by Bobby Adair
“My son has no one,” Muldoon pleaded.
“You have no one at home?” Beck asked.
“No one. My wife was taken at the last Cleansing,” Muldoon explained, pointing at the line of pyres. “She was the first of eighteen that day.”
“I remember well,” Beck said. “Your wife had the long raven hair.”
Muldoon nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to corral his tears.
Beck gave him a moment while he thought of the man’s wife. She had been a gorgeous woman, just like the blonde girl who’d caught Beck’s attention on the Cleansing platform earlier that day. Beck had been aroused by Muldoon’s wife when she’d dropped her dress and walked up on the platform, looking down on the plaza with regal defiance. He’d often thought back to her naked body and perfect face when he was alone in his room at night.
But that had been a terrible day. They burned a dozen bodies and had to rebuild the pyres to burn six more. There were always stories from the past in which dozens, or even hundreds had been taken to the pyre. But the largest number any of the old men could remember seeing was the eighteen burned that day.
“She didn’t scream,” Muldoon finally said, breaking Beck’s concentration.
“I remember.” Beck nodded.
“If I cry out, when his mother did not, what will my son think of me?”
A commotion at the other end of the dais caught Beck’s attention.
The armed men had stripped the heretic Earl Friend naked, and despite his frantic struggles, were dragging him onto the dais. If he’d been smudged before, it was impossible to tell: his body was speckled with welts and scrapes.
Seeing that his time had run out, Muldoon asked, “Will you take my son as an apprentice?”
Back to this, Beck thought with annoyance. It was hard for him to hide his disinterest. Still, he had to say something to the man. “The orphanage takes excellent care of our parentless children. It assists them in an apprenticeship when they are of the age.”
Muldoon looked at the ground. “He’s too old for the orphanage.”
“Then he is too old to apprentice for me. Scholars must be taught from a young age.”
“Yes. I understand that. I just—”
“Why is he not a rabbit hunter? Why did you not teach him your trade?”
“He hunts. But he’s different.”
Beck was losing his patience. “Children, even ones who would prefer not to be taught the joy of hard labor, must be taught by their parents. Perhaps you have been too indulgent with the boy.”
Muldoon fell to his knees. “Please, please. I beg of you. Speak to him. You’ll see.”
“What will I see? An insolent boy? A lazy boy who disrespects his father?” Beck’s voice was as harsh as the insult. He had to remind himself that it was wrong to be cruel to a man on his way to the pyre. With an effort, he softened the angry scowl on his face and gave Muldoon a look that let him know he could speak again, if he wished.
“He reads.”
Beck was taken aback. That couldn’t be possible. “How did that come to pass?”
Muldoon hesitated as though hiding something. “I’ve seen him.”
“Seen him read?”
“Yes.”
“And who taught him? Do you read, Muldoon?”
“No, Minister Beck. I do not.”
“Yet you believe that your son reads?”
“I’ve seen him with books.”
“Books? You have books? Are you rich?”
Muldoon shook his head and stared at the ground. Two armed men had come to stand beside him. One said, “It’s time, Minister Beck.”
“Stand,” the other one barked at Muldoon.
Beck raised a hand to delay them. “And where did you get books?”
Muldoon looked around, as though preparing to share a secret. In a soft voice he said, “He found them.”
“Found them?” Beck furrowed his brow. “A book hasn’t been found in nearly two hundred years. Did this boy steal these books?”
“No, no. I swear he did not steal them.”
“Are you sure? If you are sending me off to chase a lie, nothing more can be done to you, of course, but I assure you, Muldoon, your lie will not go easy on this boy. Does he have these books?”
“He really has them.”
A guard spoke. “Minister Beck.” It was time for Muldoon to go.
“Please,” Muldoon begged.
Just to satisfy the man, Beck said. “I will visit your son. I will see if he has these books. And I’ll consider him for scholarship.” It all felt like lies. But then, it was. Sure, if the kid had books, if he could read, then yes, he could be considered for scholarship, but that was unlikely. If the boy had happened upon an ancient cache of books—or even a few—mysteriously preserved by time, he might open the pages and pretend to read. That might be the truth of it. The second truth was that the boy could not appreciate the great value of old books, not like Beck could. The books should be taken from the boy, lest he ruin them.
Of course, that lie Beck told himself didn’t mention the great value of the old books.
“Thank you, Minister Beck. Thank you. His name is Ivory. You’ll find him at the first house past the big barn at the end of the Hay Road, where the fields begin. Thank you so much.”
Beck smiled weakly as the armed men took Muldoon away.
Chapter 7: Muldoon
Muldoon’s heart hammered as he steeled himself for the end.
The women sang the Fire Dirge, while the men swayed slowly with the rhythm. Clouds blew across the sky, collecting for a storm, stiffening the wind.
Muldoon stood atop a pile of logs, branches, and kindling twigs stacked five feet deep. His hands were bound behind him, around the pyre pole. On the pole to Muldoon’s left, Earl Friend spat curses at Muldoon. Earl was going to God as a coward, shaming his wife and kids in front of every solemn face in the plaza.
