“Do you think I’m weak?” Will asked the abbot.
“Strength is found in self-control, William,” the abbot said.
“Do not be deceived.” Tobias moved the relics on the table to side chairs. “Power is not strength. Force is not strength.” He lifted a flat hand, bladelike, in front of his nose, then in a precise move struck his fingertips on the tabletop. The wood groaned and ever so slowly a crack opened in the center of the table where his fingers had landed. “Intention is strength, faith is strength, Mr. Wilder. The truly strong use force for a noble end.” The two sides of the table crashed to the ground as if on cue.
Will shuddered a bit at the sound. “How can I get strong like that? I need to be ready for whatever is coming.” Thoughts of the imps raced through his mind once more. “And then there’s football. I need to be stronger on the football field.”
“Football? Focus on your training. There is no time for meaningless sports,” the abbot said, checking his watch. “Our time is up.”
Will gathered his things and raced for the door. “Maybe Brother Baldwin’s right. I might not be strong enough for what you’re asking me to do.”
“Mr. Wilder, strength comes from here,” Tobias said, pointing to his heart. Then, indicating his flexed biceps, added, “Not from here. Go. Go to your aunt Lucille.”
Will ran up the spiral staircase of Peniel’s highest tower until he reached the open door of Jacob Wilder’s office. Bartimaeus’s voice ricocheted in the tight stairwell.
“…sure he’s right. They’re flipping and floatin’ all over that park. I could feel the evil vibrations all the way down the block. Somethin’ bad’s goin’ on down there, Lucille.” Bartimaeus dropped into a chair in front of Jacob Wilder’s huge desk as Will entered.
Aunt Lucille greeted him from her seat behind the desk. “I propped the door downstairs so you could make your way up. Your mother was just here to fetch Leo and Marin. She’s not herself today, a bit distant…”
“That’s what I was telling you.” Will closed the door behind him. “She was kind of spacey this morning. She barely talked to me at the park. All she did was sway and tell me how freeing Cassian’s music was. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
“Bart visited the park. It’s worse than we thought,” Aunt Lucille said, turning on the small TV on a corner table.
“Folks were flyin’ all over the place—just laughing and cutting up,” Bartimaeus reported. “It was chilly too, with a sweet stink in the air. Fomorii all the way if you ask me. I saw your mama packin’ up her TV equipment. She paid me about as much attention as the grass did.”
“Shhh,” Aunt Lucille hissed, focused on the television. “Deb’s report is coming up. Look.”
Within a few moments, Deborah Wilder’s segment began. She was standing before a group of excited women in the park. “They have come from miles around to see a DJ who has taken the music world by storm.” There were shots of people swaying in unison as Cassian smiled like a mannequin. He slid his hands over the turntables before him.
“I don’t know about you all, but that music sounds repetitive to me,” Bartimaeus said. “It’s like the stuff you hear in the elevator at one of those hip hotels where it’s so dark you can’t see the door in front of ya.”
Aunt Lucille was bothered by what she saw on the TV. She rose and stared hard at the picture tube. “I think I know him. He looks like…what did Deb say his name was?”
“DJ Cassian has this crowd in the palm of his hand,” Deborah breathlessly announced, as if in response. “He electrified this crowd in Perilous Falls as he has excited audiences in Europe and beyond.”
“They didn’t look electrified to me. Those people seemed zombified. Look at their faces,” Will said, pointing at the screen.
“Shhh. I’m trying to listen.” Aunt Lucille tilted her ear toward the TV. “That tune…La-dee-dah-dee-dee-dah. It’s like the one Cosmo Doheney used to sing.” She quieted for a moment, listening to the pulsing beat coming from the TV. “It’s definitely Cosmo’s song.”
“I knew I’d heard it before. You were humming it the other day,” Will said.
Bartimaeus rose to his feet. “Sarah Lucille, that man ain’t been around since we were kids. There’s no way that’s the same song.”
“It’s the same. I’m sure of it.” Aunt Lucille set her jaw and leaned toward the TV screen, her brow wrinkled. “This Cassian character even favors Cosmo.”
