by Bobby Adair
She reluctantly—or happily, as he boasted to himself later—agreed.
He smiled as he charged through the forest, allowing the memory to inspire him. The forest flattened and thinned. The frequent paths of travelers had worn the ground to dirt. He joined a well-trodden path, grateful that he didn’t have to think for once.
The outskirts of town looked the same as always. Crumbling, half-demolished buildings lined the township’s edges, creating natural reinforcement for the circle wall. Because it was a secondary township, Coventry wasn’t as well-maintained as Brighton. The town leaders often hired workers off the street to reinforce the wall, street dwellers that might otherwise turn to thievery.
And there were plenty of those.
Due to its distance from Brighton, Coventry was less strict than the mother township, and had become a den for those who might otherwise be in the wild, bandits who followed the rules just enough to avoid punishment.
Fear of The Word and The Cleansing held it together.
Outside the town’s front gate, several soldiers stood guard, watching Bray approach. One soldier shielded his eyes from the sun. The other tilted his head back, sipping from a flask. Bray eyed them with disdain. When he was younger, he’d given a passing thought to joining them, enjoying the benefits of a stable home and a family. But his disdain for boredom swayed him. Although they were well provided for by General Blackthorn, he couldn’t imagine a stationary life, passing time between demon attacks.
The soldiers might as well be chained to the gate.
To the right of the soldiers, several street dwellers lugged rocks from a nearby pile, filling in crevices in the wall. Their faces were sunburnt from constant exposure, their clothes ripped and hanging off them. They watched Bray with interest, hoping he might provide a cure for their boredom.
Bray walked with his hands at his sides, his sword scabbarded. The soldier with the flask greeted him by spitting a wad of phlegm. The snot landed near Bray’s boots. He bristled.
“Back already, Warden?”
Biting his tongue, Bray said, “Yep. Here to trade in my take.”
“You hear that?” the soldier said to the other, grinning. “He’s here on business.”
The second soldier laughed. “I doubt that. I think he’s here for the woodland squirrel. It must get lonely out in the forest, with no one but your hands to keep you company.”
“Better than standing out in the sun, touching each other.” Bray grinned back.
The soldiers stopped snickering and glared at him. Bray flexed his fingers, prepared to unsheath his blade. At the same time, he knew better than to start a battle outside the town gates. After a tense moment, the soldier with the flask took a long drink, then walked lazily to the gate. Bray stared at the second soldier until the man looked away, then followed the other.
When the soldier had opened the gate, Bray strolled past him.
“At least you got your day’s exercise,” he muttered to the scowling soldier.
The soldier stared at him with angry eyes. Bray kept walking.
The street dwellers watched in amusement, holding their stones, and then looked away nervously, propping them in place. Bray kept an eye on the soldiers until he was safely through the gates, walking into the dusty, rubble-strewn road that ran into town.
“Have a great day, gentleman,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t strain yourselves keeping watch.”
He ignored the string of curses that followed his remark.
Chapter 28: Oliver
Handling three priceless relics that would surely put him on the pyre, Oliver panicked as he thought of what he could do. He went with his first thought—there was time for nothing else—and all but flew across the room to the brimming chamber pot. As the door swung open on its old hinges, Oliver dropped the relics into the urine and runny feces. He grabbed the pot and lifted it all in one motion.
As he turned, he took no care to keep it steady. With the relics lying at the bottom of the pot and a hope floating up out of the stink, a new inspiration sparkled in Oliver’s imagination. One foul act might save him. He purposely swung the pot around too quickly, sloshing it out onto his hand and clothes, doing his best to exaggerate his surprise as he looked at Winthrop towering in the door.
Winthrop saw his waste slosh out onto Oliver, and he grimaced.
“Emptying your chamber pot,” Oliver said, in too much of a rush.
“Why?” Winthrop barked.
“I’m trying to learn, Father. It is part of my usual punishment. You didn’t tell me to do it this time, but I anticipated that you would.”
Winthrop nodded, his face painted in a thick layer of skepticism. “Perhaps you are not lost.”
A creaking sound off to Oliver’s left turned Father Winthrop’s head in that direction.
Oliver ignored the sound as his panic started to rise all over again.
Please don’t let it be the cabinet door.
Winthrop’s face turned to storm clouds. He snorted in rage and ground his teeth.
Still afraid to look, Oliver knew.
It was that damn cabinet door.
Oliver fixed his eyes on Winthrop’s bedchamber door, still open.
Think!
Throw the chamber pot on Winthrop and run for your life.
That’s the only choice.
Winthrop’s giant hand locked on Oliver’s arm. “You little thief.”
Oliver nearly wet himself with fright.
He looked up, putting his best innocent expression on his face. The pain on his back, butt, and legs was still fresh, still stinging. Tears slid down his cheeks. Stuttering between stifled sobs, Oliver said, “I only have the chamber pot.”
“You insolent runt.” Winthrop all but flung Oliver farther into the room.
Doing his best to keep the pot in his hands, Oliver fell against the wall. The pot sloshed down his front.
