Chapter 1: A Regular Thursday at Spellman School

It was a Thursday afternoon, precisely at 1 PM, when Elizabeth Fox arrived at the Spellman School for her routine reading session with a group of eight-year-olds. This cherished tradition had unfolded nearly 800 times over her two-decade tenure at the school. Initially motivated by a longing for children's laughter after the heartbreaking loss of her son, this endeavor had transformed into a therapeutic ritual that helped her cope with the profound grief stemming from his abduction years ago. Elizabeth's life had been marked by relentless suffering, beginning with the tragic loss of her family to the Nazis during World War II. Yet, she found solace in the spirituality of her heritage and her commitment to the Greek Orthodox Church. The weekly visits to the school brought her joy, especially as her husband Nigel became increasingly preoccupied with the media attention surrounding him.

Elizabeth spoke English fluently, albeit with a gentle Macedonian Greek accent that lent a lyrical quality to her voice, reminiscent of a lullaby—an echo of her mother's soothing tones from her childhood.

"Alright, children, settle down," instructed Ms. Alexander, the school director, as she positioned herself between the entrance and the round table where the children gathered, accompanied by their teacher and aides.

"Go ahead, Elizabeth," Ms. Richards encouraged her.

One of the girls, Emily, was restless, resting her head on the table as Elizabeth began to read “The Tree Mouse” by Michael Holford.

"Once, there stood an oak tree in a small forest of pines, the last of its kind, towering at nearly 150 feet," Elizabeth narrated, revealing an illustration of the majestic tree to the eager children.

Within its expansive branches resided a family of squirrels, their lineage stretching back through 50 generations, sharing tales of their woodland lives passed down through the years.

Suddenly, one girl piped up, "Squirrels scare me."

"I understand," Elizabeth replied with empathy. She continued with the story of young Alfie Squirrel, who, unlike his siblings engaged in chores, was captivated only by the thrill of climbing higher into the tree's branches.

"You're going to hurt yourself!" his brother Achilles warned as Alfie ventured onto a swaying branch.

"What does 'swaying' mean?" asked Andrew, one of the boys.

"It means moving back and forth," Elizabeth explained, demonstrating with the book.

As she read on, the children's imaginations ignited, and she showed them another illustration of Alfie perched precariously on a branch, gazing at the vast green expanse below.

"I'll continue this next time I visit," she promised, closing the book as Ms. Richards prompted the children to thank her. While most complied, Emily remained asleep on the table.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," Ms. Alexander said appreciatively. "Before you go, I’d like to show you something we found in Jonathan’s room."

The two women exited the classroom and made their way to Ms. Alexander’s office at the end of the hall.

"I want to express my gratitude for your dedication over the past two decades," Ms. Alexander said.

"Twenty-four years," Elizabeth corrected gently. "I've witnessed an entire generation grow up."

As Ms. Alexander retrieved a drawing from her desk drawer, she handed it to Elizabeth. It depicted Jim Jacobson, sitting at his usual table in a coffee shop in Hadleyburg, Virginia. Elizabeth studied the drawing intently, and as recognition dawned, tears began to flow from her eyes.

"Are you alright, Elizabeth? I didn’t mean to distress you," Ms. Alexander asked.

"He left this for me," Elizabeth managed to say, her accent thickening with emotion as memories of her past flooded back.

"In a world that often denies spirituality, my faith has carried me through," she reflected, bowing her head in prayer.

After regaining her composure, she insisted, "He left this for me."

"I believe he simply misplaced it," Ms. Alexander suggested.

"Jonathan's life is never a matter of carelessness," Elizabeth replied firmly. "Do you know someone who can deliver this to him in White Plains?"

"I can take it," Ms. Alexander offered.

"That seems like a long journey for you," Elizabeth said.

"My brother Dimitrios and I once walked from Cairo to Casablanca. I can manage a train ride," she replied, unyielding.

"What about this drawing affected you so deeply?" Ms. Alexander inquired.

"This drawing is of my son, Michael." She then spoke in Greek, "Karthia mou thia oiktirmos theou. My heart rejoices in God's mercy."

"Do you have an envelope for it?" Ms. Alexander asked.

"Of course," Elizabeth replied, retrieving a large envelope.

"When are you going?"

"I’m leaving today. I’ll head to Grand Central for the train."

"I worry about you traveling alone," Ms. Alexander expressed concern.

"I trust in God’s protection wherever I go. This has been a profound blessing for me. Evcharisto. Thank you."

She crossed herself and placed the drawing into the envelope.

"When will we see you again?" Ms. Alexander asked.

"I'll be here Saturday for the market," Elizabeth said, tucking the envelope into her bag.

"Next time, we’ll delve deeper into 'The Tree Mouse.' Malista."

"Malista," Ms. Alexander echoed.

As Elizabeth walked towards the Union Square subway station, she noticed a market selling fresh produce nearby. She paused to buy bananas and strawberries for Jonathan and browsed a kiosk filled with children's books, ultimately selecting a version of Mark Twain's "Tom Sawyer."