“Come on, Lucille. Cosmo was nowhere near that dude’s size,” Bartimaeus said.
“It’s his gestures. His strong jaw. Those lips—he’s bigger than Cosmo, but there’s something about him that’s so familiar. I wish he didn’t have those sunglasses on; then I’d know for sure,” Lucille said excitedly, her hands holding the edges of the screen.
“This guy is thirty years old, tops. Cosmo would be at least double that,” Bartimaeus said.
“I’ve got to see this Cassian fellow in person. The song, even his posture is identical.”
“Oh Lord, here we go—Lucille, it’s not the same man,” Bartimaeus said, trying to calm her. But she would not be calmed.
“I know that song and…and it’s got to be him.” There was a look of loss and longing in her blue eyes. Then she turned to Will. “If your mother was in fighting shape, I’d call her. But given the circumstances, I’ll have to do my own homework on this DJ Cassian.” She headed to the door and left without so much as a goodbye. All the way down the stairs, Aunt Lucille hummed the haunting, melodic lullaby they heard on TV.
“She always was nuts about Cosmo Doheney.” Bartimaeus shook his head. “Sometimes people see what they want to see. Ya aunt’s chasing ghosts. Cosmo’s been gone since your great-granddaddy Jacob died. It ain’t the same man. I’m more worried about those imps running around town. See, they usually serve major demons. They swarm like hornets around the really big, bad dudes.” Bartimaeus moved his crutches across the floor to Will. “How’d your Care and Use of Relics session go today?”
“Pretty good actually. Even flew around a little bit. I put Saint…somebody’s cord around my waist and I floated for a minute or two.”
“St. Joseph of Cupertino.”
“That’s right. Brother Baldwin said I was too weak to use the cord. Then he tried and almost fell flat on his face.”
Bart smirked. “Will, don’t worry about Baldwin. The vicar’s hung up on strength. Do ya know he used to be a boxer?”
“I didn’t.”
“Sure was. Golden Gloves, one of the best. But ya see, that kind of power wanes.”
“The vicar thinks I’m too scrawny for this. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”
“Just keep your mind on your training. You want to develop the kind of strength that lasts a lifetime: inner strength. And that takes time.” Bartimaeus pointed a crutch toward the glass display holding the amulet in the corner. “Even ya boy Samson over there didn’t possess true strength. He had muscle, but no sense. Real strength comes from consistent habit and training. Take it easy. You’ll have all the strength you need when the time is right.”
Bartimaeus walked past Will. “Close the door behind ya and come see this new item I pulled out of storage this morning. It’s a beautiful piece—once belonged to King David.”
Will started to follow him. But as he went to extinguish the wall lamps and turn the TV off, his eyes lit on the talisman holding Samson’s locks in the corner case. He sauntered over to the case and studied the coiled braid of hair inside the silver locket. “Wonder what it could do?” Will whispered to himself. He lifted the glass top of the case and extended a hand toward the silver amulet. Then he stopped.
I’d better not touch it. Though Samson was a pretty strong guy…I wonder if it could give me a little strength boost. That could be cool. How do you learn to use a relic or know what it can do unless you try it
? I mean, the abbot let me try the cord of St. Joseph of…Cappuccino, with no prep at all. They WANT me to try out the relics.
He reached his hand toward the locket again before pulling it back.
Taking a tiny relic like this out of Peniel is probably not that big a risk. It’s not like the finger bone of St. Thomas—in that enormous reliquary—or the Staff of Moses, which was huuuge. This one’s so small. You can barely see it. It could fit in my pocket.
Will pinched the chain and felt how light the amulet was. He lifted it up and down as if weighing it—like a decision.
Mr. Shen said relics should be “used for good purposes and only for the benefit of others.” Winning a few games for my school is a “good purpose.” I might be able to protect that Renny kid with it—and maybe myself. I’ll bet it could help me even up the score with Caleb. And if those imps get out of control, I could use the extra power to help those people at the park. Or my mom.
