by Bobby Adair
Beck looked down again, unwilling to meet Jingo’s eye. The argument he’d used to sway Jingo to come back to Brighton was now being used against him.
“I’m sorry.” Jingo patted Beck on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to offend you. I simply mean to say that yes, Brighton has grown from the original fifty-seven founders, but over time, you have not progressed. You are a superstitious people. Few of you cherish knowledge or education. Ignorance will deepen with each passing generation until one crisis too many falls upon your doorstep. Then it will not be nearly half the population that you send into the Ancient City to die for your mistakes, but everyone.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Beck stared at the others and bit his lip. “What can I say?”
Jingo sighed. “I had great hope for Brighton.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“I still do, in a way. Even after what you’ve told me about the army.” Jingo took a break to collect his thoughts before he spoke again. “It will be thousands of years before humans learn to write again, to understand mathematics, agriculture, and engineering, medicine, if this group fails. I hope you won’t.”
“What does that mean?” asked Beck.
“In the distant past, so long ago that even the Ancients couldn’t be certain, there was evidence that man rose to dizzying heights of civilization. You see, our archeologists found things—very, very old things that we couldn’t explain. It was assumed that men from all those thousands of years ago were ignorant hunters and farmers. But the evidence changed our thinking. It seems to me and to many others that human civilization had risen and fallen before, perhaps many times.”
“If that is true, why do you think that is the case?” Beck asked.
“Perhaps that’s what happens when humans get together. They share a fire, hunt, band together and form villages, towns, cities, and countries. And then they find a way to destroy those things.”
“I don’t want that to happen,” Beck said with certainty. “Not to Brighton.”
“Neither do I,” said Jingo.
Chapter 87: Fitzgerald
Tenbrook stood tall in the center of the stage, a frightening nightmare monster out of the darkest sleep, come to the Temple to petrify the sheepish bed-wetters.
He shouted orders at his men, the only people in the room not in shock.
Soldiers moved to block all the exits.
Fitz was shoved out of the way, and all she could do was flow with those around her as she wailed her pain, wide-eyed, unable to turn away from the beast who’d just taken Franklin’s life.
“Do you see this?” Tenbrook shouted in an ogre’s scream over the chaos.
He strode across the stage, raised his knee, and stomped, only it wasn’t the sound of the wooden stage that caught his foot, it was the dull crunch of bone and soft meat. Blood squirted high over the heads of the men in front of the stage. Tenbrook stomped again, and again, until the crack of bone sounded like the grinding of rocks in mud.
He leaned over as every eye in the Temple watched, many silent, many crying, some screaming as though demons were tearing at their flesh.
Tenbrook worked his arm at something out of sight down on the stage by his hand. Everybody knew it was Franklin’s head, but nobody wanted to believe what they were seeing.
Suddenly Tenbrook thrust his hand high in the air above him and stood straight up. His fist was pushed through Franklin’s mouth, grasping the lower jaw like the handle of a terribly misshapen basket, spilling gore and blood down his arm.
“This is your silver-tongued savior!” Tenbrook shouted at them, daring anyone in the Temple to do anything but sob. “Not a one of you is worthy of him.” Tenbrook reared back his arm with Franklin’s head and threw it into the pews halfway back in the Temple.
Women parted like the ripple of a splash in a pond, shrieking as the head came down with the sound of a wet dress on a rock being washed at the river.
Tenbrook pointed a bloody finger across the Temple. “Every one of you will watch. You’ll remember. You’ll tell your neighbors and you’ll tell your children, the whelps you have and those not yet born. I am the supreme lord of Brighton and the three townships and every soul in between. No man, no woman, no child will defy me without suffering the full might of my wrath.”
Tenbrook spun and hacked at Franklin’s body. He hacked twice more and leaned down to get something off the floor. He showed a severed hand to the stunned crowd, letting them all see it before flinging it at them. He next took a foot and threw it the stunned women, old men, and children.
Fitz was paralyzed, overwhelmed with horror as piece after piece of Franklin flew at the congregation, all in a shower of Tenbrook’s taunts, until at last, the organs came, and the intestines, which Tenbrook made a point of flinging at the clergy, sitting frozen along the front row.
Finally, with no more Franklin left, Tenbrook pointed his sword across the clergymen and said, “Put these clergymen on the pyre. All of them.”
Nobody moved.
“The pyre!” Tenbrook shouted.
“Sir,” a man answered, shrinking away as he spoke, “The wood is soaked from the storm. It won’t burn.”
Tenbrook looked at the captain for a moment and didn’t seem bothered. He glared down at the clergy. “Take their heads, then. Do it now.”
The soldiers instantly attacked the clergy, hacking at the begging and screaming men.
It was over faster than Fitz’s incapacitated eyes could turn away.
“And the novices?” the captain asked.
Tenbrook frowned and said, “What of them? They’re nothing. Take their robes and leave them naked.” He stepped up to the edge of the stage. “The Word is false. It was always a lie. This Temple shall be forever closed. No man will speak of The Word. No man will wear the robe of a priest or a novice. I am the only law. I am the only truth.”
