by Bobby Adair
“You might want to get your story straight in case you run into someone else out here.” He paused and added: “Guides don’t come out of the towns this close to flowering season.”
Ella kept walking without responding. She shuffled William along, her heart pattering at a frantic rhythm. She should’ve thought her story through as she and William were hiking through the forest. She needed something more plausible.
What if the man turned them in?
She picked up her pace. Footsteps squished through the soft ground behind them. She swallowed. Was the man following them?
The footsteps grew louder. The man was jogging to catch up. Why wouldn’t he leave them alone? All she wanted was to get to Davenport and—
“You forgot something!”
When she looked back, Bray was standing there, her blade in his hand. He passed it to her. She’d left it at the riverbank. Dammit. What a fool I am.
“Thanks,” she said.
His face was calm and even, and she read no ill intent.
“Listen, I’m heading to Davenport myself. It’d be silly for us to travel separately,” he said. “Especially with the two of you by yourselves.”
She struggled to think of an argument, but couldn’t.
Bray continued. “You’ll never last a night out here,” he added. “I know the wild better than anyone you’re likely to meet. I promise I won’t hurt you or the boy.”
She studied his face, as if she’d somehow be able to peer into his thoughts and determine his motives. What if he behaved like the guards back at the wall? What if he was lying? At the same time, she knew he was right. They couldn’t go it alone. Their encounter with the demons was proof. She rolled the knife in her hands.
Both William and Bray were watching her, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” she said finally.
A thin smile flitted across William’s face. She patted the boy’s head and joined the Warden.
Chapter 15: Oliver
Oliver placed the pot of rabbit stew next to the loaf of bread in the center of the table for the midday meal. He took the empty chair next to Father Nelson. Trying not to be rude and stare hungrily at the food—it seemed to be one of Father Winthrop’s favorite peeves—he focused his attention across the table at Franklin, who seemed to be excessively concerned about maintaining at least a small gap between himself and Winthrop’s great belly, which had a tendency to spread out and crowd whomever had the misfortune to sit next to him.
Each of the four placed their hands on the table astride their empty bowls. Father Winthrop looked at each place setting, took a deep breath, and in a pompous tone Oliver had heard too often, started his chant. “Let no man hunger while other men eat. A man alone cannot survive unless all men survive. For no man can stand against the demon beasts alone. In the tradition of the first fifty-seven, we share this meal with whomever is within these walls.”
“Well said,” each of the other three mumbled, as tradition required.
Father Winthrop ladled two helpings in his bowl, and then gave the same to Father Nelson. He reached for the bread while Franklin scooted his and Oliver’s much smaller bowls over beside the stew pot. Father Winthrop gave them each a single serving.
When the soup was poured, Winthrop tore a shred of crust off the loaf and set it next to Franklin.
“Thank you, Father,” Franklin said softly, lowering his eyes.
Winthrop tore a great chunk out of the loaf’s center and passed the remainder to Father Nelson.
Nelson nodded and tore off a similar crusted end for Oliver. “It is good to see the traditions respected here,” Nelson said.
Father Winthrop nodded smugly, but then his facial expression changed, as though he might be offended. He asked, “How do you mean, Father Nelson?”
Nelson leaned over his bowl, and in a conspiratorial voice said, “Many in Coventry no longer share their meals. They hoard their food for themselves and their families. I fear this tradition is dying.”
Father Winthrop slurped a big spoonful of the lumpy brown soup. “Tradition and faith are the stones and mortar upon which our society is built. Without those—” Winthrop shrugged, letting his sentence hang in the air to finish itself. He bit a chunk of bread.
Nelson nodded pensively. Franklin copied the gesture. Oliver took a bite of his dry piece of bread crust.
Winthrop waggled his spoon across the table at Nelson and added, “When tradition falls by the wayside, it is the fault of the clergy, is it not, Father Nelson?”
Nelson froze mid bite, clearly not having expected his gossipy bit of news to be turned back on him. “I—”
Winthrop shook his head and looked down at his stew, took a bite, looked back up and caught each eye at the table before focusing on Nelson. “The Word is the source of all the powerful truths by which we live, Father Nelson. I should not have to tell you this.”
“No, Father Winthrop,” Nelson replied.
“Respect for tradition must be taught with The Word. In Brighton, we all know the responsibility for teaching The Word to the peasants falls to one man.” Winthrop drilled Nelson with his eyes.
“Yes, Father Winthrop. I understand that the failings of my flock are my failings as a guide and teacher of The Word.”
“Indeed,” Winthrop agreed. “Sometimes grave actions must be taken, like the spiking General Blackthorn intends for this afternoon.”
After that, everyone ate silently for a bit, until Oliver looked innocently across the table at Father Winthrop and asked, “Was it the original fifty-seven survivors that started the tradition of equally sharing their food?”
Winthrop scooped another load of broth into his mouth.
Oliver looked down at his tiny bowl, letting his gaze linger before looking back up for an answer.
Franklin kicked Oliver under the table.
