by Bobby Adair
“You have an accent,” observed Oliver.
“No, you do,” the woman told him. “Where are you from?”
“Brighton,” answered Oliver, pointing vaguely west.
“How far is that from here?” asked the woman.
“Brighton is on the other side of the mountains,” Oliver told her.
“How did you get here? Where’s your ship?”
“I’ve never seen a ship until I saw these.” Oliver stomped on the floor. “You must have a lot of steel where you come from. Did you make this ship, or did the Ancients make it?”
“The Ancients?” the woman asked.
“The people from before,” answered Oliver. “The ones who built the ancient cities. The ones with the Tech Magic.”
“Tech Magic.” The woman’s voice softened. The unspoken threats drifted away, and she looked over her shoulder again. Sounding like she was speaking to herself, she said, “You must be from one of the ignorant barbarian tribes.” She heaved a sigh. “Maybe we’ve both got a lot to learn from each other.”
“I have questions,” Oliver told her. “Is that a real gun, like the ones from the stories?”
“The stories?” the woman asked.
“They tell us the fairy tales when we’re little. Some of the heroes have guns.”
“Guns are from your fairy tales?” the woman asked. “You mean you’ve never seen one.”
Oliver shook his head but then he said, “Up in a tower where I spotted you from, there’s a big one.”
“A big one?” The woman laughed. “That’s a machine gun.” She relaxed and let the gun hang in a harness wrapped around her chest and over her shoulders. “What’s your name?”
“Oliver.”
“I’m Kirby. You’re lucky you’re a kid. If you were one of your friends, I might’ve shot you.”
Chapter 13: William
William sat cross-legged next to Winthrop’s big fire, shivering. He could still feel the blood from Winthrop’s handprint seeping through his shirt. He clutched a blanket he’d been given. The chants around him had subsided to quiet murmurs, but the memories of the dance would live on in his dreams: the thrump of the army’s feet, the sway of the women’s hips, Father Winthrop’s entrancing gaze.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The people had settled down and were milling around the fires, throwing in last logs and chewing on bits of demon meat. A cluster of women crouched around Winthrop, who sat on a pile of blankets ten feet from William. Winthrop seemed to be moving through a waking dream, communing with the people he called his god brothers in his mind while his feet stayed bound to the mortal earth. Winthrop’s eyes were closed, but they moved under the lids. His hands were folded across his lap as his fingers clenched and grabbed. His head turned, looked up, looked down, and seemed to take in visions that only he could see. Every so often, he mumbled some quiet words, and the women around him leaned closer to discern the demon-speak incantations. William too, strained to hear.
A dozen men—some shirtless, others wearing tattered clothes—watched Winthrop and occasionally glanced at William, speaking in low tones as they relived the glory of battles William hadn’t seen.
These people were important, somehow. To William, the thick crowds of others walking through the dome looked like a herd of animals, dirty and unimportant, on the periphery, like the rabble that filled Brighton square on Cleansing Day. They didn’t walk in the gossamer light of Winthrop’s divinity, they only sniffed at the leavings of those who did. The important ones were the women surrounding Winthrop and touching him with their doting hands, or the hard men who wore the badge of Winthrop’s favor in the bloody handprints on their skin and clothes.
An invisible barrier separated Winthrop’s special people from the rest of the dirt scratchers and pig chasers inside the dome. Winthrop’s chosen few basked in his radiance. The others seemed like an ignorant horde, carrying on pointlessly just like they did back in Brighton, going through the motions of their lives, hoping for a moment of clarity when Winthrop’s words told them what to do, and his pointing finger told them where to go.
William had been in that stinking, powerless throng when he was in town, bleating in the square as the glowing deities on the stage chose the unfortunate for the burnt sacrifice.
An epiphany shone through his thoughts, a truth that had always been there, but one that had been invisible, blocked from view by that invisible social barrier that kept the horde at bay, even now. It was better to be a mythical, godly lion, basking in the glow of power, than to be a sheep queued for the slaughter, and to change from one to the other was no miraculous feat. All William had to do was to remain in the light, in Winthrop’s favor, among the special ones.