Reflecting on her past, she recalled the struggles of learning English after the war, diligently comparing her Greek Bible with the English translation given to her by Nigel. Although she wished to read Jonathan stories of the saints, those books were in Greek, and so she settled for stories in English, seeking to connect with children despite her own losses.

As she descended the stairs to the subway platform, she found comfort in the drawing Ms. Alexander had given her, believing it a sign of her son’s enduring spirit, though she was unsure if she could ever reunite them.

She boarded a crowded uptown train, standing near the sliding doors. An older man offered her his seat, which she accepted gratefully, praying for his kindness in return.

Unlike many who overlooked everyday acts of kindness, Elizabeth paid attention and expressed gratitude for the blessings in her life, despite her own tragedies. She thought of her son, who lived with sadness and regret, and hoped he had been surrounded by love during his life.

Arriving at Grand Central Station, Elizabeth was reminded of the moment Nigel had come to pay the ransom for Michael, and how everything had gone awry. She looked up at the high ceilings, recalling the words from Psalm 104 and focused her heart on divine matters.

Finding the departure board, she located the next train to White Plains, leaving at 3 PM, and offered a silent prayer for mercy as she waited in line to buy her ticket.

Upon reaching the platform, she noted the first two cars were nearly full and decided to walk to the third car in search of a window seat. She settled into a spot eight rows back on the right side just as Mark Ryan, a conspiracy writer, took the seat next to her, engrossed in his notes.

"Are you alright?" she asked after observing his agitation.

"Just busy," he replied, glancing at his watch.

"What are you working on?" she probed.

"You wouldn't be interested," he said dismissively.

"And how would you know?"

"Demographics. Most of my audience are young men, and by thirty, their views are set."

"How old are you?" she inquired.

"46, just turned a week ago."

"You’re the same age as my son, Michael," she said, feeling the weight of the drawing in her bag.

"I’m focused on my work," he said, returning to his notes as the train departed late.

"I’ve seen similar behavior in children at the Spellman School," she shared.

"Some say I have a touch of Asperger's," he replied, still intent on writing.

"You should try to relax," she suggested.

"You're suggesting I sleep? There are already too many who are asleep."

"What do you mean?" she asked, intrigued.

"I'm talking about the dreadful world we inhabit, controlled by terrible people with a grim agenda," he said, anger rising in his voice.

"You must be as wise as a serpent, but as gentle as a dove. The devil is a hungry lion seeking someone to eat," she recited.

"There are many devils, and they view us as prey," he snapped.

"And you intend to battle these demons? With what weapons?"

"With the truth. I’ve dedicated my life to uncovering and sharing it," he asserted, closing his notebook.

"What truth?" she asked, pressing further.

"I discuss the global power structures—banks that profit from wars and famines while half the world survives on less than $300 a year."

"And you’re angry about that?"

"Of course! We’re entrapped in a system run by predators and liars."

"There are compassionate souls out there—parents who risk everything to save their children," she countered passionately.

"Many are victims, and the beautiful zebras on the plains are hunted by lions," he replied.

Despite his intensity, Elizabeth remained calm, recognizing their shared vision of light versus darkness, differing only in their approaches to combat it.

"I agree with you," she said, hesitating. "What’s your name?"

"Ryan. Mark Ryan."

"I’m Elisaveta Fox."

"I apologize for my intensity; it’s just infuriating."

"It’s essential to be angry about injustice. But how we respond shapes our character."

"And what do you think we should do?" he challenged.

"We should be willing to sacrifice for what’s right and influence change one person at a time," she replied firmly.

"There aren’t enough of us to make a difference," he said skeptically.

"They must desire to be awake—to love others. You’d be surprised," she responded, reaching for her pocket Bible.

"This book helped me through dark times. I lost my family during the war. My brother and I walked from Cairo to Casablanca, then to England where he passed away. I can speak to you now because of my journey, and I want to share this blessing with you," she offered, extending the Bible to him.

"I can’t accept it. I’m not religious," he said.

"You're mistaken; you possess a deep spirituality. It’s no coincidence we met on this train," she asserted.

"I dislike trains," he replied, dismissively.

"I’m on my way to deliver something important to a young man," she explained.

"So, you’re a religious person?"

"I am a sinner, struggling with pride. It’s what causes the angels to fall."

"Why would a good God create such a terrible world? Why doesn’t He intervene?"

"I believe He does, but not in ways we expect. We must be His hands and feet, the instruments of redemption," she said resolutely.

Realizing he wouldn’t take the Bible, she returned it to her bag, opting instead to give him a pamphlet titled "The Prophecy of Neilos the Myrrh Streamer."

"What’s this? A religious text?" he asked.

"It's a vision from long ago," she replied.

"I’m skeptical about visions," he said, but she urged him to read it.

"Please keep an open heart to God’s uncreated energies. There you will find comfort," she encouraged.