Seemingly oblivious to the stench, Winthrop leaned over, put his big nose just inches from Oliver’s and said, “You’ll suffer. The fire will be made of smoldering green wood. It’ll take you hours to Cleanse. You’ll cry and you’ll wail.”
Oliver shook his head as he tried to mouth some words in his defense.
Winthrop stabbed a finger into Oliver’s chest and commanded, “Stay.”
Oliver did.
He was too frightened to do anything else at the moment.
Winthrop turned, walked back to the bedchamber door, and slammed it shut. He turned and glared at Oliver for a moment while he thought. He walked over to the fireplace, reached up to the spot where the key lay, and picked it up. He looked at it, perplexed.
Staring at Oliver again, his rage started to build to a new level. His snorting grew loud. “I’ve dealt with thievery once already. You and that Fitzgerald are the same, too young and stupid, with soft hearts that you’ll lose soon enough.” Winthrop pointed to a spot in the center of the floor. “Go there.”
Shaking with fright, Oliver walked to the spot indicated.
Pointing to a spot beside Oliver, Winthrop said, “Put that there.”
Oliver put the chamber pot on the floor, careful that his shaking hands didn’t spill any more of it.
“Off with your clothes boy.”
“Um…”
“Off!” Winthrop yelled.
Oliver pulled off his sweater. He tossed it on the floor. Next he took off his shirt, peeling away the scabs that had stuck to it while he wore it. He flinched at the pain.
“The pants,” Winthrop told him.
Oliver slipped the baggy pants over his boots and put them in the pile of his other garments.
Winthrop, glaring at Oliver, scooped up the pieces of clothing one at a time. Not seeming to care about the damp filth soakin
g into them, Winthrop ran his fingers over every single stitch, tossing each aside as he satisfied himself that the garment held nothing but the cloth from which it was made.
“Thieves think they can fool me.” Winthrop laughed with no mirth. “Off with your boots.”
Oliver sat on the rough floor and removed his boots and thick, holey socks, setting each on the floor at Winthrop’s feet.
Winthrop scrutinized each piece, picking the stiff parts of the boots with his yellowing fingernails.
When he’d gone through all of the clothing, Winthrop was frustrated. He was angry. His nostrils were flaring again, and he stared at Oliver. “Stay,” he ordered, and then walked over to examine the cabinet with the doors swung open.
Winthrop examined the pieces on the upper shelves. He knelt down and looked at the things stored underneath. Finally, he lifted the ornate wooden box and carried it over to his chair in front of the fire. He sat down and flipped the lid open. He started going through the items, clinking the metal together as he lifted and scrutinized each one before placing it back inside the box.
Three different times, he started to count the relics, “One. Two. Three. Four. Six.”
Oliver knew he was going to die. He needed to accept that. It would be the end to the pain, cold, hunger, and humiliation. He just hoped the pyre didn’t burn too slowly.
Father Winthrop stopped counting. His face showed his frustration as he looked down at his priceless trinkets. He looked at Oliver, seemingly ready to jump out of the chair and punch. But he didn’t. He started counting again, stopping once more at six.
Winthrop sighed angrily.
Recalling Franklin’s story about Fitz’s theft, Oliver knew the number of crosses that should be in the box. He thought of a miraculous way out of his predicament. Meekly, he said, “I can count them for you. Franklin taught me how.”
“Franklin taught you,” Winthrop laughed, shaking his head. “I should call Franklin in here. I know he can count his numbers. I have no patience to watch you lie.”
Nodding his head and smiling under his damp cheeks, Oliver said, “I truly can, Father. I can count.”
Thinking for a moment, Winthrop said, “We’ll see about that. What is the highest number?”
Oliver wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Ha!” Winthrop shouted. “Just as I suspected.”
“There is no highest number,” said Oliver, talking over Winthrop’s new laugh. “They go on forever.”
That stopped Winthrop immediately. He glared at Oliver. “Perhaps Franklin did teach you. He says the same senseless thing.” Winthrop spun the box around in his lap so that the lid was leaning open against his big round belly. Nodding, and looking down his big nose, he said, “Stand up here then. Count these relics. Mind you, I may be deficient in mathematical aptitude, but I know the name of the number of relics in this box. You’ll get it right. Or…” Winthrop tilted his head at the fire roaring in the hearth.
Oliver stood up, hoping to keep hidden the three crosses still in the chamber pot.
Using his finger to touch each cross as Father Winthrop inspected, he started counting. He went through the numbers one through six, skipping five just as Winthrop had done. He made it easily to ten, slow and rhythmic. He counted the number eleven and skipped over twelve to get to thirteen. Similarly, he skipped sixteen on the way to twenty-three where he stopped. “Twenty-three,” he repeated for emphasis.
Frowning, Winthrop said, “Count them again.”
Careful to skip the same numbers, Oliver went back through, touching each relic as he counted it. When he finished, he announced the number, “Twenty-three.”
Winthrop spun the box around in his lap and stared at the pieces for a few minutes while he fumbled through them. Finally, he said, “Clean up this filth. Gather your things and go.”