Winthrop harrumphed and put down his spoon. “Of course, Oliver, my boy. We don’t chant our dinner prayer to whet our appetites; we do it to remind ourselves of our traditions. In this case we must remember that in the old days food was scarce. The first fifty-seven—”
“Or,” Father Nelson interrupted, “you might say, the last fifty-seven?”
“The last?” Franklin asked.
“Yes,” Father Nelson answered, “the last of the Ancients to survive. The fifty-seven were the last survivors of the ancient race of men and the forefathers of all of us in the three townships.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Franklin said.
“Yes, the last, the first, the same,” Winthrop confirmed for everyone. “The fifty-seven—the only men left on the great flat earth—knew that if men were once again to have dominion over all, they needed to endeavor together. Judging by the count of men in the three townships, I dare say the tradition has served us well.”
“Well said,” Father Nelson nodded.
“Well said,” Franklin and Oliver parroted.
After eating several bites of his flavorless stew—cooked that way to meet Father Winthrop’s tastes— Oliver asked Father Nelson, “Was there really a Lady and Bruce? Were they real people?”
Father Nelson swallowed, looked at Father Winthrop who shook his head slightly and rolled his eyes. Father Nelson said, “The story of Lady and Bruce is my favorite of all the tales. Yes, they were real.”
Oliver laid his spoon beside his half-full bowl. He shuffled around in his seat to more comfortably face Father Nelson.
Franklin scowled and kicked Oliver again.
Oliver bit his tongue on the verbal skewering he was plotting for Father Nelson and thought about the orphanage.
And no matter how many times everyone said the orphanage was a good place for children whose parents had been Cleansed or died naturally, Oliver knew it wasn’t. He’d v
isited that squalid building with Franklin and Father Winthrop, had seen the sunken cheeks, smelled the stink of the unwashed, felt the hopelessness of the empty-eyed children there. No, the orphanage was a rancid, evil place where the traditions about sharing never ventured.
Father Nelson put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. It was that comforting hand that the Fathers put on the ignorant, a gesture that said, “Listen to me, my simple brother, and I’ll shed the light of faith on you.”
Like most people in Brighton, Oliver didn’t like it when others touched him. It made him imagine little red demon spores crawling over his skin. But the condescension in that touch was just as disgusting.
Father Nelson asked, “Why do you question the stories of Lady and Bruce?”
In a childish, sing-song voice, the kind that always worked to lure Father Winthrop into a trap of his own contradictions, Oliver asked, “I don’t doubt the stories are true. I simply envy your certainty. That’s all. I don’t know if I can ever possess such faith.”
Father Nelson chuckled.
Father Winthrop sat his bowl on the table after drinking the last of the broth and pointed at Father Nelson. “This one knows the truth, young Oliver.”
“Knows? Not believes but knows?” Oliver asked.
“Yes, my boy.” Father Nelson leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and looked smugly down his nose at each of those around the table. “You know the story of the emergence, do you not?”
“Of course, every child knows that story.” Oliver had a gift for conveying confidence and innocence in the same breath.
“Tell me what you know.”
Oliver looked down at his bowl. He fidgeted for a second with his bread. Oliver said, “My mother told me the story when I was a child and afraid of monsters in the dark. But my mother was just a peasant. Her version of the story was a peasant’s incomplete version.” Oliver looked across the table. “Father Winthrop has not had time in my teachings to bless me with that story. Perhaps now would be a good time.”
“Yes,” Father Nelson agreed immediately.
Franklin jumped in on the consensus. “I would like that as well.”
Feigning modesty, Father Winthrop said, “Well, if you insist.”
They did, and Father Winthrop began his tale.
Chapter 16: Ella
Ella, Bray, and William followed the riverbank. On Bray’s suggestion, they kept to the woods, using the water as a guide. According to the Warden, the demons often drank from its waters. The thick trunks of trees provided a natural barrier, but every so often Ella glimpsed the water through the foliage, and the rush of the current was never far from her ears.
She surveyed the tops of the trees, expecting to see movement in the branches. She’d heard stories about the creatures of the wild—not just demons, but other predators, as well.
The travelers remained quiet as they walked. For a long while the only sounds keeping them company were the swaying wind rifling through the tree branches, the occasional splash of a river turtle, and the snaps of twigs underfoot.
They were startled by a crack in the underbrush. Bray held up his hand, warning them to be still. Something brown was lingering in a patch of scrub brush about fifty yards away. A nervous tremor shot through Ella’s body, and her hand blanched on the knife. Was it another demon? It didn’t look like one. She could only see pieces of the animal through the green leaves ahead—an elongated neck and nose, patches of smooth brown fur. The animal had gone as still as them. She stared until she could make out a single round eye. The animal was standing sideways.
Both the travelers and the animal remained quiet, as if neither were willing to admit the other’s presence. After a tense moment, the animal lifted its head and sniffed the air. Then it bounded off in the opposite direction.
Ella listened to the crinkle of underbrush as it made its departure. “What was that?” she whispered to Bray.