With that, he snatched up the locket and threw it into the secure part of his backpack. He’d decide what to do with it later.
“Will, you comin’?” Bartimaeus yelled from the bottom of the stairwell.
“Yes, sir.” Will flipped the switch, killing the wall lamps. But he had forgotten to turn the TV off.
On-screen, Herb Lassiter, the veteran WPF Channel 4 reporter with a bushy mustache and a solemn demeanor, stood in the middle of the de Plancy Cemetery. A pile of freshly turned soil was at his feet, with a hole beside it. “Authorities received a call from a groundsman who stumbled across this disturbed grave earlier today. With only a few letters visible, the weathered gravestone makes it impossible to determine whose grave this is. And worse, the body is missing.” The camera tilted down into the hole to find a busted open, empty coffin. “The Perilous Falls Police Department is searching for leads in the case. If you have any information about the grave robbers or the missing body, you are urged to contact local authorities.”
His head covered by the hood of a black cloak, Brother Baldwin stepped into a flat-bottomed boat along the shoreline of the Perilous River. He jammed an oar into the muck and launched the vessel over the swirling waters. He was not far from Lucille Wilder’s house and could see her baby-blue Victorian beyond the pier as he drifted farther into the unsettled river. He checked over his shoulder a few times to make sure that neither Lucille nor anyone else saw him rowing against the current toward the far shore. The purple dusk of that Sunday evening cast an eerie light on the overgrowth of the swiftly approaching riverbank. The arms of enormous trees reached down into the swampy water. As he rowed closer, it looked as if their twisted limbs had created a tunnel, welcoming him.
Baldwin hated the reek of the place. It smelled like dead rats trapped in a wall for too long. He pulled the edge of his cloak over his nose as he maneuvered the boat onto the spongy land. Wormwood was the perfect name for this godforsaken place, he thought. Had it not been for the old woman who lived in the decaying forest and the knowledge she possessed, he would never have left Peniel.
Stepping from the boat, he wandered through the blackened marsh, searching the rotted trees for the dilapidated cabin he had visited weeks before. The woman inside had told him things that consumed him. He had earned the right to lead the Brethren at Peniel, she said. But he had to “smite” Will Wilder first. “While he is bewildered and preoccupied,” she told him, “use your strength to smite him.” But how? When? For weeks he had pondered the meaning of her words. He knew he was a born leader. He had put his time in—faced the enemy and won every battle. He had proven himself. A runt like Will was not about to stand in his way—prophecy or not. This woman had some secret knowledge. She would know what he needed to do and when.
Dark mold covered the shanty nestled among gnarled vines and withered trees. This was the place. He gathered up the bottom of his habit and trudged toward the crooked door.
“Lost, are you?” a woman’s voice called out. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the only green thing in the diseased wood, about twelve yards away: an older woman in a green shawl, her eyes bright.
“I wouldn’t go there,” the woman said.
Baldwin clumsily yanked at the cloak to conceal his face and called out, “Who are you?”
“One who knows what lies in that place.” The woman had short, thick, white hair and a leashed golden retriever at her side. She held her ground and watched him warily. “Go back to your community. There’s nothing here for you.”
“I have been here before.”
“Oh, I know you have.” She smiled. “I’m wondering why you came back?”
“Are you her? The woman who lives here?” Baldwin moved closer for a better look. He had never actually seen the face of the woman who lived in the cabin. During their one visit, her face had been hidden by a hood.
“No. I’m as far away from her as a human can be—and I don’t cut my visitors.”
Baldwin’s mind raced back to his last visit to the cabin, when the old woman sliced his hand open with a knife. She’d collected the blood that spilled from his hand in a saucer. At least he thought she had. When he pulled away, the wound on the fatty part of his hand had healed and no scar ever appeared. Baldwin doubted his memory of the visit. Details were hard to recall. Standing outside the cabin that night, he absently looked down at the palm of his hand. Beneath the thumb, an ugly scar rose up.
“How do you know about that?” Baldwin yelled, lifting his great beak nose toward the woman in the woods.