Chapter 29: Bray
After passing through the gate in Coventry’s dilapidated circle wall, Bray kept walking until he’d reached the first of the buildings.
He was immediately assaulted with a barrage of odors. It was early morning, and the lingering smell of alcohol and last night’s meats hung in the air. Buildings stood in silence, empty blankets draped over the windows. The streets were nearly vacant, save the earliest of merchants pushing out their wares, arranging them for the morning bustle. Having survived another Cleansing, the townsfolk who hadn’t been burned were celebrating another season of survival, having passed the prescribed period of grief.
Bray didn’t need to live in town to know that.
He approached a portly old man with a rag tied around his head. The man was setting out a pile of knives.
“Morning, Ezekiel,” Bray called.
The man looked up. “Morning, Bray. I didn’t think I’d have a customer for an hour,” the man said, a smile creasing his weathered cheeks.
“The silver was calling.”
“It always does.” The old man wiped his nose. “What do you have for me?”
Bray pulled off his pack and untied it, liberating the pile of skins he had inside. He shook them off, watching several pieces of crusted blood flake to the ground. He handed them to the merchant. Ezekiel took them and looked them over.
“They never get any prettier, do they?” Ezekiel smiled, revealing his stained, yellowed teeth.
“I never hang onto them long enough to notice,” Bray retorted.
Ezekiel laughed, a cracked, bitter sound from deep in his throat.
“What can you give me for them?” Bray asked.
Ezekiel placed the pile of skins on top of the display he was working on. He unbuttoned a large pocket in his tunic, digging a shaky hand inside. “The price has gone down some since the last time you were here,” the old man said, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Local policy has changed to match the other townships. We were told yesterday.”
“What the hell for?”
“The General is readying the troops. That’s the rumor, anyway. The men are preparing to be called in, least ways, the ones that haven’t already gone to Brighton. And regular folks, too. All ordered to Brighton. Lots of ‘em left already.”
“For what? Demons?” Bray blew an angry breath through his nose. He didn’t care about the General’s battles, but a decrease in silver was a different matter.
“An expedition of some sort. No one knows the full story.”
“I wonder if they’re heading south.”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Ezekiel shrugged, counting the coins he’d removed from his pocket. “I just do what I’m told. That’s why the town is celebrating more than usual. Most of the men are expecting they won’t be here much longer.”
Ignoring the plight of the townsfolk, Bray asked, “How do they expect the Wardens to eat?” His anger roiled. “If they keep killing my take, there’ll be nothing left.”
“I just do what I’m told. You want your coin or not?”
Bray rolled his eyes and extended his hand. Ezekiel slapped his palm with the money, and Bray tucked it into his bag. He let his anger subside, distracted by the other reason he was here. He felt an unexpected stab of nerves as he thought of Samantha. He swallowed before he spoke.
“Were there a lot of deaths at The Cleansing?”
Ezekiel furrowed his brow as if he’d already forgotten. “Not many, if I recall. It wasn’t as grave as others.”
“Do you remember the names of the ones who were burned?”
“Not offhand. Some men.” Ezekiel thought on it. He added, “A few women.”
Bray felt a cramping pain in his gut when he heard the word ‘women.’ Ensuring his face remained calm, he said, “I’m glad many were spared.”
“You know how it goes. A week after The Cleansing, people forget what happened, and they start drinking. And then the next Cleansing approac
hes, and the dread hits all over again.”
“That’s the way of things.” Bray stuck his thumb toward the center of town. “How’s the ale these days?”
“Same as it always is. Overpriced. Watered down.” Ezekiel laughed again.
“I’m going to head to the Watering Alley.”
“Don’t spend all your silver before you hit The House. If you don’t have a coin for a tip, the housemother will give you a toothless ugly one.”
Bray gave a sly grin. “You know me. I won’t.”
Chapter 30: Oliver
A cold wind whipped out of the north, and everybody Oliver passed in town had their cloaks pulled close around their bodies, hats on their heads. Those without the means to buy or trade for warm enough clothes shivered and sniffled as they went about their business.
Militiamen, hiding their foreboding behind boisterous words and quick fists, were standing in groups talking and laughing, or coming to and from merchant’s shops and alehouses. In every direction Oliver looked, there they were. The good thing about them, though, was that with so many on the streets, Oliver was largely ignored. All he had to do was avoid getting bumped to the ground and trampled.
When he finally walked into a shop owned by a blacksmith, his skin had gotten used to the cold, and he felt uncomfortable in the warmth of the fire. Oliver opened his coat and loitered, doing his best to stay out of the way while the blacksmith showed a long-handled axe to two interested militiamen.
“Run along, boy,” scolded the blacksmith.
Oliver looked up at the smith, then past him at a wall covered with weapons made of steel and wood. Puffing himself up with his false confidence, the cloth of his shirt rubbing across the raw wounds on his back, Oliver said, “I’m Novice Oliver. I’m here on business for Father Winthrop.”
The blacksmith’s mouth fell open. His two customers glanced over their shoulders. Quick mumbling followed. Coins passed between hands, and the two customers rushed out with the axe, neither daring to look Oliver in the eye.