Chapter 88: Fitzgerald
Fitz stayed in the crowd as Tenbrook’s soldiers herded everyone through the Temple doors and out into the square. Women walked over the flat stones in all directions, too stunned to hurry. Some fell to their knees and wept. Some of the injured collapsed. Nobody ran. The soldiers and the horsemen, seemingly satisfied with their victory, no longer coerced anyone except to tell them to go to their homes.
Home?
When Fitz had walked halfway across the square, too dazed to think about where she was going, she heard men chanting behind her.
“BURN IT! BURN IT! BURN IT!”
She stopped and turned. Soldiers in the Temple were piling the pews in the center of the Sanctuary, leaning them on a fire that was already burning. Smoke flowed out of the Temple doors, and Fitz watched, as did hundreds of others in the square.
Most of the soldiers and cavalrymen stopped to watch, as well. Many of them whooped and cheered as the flames grew, and the men inside who’d been stoking the fire ran out.
Fitz looked for Tenbrook among the soldiers but didn’t see him. She hoped that he didn’t see her, either. He knew her face, her hair, her dress. If his appetite for mayhem had not yet been sated, she’d be on his mind.
But, no soldiers were searching the common folk. None were asking questions. They were fixated on the flames that burned tall inside the Temple.
The smell of ash floated in the wet wind. The rain started to fall hard again. Nobody in the square paid it any mind.
Fitz couldn’t stand to watch anymore. She turned away from the burning Temple and walked, unable to get the horrific picture of Franklin’s mangled, ruined body from her mind.
Chapter 89: Fitzgerald
Fitz walked through the streets in a daze, directionless, her only thought to get away from the Temple. She followed a crowd of hundreds, each wandering with pale, frightened expressions, as if they’d forgotten how to get back to their homes.
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Fitz had no home left. Her home was the Temple, and now the Temple was gone.
And so was Franklin.
She swallowed the sick feeling in her stomach. Her body moved by itself. She barely noticed her surroundings, and she barely understood the whispers of the shocked people around her. It wasn’t until someone tugged on her arm that she snapped to attention. “Fitz.”
Fitz turned to see Ginger with tear-streaked dirt on her face. Her eyes were dry and cold.
“We need to find you a place to go,” she said.
Fitz nodded absently.
Ginger took Fitz’s hand and led her down a side street, whispering as they walked, “There’s an empty house just down this road.”
Fitz shook her head and pulled her hand away. “The people from the other towns. They’ve taken every empty space.”
“I know of one place that is empty.”
“How do you know it’s empty?” Fitz asked, looking down the dark street, suspicious.
Ginger shook her head slowly, started to say something, and then stopped.
“What?” Fitz asked, as though she’d discovered a hidden truth.
“You should be afraid. You should be careful whom you trust now. All those market women and merchant’s wives who you thought were your friends, who you thought were with you…” Ginger’s voice trailed off.
“What are you saying?” asked Fitz.
“What did they do in the Temple? What did they do when it was time to stand up for what they wanted? They did nothing.”
Tears escaped Fitz’s eyes. “Neither did we.”
“We were pushed against the wall,” said Ginger as they continued walking. “We had no weapons. What could we do?”
“Perhaps it was the same with them,” Fitz argued. “Perhaps they had no weapons, either. I know you don’t like them, but they’re loyal. They suffer. All women in Brighton suffer.”
“Perhaps,” groused Ginger. “Please listen to me. You’re distraught. Don’t let your emotions make your choices. Use your head. It will be hard, but trust me. I know how you feel.”
“How could you know?” Fitz asked. Ginger had been in The House of Barren Women for a handful of years. She no longer had a man who loved her. She had no children, and her family hated her. That was the case with a lot of the Barren Women.
“Do you think you’re the only one who has lost someone tonight?”
“I…”
“I lost my sister,” said Ginger before turning away. “When it started, I saw her in the aisle. She was with us.”
“I’ve never heard you talk of a sister before,” said Fitz.
“Who does in The House?” said Ginger. “None of us have families that accept us anymore.”
Fitz didn’t disagree.
“When my husband sent me to The House, my sister behaved as if I’d died. When I saw her on the street, she pretended not to see me. Her feelings towards me changed, even though mine never did.”
“Did she get away?” Fitz asked.
Ginger shook her head. “I saw her go under one of the horses.”
“I’m sorry,” said Fitz.
Ginger pointed down the road. “Her house is down there. Her daughter was taken in the last Cleansing. Her husband marched out with the Militia. The house is empty. You can stay there.” Ginger tugged at Fitz’s arm and urged her to get moving.
Fitz walked alongside her friend past identical houses, watching people slip inside as if afraid they might be seen. From other houses, other women peeked out, women who hadn’t been at the Temple. The looks on their faces made it clear that they’d already heard the news of what Tenbrook and his men had done.