“A deer.”
She stared after it in wonder. “A deer? I thought they were extinct.”
Bray shook his head. “There are some, but not many. The demons killed nearly all of them. To see one is rare, indeed.”
“Have you ever hunted one?” William asked.
“No. The meat and hide would fetch a hefty price at the butcher’s, but I’ve never killed one. Wardens believe killing one is bad luck.”
The boy nodded. William’s brow was pursed with curiosity, and for a moment, Ella was able to forget he was infected and pretend he was as normal as any other boy.
She peered through the wild to catch another glimpse of the deer, but there was no longer any sign of it. Ella tried to recreate the image in her head. Her hope was to hold onto it, so that she might recount the tale later.
With the encounter over, Bray led them through a thick section of pines, one hand on his knife, the other on his sheathed sword. With each step, Ella grew more grateful that she’d chosen to follow him. Although she still didn’t trust him fully, the Warden’s protection was worth the risk, at least for now.
The swell of the river had died down, and while they walked, Bray began to narrate some of his encounters with the beasts. The enraptured William hung on every word.
“So it isn’t true the demons can come back to life?” William asked.
“That’s just a tale,” answered Bray.
“So all of them can be killed?”
“Yes. The same as you or me.”
Bray pointed to the pack on his shoulders. “Do you know how many scalps this pack has seen?”
The boy shook his head.
“One thousand, two hundred and eighty-one.”
Wide-eyed, William asked, “You counted all of them?”
“Yep. Every one.”
“What about the ones you took today?”
“Of course. They’re included.”
William looked amazed. “What happens when the demons go extinct? What will you do then?”
Bray paused, as if he’d never been asked the question before. “Their numbers are thin, that’s for sure. But I’ve heard rumors of many more coming in from the south.”
“Do you believe the rumors?” William asked.
Bray patted his stomach. “I have to, if I want to eat.”
He grinned and continued through the trees.
Ella watched the man. She’d seen several of Bray’s kind come to Brighton, visiting the brothel, loitering on the sidewalks and streets, spending silver on whatever distractions they could find. But she’d rarely talked to them.
The only run-ins she’d had with them were the occasional men who purchased her wares directly. Normally she sold her roots and berries to the merchants. In those few instances when she’d spoken with a Warden, her conversations had been brief, focused on the transaction at hand. She seldom looked at the men’s faces, and rarely made eye contact.
She wondered if Bray had been one of them. Did he recognize her? Would it make a difference if he did? He already knew they were on the run.
If he were going to turn them in, he’d have done it by now.
She hoped to God he didn’t discover William’s secret. She’d do anything to prevent that from happening. If Bray found out, there was no telling what he’d do. What would William be worth to him? Another five bits of silver?
Stop it, Ella.
The thought was so vile that she swallowed it back. Bray was several steps ahead of them, scouting the path before they walked it.
He doesn’t know anything, and he won’t find out, she tried to convince herself.
She reached for William’s hand and pulled him close, just in case.
Chapter 17: Oliver
Oliver waited for Father Winthrop to begin his story. Father Winthrop sat back in his chair and scooted away from the table. He apparen
tly needed room for gestures and such.
All eyes rested on him, waiting patiently for him to speak. Father Winthrop bathed his ego in the silent attention before he finally began. “The world of old was a magical, terrible place. Men constructed buildings of stone and steel that touched the clouds.”
“Steel?” Oliver asked. He’d never heard that part. “Were they rich?”
“Men had so much steel in those days that they could make things you can’t even imagine.”
Father Nelson put the hand back on Oliver’s shoulder. “Let Father Winthrop tell his story.”
“No, no,” Father Winthrop said, “It’s okay. The questions do not bother me. They are part of the boys’ education.” And, Oliver knew, they left Father Winthrop at the center of attention longer. “Men had devices that flew them through the air like birds. They had wheeled carriages that propelled them from city to city at speeds faster than any horse could dream of running, faster than any bird could hope to fly.”
Stories of the time before God gave the world to the demons always left Oliver dubiously awed.
“Men had weapons that blazed fire and steel and could kill a thousand demons in a moment. Men owned the lightning and the thunder.”
“But it escaped,” Oliver blurted, unable to contain his excitement. “That’s what my mother said, before she went to the pyre.”
“Yes, it did escape,” Winthrop confirmed. “It lives in the clouds now, tormenting farmers, sometimes blowing down houses, sometimes burning barns.” Father Winthrop took a long drink from his cup. “The Ancients had the power to kill by the thousands, nay, the millions. But God was unhappy with man for creating such wickedness.”
“Millions?” Oliver asked. There was much to the story that his mother and father hadn’t known. “Why would they need to be so powerful?”
“In those days, the number of men on the great flat world was beyond imagination. The people of different cities fought and killed one another and grew so powerful that they believed they were equal to God. The Ancients believed that they were gods themselves. They told themselves that they no longer needed The Word, and as forgiving and loving as God was, he could not forgive that sin. So God opened Hell and spilled the demons free.”