To Earl’s left, three women were bound atop their own pyres, waiting for the fire to Cleanse their smudged and warty skin. Two of those women sobbed, but everyone expected that of women. A gravelly voiced woman called Margaret the Wench strained against her pole pleading to the people, pleading to the three silent Elders on the dais, pleading to the clouds and the heavens.
“Mercy. Save me. Give me the sword. I beg you.” Unfortunately Margaret was wasting her words on the ears of people who mostly despised her. She would soon be touched by fire. She would not get the mercy of the blade. Everybody knew that.
Women always hid their shameful uncleanliness until it was revealed on the Cleansing platform, in front of all. In choosing to hide, women lost their right to the sword, just as Earl Friend had lost his. The sword could only be chosen by someone brave enough to come forward of his own accord, as Muldoon had done. Absent that choice, fire was the only other passage to God.
Muldoon had chosen the fire over the blade.
The dirge drew to its end. The women started it again, anticipating the first fire, the one to be lit under Muldoon’s feet. When that happened, the women would sing louder to cover his screams. They would sing louder to wail their pain and fright. They would sing until blackened bones hung from the pyre poles and only smoking ash remained below.
After, they would go to their houses, thank the gods for their cleanliness, and prepare a simple meal for the men, who had to bear the shame of the day on their faces. The men always had shame on their faces, a shame that was never vocalized, nor explained. Those meals were silent. And silence followed the townsfolk to bed, where husbands would hold their wives close, thanking their god for their luck.
Chapter 8: Oliver
Oliver was tired of standing. He was tired of looking at the faces of so many sad women. He hated the fire dirge and he hated Cleansi
ng Day. It was a Cleansing Day that took both his parents and left him apprenticed to Father Winthrop; Winthrop was a buffoon at best, a simple-minded bully at worst.
At first, Oliver was thankful. An apprenticeship in the clergy left him regularly fed, and at least standing on the fringes of luxury, such as it was. The alternative was the orphanage, home of empty stomachs and cold nights that only served to funnel ignorant boys into a life of hard labor in the fields. Even as young as Oliver was, he knew he didn’t want that.
What Oliver wanted was anything that would take him outside the walls. He wanted to see the ancient ruined cities and explore the ancients’ ways. He wanted to learn their secrets. He dreamt about life as one of Beck’s Scholars and hated memorizing Father Winthrop’s endless litany of contradictory parables.
Or a soldier. Oliver flexed his spindly arms and imagined himself on a horse, sword in hand, charging a horde of reeking demons, hacking off their bulbous, deformed heads, saving weak villagers and their children.
Yes, Oliver could be a hero.
That would be a life.
The sound of the dirge got louder, interrupting Oliver’s daydreams, drawing his gaze back to the row of pyres. The torch had just touched the kindling below Muldoon’s feet.
The screams were coming.
Oliver wanted to cover his ears, as he used to do when hiding among the skirts of the women in the plaza. But he was just a little kid then. Up on the dais, Father Winthrop forbade such behavior explicitly. To show anything but a brave face in front of the women was to invite the switch or the belt. Such was the price of life in the clergy.
Father Winthrop told him that the chosen were stronger, wiser, and kinder than regular men.
Kinder?
Oliver nearly laughed at the irony of it. Could anyone as unkind as Winthrop, as unable to see it in himself, still be wise? No.
The crackle of burning logs cut through the baleful dirge.
Oliver looked at his feet and started to hum quietly along, hoping the sound in his head might keep the screams out of his ears.
Franklin elbowed Oliver and turned on him with furrowed brows.
Oliver understood the look, stopped humming, and turned his face toward Muldoon. He tried vainly to focus on the gray clouds out on the horizon.
The orange flames touched Muldoon’s pants and they started to smoke.
That would only last for a few seconds. Oliver had seen it too many times before. Men’s silence rarely lasted past the time when the pants started to blaze. The fire wasn’t yet hot enough to kill, but was hot enough to crisp their skin.
And the pants blazed.
Muldoon’s face stretched a silent grimace, split open at the mouth, wider and wider in a pantomime of a writhing scream.
Then his voice, unable to dam agony, pierced air.
In a voice probably meant to be heard only in his head, Father Winthrop said, “The ecstasy.”
Oliver hated him for that.
Chapter 9: Ella
Ella and William kept running long after the wall had disappeared and the trees had grown thick around them. Even though they’d fled the town, she could still hear the gurgle of the first guard’s cries, and she could envision the knife sticking from the second guard’s stomach like a misplaced limb.
Her hands were wet with crimson, but she didn’t dare stop to wipe them off. Instead, she let the blood dry in the wind as she ran. Her dress was equally stained.
She’d wash the blood later, in a brook or a stream or the Davenport River, whatever body of water she came across first. One step at a time, Ella. Right now her main goal was to distance herself from a place she no longer wanted to call home.