One of the men standing near the fire, a tall man whose face sparkled red with firelight and wet blood, nodded at William. Next to him was the woman who had cut the demon earlier. She leaned by the fire with her knife, slicing off bits of a cooked carcass. She met William’s eyes.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked, holding out a charred piece of demon meat.
William eyed the sizzling, dripping flesh. It only took him a second to answer. Hungry or not, he couldn’t eat his comrades.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice cracking. He hadn’t spoken since the moments just before he’d been slapped with Winthrop’s bloody handprint. Even during the dancing, he had remained quiet, listening as the voices lifted around him, enthralled with the moving bodies.
The woman watched him with a smile. “What’s your name?” Without a bloodthirsty crowd around her and a knife sharp and close enough to stab William, she was far less threatening. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Sweat had washed some of the demon blood from her face.
William was reluctant to answer. In the time he’d been here, no one had asked. What if he told the truth, and someone put his name and face together and recognized him as the boy who had escaped the pyres of Brighton? He thought of the first word that popped into his head. “Rowan.”
“I’m Jasmine, and this is Philip,” she said, motioning to the tall man. Waving at Winthrop, still in his stupor, Jasmine said, “You’re lucky our god saved you from the demon curse.”
William nodded.
“Is it true?” Jasmine asked.
William watched her, unsure what she meant.
“Do you really walk with demons?”
“I…I’m not sure what you mean.”
Jasmine nodded with understanding. “You probably don’t remember what happened to you. Winthrop has cured you. You’re safe now. You’re one of us.”
William looked at his boots.
“You’re from Davenport?” Jasmine asked. “You have a touch of the accent.”
William was confused for a moment until he recalled his lie. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“I had an aunt who lived there,” she said. “But I guess she’s probably dead now.” A hint of sadness crossed Jasmine’s face.
William didn’t say anything. Everyone in Davenport was dead. He knew it. But was that the right answer? He could no longer remember. Ever since he’d been with his demons, he hadn’t had to worry about social graces.
“I haven’t seen her in a few years,” Jasmine continued. “I suppose I would have, when Blackthorn called up reinforcements from the towns and villages.” Seeing the expression on William’s face, Jasmine explained, “Blackthorn called all the people from the townships and the villages to help us battle the demons. We were sent into the wild to put an end to the scourge. You probably didn’t know that.”
“No,” William admitted.
“We almost lost the battle in a canyon outside the city, but our god Winthrop led us to victory,” Phillip said. A glimmer of pride went through his face as he pointe
d at Winthrop, who was still in his trance. “Our god has made us immortal.”
William looked down at the handprint on his shirt. He looked at the one on Phillip. He certainly didn’t feel any different. But what if Phillip was right? What if Winthrop’s mark was the one that would excuse him from the scrutiny of Brighton? What if by wearing Winthrop’s mark, he could avoid inspection, the pyres, and certain death at the hands of those who might burn him?
The idea was almost too much to think about.
Maybe Winthrop was right, and William had been cured. Maybe his luck had taken a turn he’d never expected.
“I questioned it at first, too,” Jasmine said, noticing the look of disbelief on his face. “But how else would we have defeated the demons, unless we were immortal? How else would we be here together, dancing and singing instead of lying dead in the Ancient City, where few in Brighton have ever set foot?”
William couldn’t argue. He pondered on that as his gaze wandered away from Jasmine and Phillip and up toward the massive, curved girders of the dome, where moonlight shone through the mostly-open ceiling and illuminated the upper portions of the dome. He followed those curved arches down to the rows of ancient stone that formed enormous, sprawling levels, broken by stairs, speckled with moving torches as some of Winthrop’s people explored. Every so often, one of them shouted and pointed at some spectacle of the past. William had a faint memory of looking through another preserved, ancient building with Ella, Melora, and Bray. He scrunched his eyes shut. He didn’t want to remember any of that anymore. He wanted to walk a new path.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Jasmine asked, tearing a hunk of demon meat from the stick and passing it to Phillip.