Their worlds were starkly different, yet she sensed a connection with him. He reluctantly accepted the pamphlet, placing it in his bag.

"I also have this for you," she said, producing a small icon of Saint George. "I pray he protects you in your battles."

"I doubt God would want to protect someone like me," he said.

"I’ll pray your talk touches your audience’s hearts," she promised.

"Thank you." He accepted the icon, though his skepticism lingered.

As Elizabeth recited prayers softly in Greek, Mark listened, the melodic tones reminiscent of a lullaby he hadn't heard in years.

“What does your son do now?” he asked.

"I don’t know. He was taken when he was a baby," she replied, a sadness enveloping her.

"I'm sorry. So, you don’t even know if he’s alive?"

"I know he is alive," she stated firmly, though the uncertainty lingered unspoken.

The train pulled into White Plains, and they both prepared to disembark as the conductor announced their arrival. They stepped off the train and walked to the taxi stand.

"I was once a skeptic," Mark shared. "After losing my parents in a plane crash at eight, I drifted. Then, I read a book that changed everything for me. It set me on a two-decade path of inquiry, leading to this moment."

"Why share this with me?" Elizabeth asked.

"I don’t know. We may never meet again. Thank you for the conversation."

As Mark’s taxi arrived, Elizabeth watched him leave, and shortly after, her own taxi came. When she arrived at her father's house, the clock read 5 PM. She paused to pray before stepping out.

The driver asked, "Do you need a ride back, Ma'am?"

"I’m not sure," she replied, paying him.

She noticed a grey sedan parked in the driveway and approached the front door, taking a deep breath before ringing the bell.

Her father opened the door, surprised to see the modestly dressed elderly Greek woman.

"Good evening. I don’t believe we’ve met," he greeted.

"I know Jonathan. I was with him at the Spellman School and later at the hospital," she explained.

"How can I assist you, Mrs...?"

"Fox. Elizabeth Fox."

"Please, come in."

As the rain began to fall, she stepped inside.

"Jonathan is upstairs drawing," he said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"I have a drawing he left at the Spellman School," she informed him.

"You didn’t need to come personally. A letter would’ve sufficed."

"I wanted to see him and find out how he’s doing," she replied, handing him the envelope.

"I’ll find a space for the drawing. Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

As Elizabeth glanced around, she noticed Jonathan’s artwork adorning the walls and a large photograph of him as a child in the living room. She sat down in the small living area, feeling the weight of the moment.

"Would you like something to drink? I have some juice," he offered.

"Has he been happy?" Elizabeth asked, concern evident.

"It's hard to tell. He doesn’t speak much," he replied, struggling to convey his feelings.

"What about his new school?" Elizabeth inquired.

"He seems to enjoy it. No complaints yet," he said, though uncertainty lingered in his voice.

As Elizabeth read from her pocket Bible, her heart ached for the boy upstairs. She hoped to unravel the meaning behind his drawings, yet like his father, she felt lost.

Jonathan sat on his bed surrounded by drawings when his father entered with a plate of food. "I hope you like it," he said, placing it down.

"Mrs. Fox has come to visit you," he added.

Jonathan turned to Elizabeth, lifting one drawing to present to her.

"I have the drawing you left for me. Thank you," she said warmly.

As she accepted it, she noticed it depicted her husband Neilos and a young man in a hospital room filled with flowers.

"What does this mean, Jonathan?" she asked, seeking understanding.

"I don’t know what any of this means," his father interjected, frustration evident.

"He perceives things that others cannot," Elizabeth reassured him.

"I’ve recognized that. There’s something extraordinary happening, yet I feel utterly in the dark," he admitted.

Jonathan continued to eat his pasta, ignoring his father’s conversation.

"Water, please," he requested softly.

"Of course," his father replied, leaving the room.

When the door closed, Jonathan turned to Elizabeth, tears brimming in his eyes.

"I’m not in this picture. Does it signify something?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Jonathan was silent, unable to articulate his thoughts.

"I won’t see him, will I?" she asked again, her heart heavy.

As Jonathan’s father returned with the water, he sensed the emotional weight in the room.

"I missed something, didn’t I? I feel as if I’m lost in a silent film, oblivious to everything around me," he said.

Jonathan, having finished his meal, looked up and smiled, "Thank you, Daddy. It was good."

In that moment, Elizabeth resolved to change the outcome for Elizabeth Fox.

"Thank you, Mrs. Fox," he said slowly. "My heart soars above the trees like an eagle," he recited, a smile breaking through.

"Alright then, let’s take Mrs. Fox to the train station," his father suggested.

He helped Jonathan into his jacket, and the three of them walked to the car, a profound silence enveloping them.

As they arrived at the station, Jonathan spoke, "God loves you, Elisaveta."

"I know He does. His mercy is evident in my life every day," she replied.

"And I love you," Jonathan said earnestly.

"I know you love me. You don’t have to struggle to express it. I’ll try to find time to visit again," she promised, but deep down, she sensed this would be their last encounter, for some circumstances were beyond her control.