“I know her ways,” the white-haired woman said. “She has a hold on you, Baldwin. You’re still free enough to go now. But it won’t always be so.” The large yellow dog at the woman’s feet growled. “Think quick. She’s coming for you.”
The rickety door clattered behind Baldwin. When he turned, the woman he sought stood in the doorway of her hovel, a hood once again masking her face. “Why are you standing out here? Come in, honey. Come in.”
“I was just speaking with—” When Baldwin turned to the white-haired woman and her dog, they had vanished. “I thought I saw a woman….”
“These woods—the shadows—play tricks on us all. No matter, come in. You’re home now.” The old biddy held the door open for him.
Following her inside, he glanced down at his hand. The scar he saw only moments earlier had faded as quickly as the woman and her dog.
It was dark and smoky inside the shack, like the last time. The woman squatted on a stool near the fireplace, dim embers providing the only light.
“I have been thinking about what you said during our last visit,” Baldwin started uncertainly. “You said to smite him. Surely you don’t mean…to kill him.”
The woman turned her shadowy face toward him. “Now, Baldwin, you already know what you must do.”
“I don’t. I…I couldn’t kill the boy. What must I—”
“Do you want to be leader of the community or not? Do you want to take orders from a child? Is he your chosen one, Baldwin?” She stabbed a poker into the flickering glow of a collapsed log in the fireplace and squinted at him. “I didn’t think so.”
“When is the most opportune moment? What must I do?”
A guttural chuckle escaped from the woman. “You don’t listen well, do you, sweetie? There is a master among us who will confuse the boy. Once that happens, your moment will come.” She turned her shadowed face toward him. “Look at you. I didn’t even mention the boy’s name and your hatred comes right to the surface.”
Baldwin grunted. Folding his great hands over his knees, he leaned in and whispered intensely, “Tell me how, woman. Tell me how to smite the boy. Be specific.”
She handed him a rounded jar of powder. “Take this black powder. Spread it on the boy’s belongings or his shoes at one of his training sessions. It will alarm the Brethren and furnish you with a chance to accelerate his training against the dark ways. Of cours
e, it’s practically harmless. But they’ll see the powder as a threat from the Darkness, which is for the best. Over there, by the door, is a spear.” Its sleek steel surface caught the firelight, making it appear as if lava ran through it. “Throwing and catching spears are part of your training at Peniel, idn’t it? Oh, I’ve seen Lucille Wilder across the river during her exercise sessions in the woods. She thinks she’s being secretive. But I see her. I know all her tricks. Introduce little Will to spear throwing and when the time is right, hurl that one at the boy with all your might. Hit him squarely in the chest. The spear has special properties.”
“I can’t kill him. I won’t.”
“Did I say kill him? Or did you? You’ll do what needs doing. You’ve been given strength by the master and your contribution won’t be forgotten.”
“Master?” Baldwin’s forehead knotted in concern. “I want no part of your ‘master.’ What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, honey.” She grabbed the spear and walked toward him. “You came here of your own free will. You gave your blood. The master is already within you. And you’re within him.” He could see a crooked, thin smile on the lower part of her face, which was lit for a split second as she passed the fireplace. “Take the spear. Run the boy through when you feel the time is right. You’ll know the moment.”
He handled the spear, almost without thinking. “What if I refuse to smite him? I’m not some killer. I’m the second in command of my community, the vicar. I just can’t—”
“Then you’ll never be the first in command. Maybe you’re not up to it. Maybe the best thing for you is to let that impetuous, disrespectful brat lead you. Get in your boat and go follow the child. Go on. He’s like all the Wilders, so high and mighty. Grovel to the Wilders all your days.”
“I grovel to no one. I only want what is in the best interest of the community and myself,” Baldwin muttered.
“Honey, you don’t understand. You’ll either embrace your destiny or live out your days serving the chosen one—another slave to that idiot prophecy your community so reveres. Do you ever wonder why only the Wilders get to see what’s in that old Book of Prophecy?”
Will Wilder #3 Page 5