Fitz lowered her head, trying to keep from being recognized. She knew that not all the people who lived on the dirty, narrow street were sympathetic to Franklin’s revolt. Ginger was right. It didn’t take much of an imagination to guess that some people would already be looking for ways to curry favor now that the power structure in Brighton had altered. Bringing Fitz to Tenbrook might earn that favor.
Fitz didn’t know if Tenbrook was interested in putting her on a pyre, or if he’d like to take his sword to her throat. She didn’t know how much of his brutality in the Temple was perverse bravado, and how much was driven by fear of the residents of Brighton. If it was fear, then Fitz had cause to worry, because that fear might turn to paranoia, and paranoia would bring much more death to Brighton. When that death came, she’d be at the top of Tenbrook’s list of people to kill.
They finally stopped at a ramshackle home. Ginger tried the door, found it open, and led Fitz inside.
“This will do for now.” Ginger crossed the dark room and found a candle, taking it to a small fireplace and lighting it with the embers still smoldering there. “No one should come here tonight.”
Fitz nodded.
Ginger came over to Fitz and wrapped her in a hug. “This is hard on you, I know, honey. But you’re strong, stronger than any of us. It’ll hurt, but you’ll get through.”
Fitz nodded again and hugged Ginger tight.
After a moment, Ginger pulled away. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You won’t be able to stay here long. One of the neighbors will come by in the morning to gossip I imagine. I don’t know what will happen then. It’s better not to take the risk. You shouldn’t stay. I think The House is the best place for you.”
“The House of Barren Women?” Fitz asked, stepping back. “Nobody likes me there. Housemother Mary hates me.”
“If you look only for hate, you’ll see only hate.” Ginger put a comforting hand against Fitz’s cheek. “You need to see past it.”
Fitz shook her head and laughed harshly. “Mary hates me, and it’s not because of the way I see her. And I’m sure the other girls feel even worse about me now that I’ve left.”
“It’s hard staying human in that house,” said Ginger. “It changes you and makes into something stone-hearted and cruel.”
“A Housemother,” argued Fitz.
“Perhaps,” agreed Ginger, “but she isn’t all foul inside. She’s a mean, sharp-tongued monster, but she was once a girl on her back just as the rest of us were. She has to be hard. I’ll talk with her in the morning. I’ll make it alright.”
“I don’t know about this,” said Fitz.
“Don’t worry about the other girls,” said Ginger, “as I said, they don’t make friends easily, but believe me, they liked you as much as they liked anyone else. None of them showed it when you were there. That’s what The House of Barren women does to a girl. But after you left, things changed. You’d have to listen to them yourself to know how much they all admire you now.”
“Envy is probably a better word.”
“Both are true,” said Ginger. “But believe me when I tell you they are ready to stand behind you. You and Franklin were all we ever talked about when the men and Housemother Mary weren’t after us to do our chores.”
Fitz looked around the one-room dwelling, taking measure of the place where she’d sleep. “You should go, before the streets get too empty.”
“You’re right,” said Ginger. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
Ginger slipped out the door, closing it behind her. Fitz listened as the door scraped the jamb.
And then she was alone.
Chapter 90: Fitzgerald
After a long night of little sleep, Fitz sat on a few layers of blankets that Ginger’s sister’s family had once called a bed, in which they’d held each other at night and shared their dreams. And now they were all as dead as Fitz’s dreams.
As dead as Franklin.
She knew she couldn’t stay. Ginger was right about that. It wouldn’t be safe, with people around that might give her up. The house was a te
mporary fix for a problem she couldn’t figure out how to resolve.
Tears came as Fitz thought about Franklin—sad, aching, tiny tears that did little to soothe the hurt.
As she sat there, crying for most of the night, her grief-stricken tears turned into an anger that hungered for revenge.
Tenbrook needed to die.
But what could she do? Tenbrook seemed invincible. She turned those thoughts over several times in her mind, twisting them in new ways, but coming no closer to a conclusion as morning light grew brighter through the gaps in the door’s boards.
Fitz listened to the sounds from the street, whispers that grew louder now that the events of the night had passed. She needed to leave the house, but she knew she couldn’t be the first woman outside. She’d wait until others found the courage to go about their chores. Then she’d leave and try to blend in.
Ginger had told her to go to The House of Barren Women, but Fitz didn’t know if she should. But where else could she go?
She’d thought about it through the night, over and over and over. Mostly, she believed she should try to gather up what provisions she could, find some clothing suitable for the wild, and wait again for dark and a chance to climb the circle wall and put Brighton forever behind her.
Could she be killed by a demon in the forest? Yes, of course. But in her mind, the more she thought about her future in Brighton, the more certain she grew that her early death wouldn’t be a matter of chance, but a matter of certainty.
Once over the wall, she didn’t know where she’d go. Most of the people from the three townships were still in Brighton. Some had returned to the other towns or villages. She could try to start a life in another town, but a returning villager might think she was a thief coming to steal their things while they were away. Even if she could make it work, the looming image of Tenbrook would live in her mind forever.
How long would it be before her life in Brighton reached out to find her?
