' rhetorical questions."

Gamora adjusts the angle of their thrust, as the gravity of the planet ahead makes itself felt against the Milano's sleek skin. She looks up at Rocket, and then, inclining her head toward the ladder and the area below, raises a brow.

Rocket is quiet for a moment. Then he stirs abruptly and says, voice gruff and low, "All I know is, he's drinkin'."

Gamora nods, and for a moment they are all enveloped in silence and the light spilling through the windows. Then Gamora's hands move, twisting a lever, powering down the thrust, tapping a screen. The Milano soars into a curve, skimming along the top of the crystalline rings, and then arches into orbit around a moon, cool silver in contrast to its mother's molten gold.

Rocket grumbles, "You didn't have to park. I can pilot."

Gamora is already out of the seat, her hand on the ladder's railing. "Of course you can. But I won't be long."

Rocket shrugs, and turns back to Groot. As she descends, Gamora hears him mutter, "Do you ever get the feeling she doesn't trust my driving?"

Peter's sitting on his bunk, the neck of a bottle held loosely in one hand. He doesn't look up as Gamora's hand settles on his shoulder, but his free hand rises to brush his fingertips along her knuckles, a fleeting acknowledgement of her sympathy.

She sits on the bunk, opposite, her hands resting on her knees, and she allows the silence to linger until he lifts the bottle, takes a long pull, and then meets her steady regard. Only long practice at control keeps her from flinching at the pain in his eyes.

"He's old, Gamora."

She tilts her head. "But not yet passed. That is important."

"Sure. He's not dead. But . . . twenty-six years of grief and guilt take a toll, you know?" His neck droops, and his knuckles tighten around the neck of the bottle. "I should have found a way back here sooner. Or thought of a way to send a message."

She frowns, shakes her head. "That would have been almost impossible, given the . . . "

"I should have found a way!" His voice is choked with regret, his eyes fierce as he holds her gaze for a moment, before he looks away, jaw stiff, "I'm a selfish prick."

"Well, yes . . . " She shades her voice into a low inflection that she knows will goad a smile. When it comes, reluctantly, a small curl at the corner of his mouth, she reaches forward and touches his wrist.

"But, Peter, what is, is." She spreads both her hands, her face serious now. "You . . . we . . . cannot alter the past. It is frozen in place. But the moments and days ahead are fluid. Malleable. We can pour them out as we choose, with both hands." Her face tightens, for an instant, as some distant memory flickers behind her eyes, but she shakes it away with a tiny movement, and looks down at her empty palms.

"With open hands," she says.

He's silent. Then he shakes his head. "Are you trying to tell me that it's all OK? Because it isn't."

"No. But I'm trying to tell you that what you have done this day, just now, back there, is to the good. The old man, your grandfather, will always have his sorrow. But now he will have his joy, as well. It is . . . " The unfamiliar term lies heavy on her tongue, but she offers it to him anyway. "It is OK."

He purses his lips, looking down, and then slowly he nods. "Yeah."

The bottle twists in his hands, and then he blows out a breath. "Twenty-six years of sorrow. And a couple hours of joy."

"Yes."

He doesn't smile, but the corners of his eyes relax into warm creases as he raises both brows. "A bit of both."

"So it seems."

"And that's a good thing?"

She stands, crosses her arms. "On the balance of it. Yes. Most of the time. The joy will stay with him, Peter."

Her hand's on his arm again, just a touch, and then she's gone. After several long minutes, a sigh lifts his shoulders, and when they settle, they've shed their strained, hunched posture. He pushes himself to his feet, and lifts the bottle in a salute to some unseen presence.

"Pop. You stay put back there, OK? For a little while longer. You live that joy."

He twists the bottle closed, tosses it on the bunk, and saunters over to the ladder. The bridge beckons him, flooded with the glow of Saturn's moon, and he climbs up into the light, two steps at a time.

I've changed the lyrics of that beautiful song, just a bit, to suit my purposes in this story.

Thanks so much for reading! I'm grateful!