“Are you all right, William?”
In her haste to get over the wall, she’d barely had a chance to check on him. The boy nodded, his eyes still wide with fear, his clothes disheveled and hanging off him. They’d both been degraded. But it could’ve been worse.
Far, far, worse.
There was a chance it would get worse, if she didn’t get them away from the wall as quickly as possible. The guards would be looking for them soon. Two of them were dead, but there’d be others. And the disrespect she’d felt at their hands would be nothing compared to what was coming.
The pyre. The spike. A hanging. She didn’t know which she’d receive, or which was worse.
In her weakest moments, she’d often longed for one of those fates, back in the days when Ethan had first passed. But those days seemed so long ago. Her duty now was to protect William, and she had an obligation to get him away from the town and away from the slaughter. Free from the downturned glances of unhappy women and the lustful eyes of men.
They needed to forge a new life.
They’d been running for ten minutes when William’s hand slipped from hers. He bent over, clutching his side, breathing fast and erratic.
“Are you okay?”
“I need to rest, Mom,” he managed, between breaths.
She felt a sting of mother’s guilt, and she bent down and put her hands on the boy’s shoulders, subconsciously wondering if she’d find something other than thin bones.
“It’ll be all right, William. We’ll rest for a moment, but then we have to keep going.”
She put her ear to the wind, sure she’d hear the distant cries of men, but all she heard for certain was the rustle of the trees and the occasional chatter of an animal. She realized she had no idea what was lurking in these woods.
It’d been twelve years since she’d been outside of the town’s dilapidated wall.
The last time she’d been in the wild was when she’d traveled from Davenport to Brighton, preparing to become Ethan’s wife.
And now she was going to make that return journey with her own son, hoping to reunite with her aunt and uncle—the relatives who’d raised her—and take refuge. Her aunt and uncle had visited her several times in Brighton, but she’d never returned to visit them. It was a risky proposition, but one at which she knew she couldn’t fail. To stop would be to surrender herself and her son to the hands of the townspeople.
She couldn’t do that.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
The boy nodded. She grabbed William’s hand again, her hands still slippery with the guard’s blood. She noticed his shirt was stretched and sagging, and she pulled it over his neck, covering the lump that had exposed itself to the sun.
His sin had become hers.
She’d get them out of this, even if it was the last thing she did.
**
They ran until Ella was stiff and sore and having trouble breathing. The stitches in her side threatened to keel her over. She imagined her son felt even worse. Although he was younger and more used to the exercise, his legs were shorter.
They’d been alternating speeds since they left—changing from a sprint to a jog and back again. Every time she heard a noise in the forest, Ella would panic and pull her son faster. When they’d gotten clear of the disturbance, they’d slow down again. It was an exhausting game of nerves versus energy, one from which she needed a break.
For several minutes, they’d heard the sound of water, and Ella had been trying to track down the source. Now she could see it in the distance—a clear, bubbling river that was almost the width of her house.
She recognized it immediately. Davenport River. She’d been by it with Ethan and the guide twelve years ago. The road to Davenport couldn’t be far.
William stared, his eyes tracing the swift current. They’d both been to the River of Brighton plenty of times, but he’d never been to this one. Ella was always amazed at the power of flowing water, the way it twisted and furled over the stones and sunken trees beneath it, finding its way through.
She allowed her gaze to wander for a few seconds before she
bent down and crept to the edge. The river foamed and spat.
“Stay back,” she warned.
She dipped her hands in the water, letting the cold soak her skin, and then scrubbed her hands together. She could still smell the odor of the guard’s blood, and she held her breath as it washed away. Her dress was red and blemished. In her efforts to hold it up, she’d stained both the collar and the shoulders. She’d have to clean it before they ran into someone.
When she looked back, William was staring at his own grime-covered hands.
“Come here,” she urged.
The boy obeyed and scooted next to her. She helped him rinse off. Thankfully, his shirt was unscathed, although it’d been stretched out from where the guard had yanked it. She fixed him as best she could and then sent him back a few feet.
She scanned the banks of the river on either side, searching for danger, but saw nothing. As much as she hated to slow down, she knew that she’d need to clean her clothing to avoid suspicion.
“Can you look away for a moment, honey?” she asked William.
The boy obliged. Ella glanced around the forest, unbuttoned her dress, and slipped it over her head. The breeze was cool against her skin. It caressed her shoulders and tickled the inside of her arms. Being exposed in the woods felt strange and uncomfortable, but it was still better than being exposed on the Cleansing platform.
Anything was better than that.
She knelt down on the riverbed and began scrubbing at the top of her dress. To her relief, she was able to get off some of the blood, but some of it remained, and she did her best to dilute it. If someone inquired as to its origin, she’d blame it on a food spill, or perhaps a wound from a sewing needle.
When she’d cleaned the garment, she shook it out to dry it a bit, and slipped it back over her head.
It was the best she could do.