“Yes.” William hugged his knees. “I’ve never seen a place like this.”
“We have plenty to eat here,” Phillip said gratefully, as he chewed. “Probably more than in Brighton.”
William grew quiet as he watched Phillip and Jasmine eat the rest of their meal and keep vigil over Winthrop. After a while, the raging fire withered into thin lines of smoke, and some of the men and women took last trips outside the firelight and into dark corners, squatting or standing to relieve themselves. Others nursed final sips from their flasks.
“We’ll be going to sleep soon,” Jasmine told William. Gesturing to the thin blanket in his lap, she asked, “Are you warm enough?”
“I think so,” William said.
“Let me get you another blanket,” she told him, as if she hadn’t heard him. She walked to a bag lying on the ground, pulling a tattered piece of fabric from within and handing it to William. William took it. Mirroring the others, he folded it into a makeshift pillow and placed it behind his head. Jasmine rejoined Winthrop’s other priestesses, who lay in each other’s laps, settling into resting positions on the bent grass. Phillip set up his blanket near William.
“It’s been a long day and night of worship,” Phillip said. “Goodnight, Rowan. I’m glad we found you. I’m glad you’ve been cured.”
William lay on his side and closed his eyes, even though he was too nervous to sleep. The repeating chant felt like it was ingrained in his head, even though it had stopped. He still felt awful for what had happened to his demons, but he felt a strange sense of safety with these people, too. He couldn’t explain it.
He didn’t open his eyes for a while.
When he did, Jasmine and Phillip had stopped adjusting underneath their blankets.
Most of the priests and priestesses were asleep.
William looked around.
Of those that were awake in the giant dome, most were walking the edges, not looking at him. His heart knocked violently as escape crossed his mind for the first time since the chants and the dancing.
William sat up slowly, certain that someone would see him and stop him. But no one was paying attention. Winthrop’s head was sagged to his chest, his eyes closed. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, snoring. William rose slowly to his feet, stretched his cramped legs, and determined that he had to shed water.
He wasn’t sure what to do beyond that.
Should he flee? Or should he relieve himself, return to his bed, and take a chance that these people would continue being nice to him? Should he believe Jasmine and Phillip that he was chosen, that he was safe? He took a step, looking around, noticing most of the weapons were tucked underneath the sleeping men and women.
Standing in the light of the fire, the heat warming his face, William located a path between two sleeping women and into some thick shadows way in the corner of the dome that might offer enough cover to escape, if that were the way he wanted to go.
He swallowed, unsure.
The snoring stopped.
A voice pierced the quiet.
“Where are you going, my son?”
William froze. He swiveled as he looked around. Winthrop lifted his robe and pointed a bony finger at him, pinning William to the fire with his gaze.
Chapter 14: William
A few of Winthrop’s priestesses snapped awake, watching William as if he were a demon creeping into their midst. They sat up, reaching for their swords and spears.
William grabbed his belly. “I have to relieve myself,” he said.
The truth tumbled from his mouth. He glanced cautiously at the priestesses, as if they might think he was lying. They watched Winthrop.
“You are immortal now,” Winthrop said. “Human needs can wait. Sit down.”
William settled back down and onto his blanket, trying to calm his beating heart. He looked for Jasmine and Phillip, the only people in Winthrop’s camp that seemed kind. Phillip was asleep nearby with his back turned. Jasmine was among a cluster of women around Winthrop, but she hadn’t stirred. Winthrop’s eyes were narrow and red, reflecting the light of the dying fire.
“The blood of my life courses through you,” Winthrop said.
William nodded, fear preventing him from comprehending the words.
“The blessed are immortal. Do you feel immortal?” Winthrop asked.
William didn’t feel any different. He was scared, but that was it.
“You’re afraid.” Winthrop spat the phrase as if the emotion was a vile taste in his mouth. “I was once like you. I once lived in fear, tucking myself away in Brighton. But the wild cured that. I no longer fear anything.”
William recalled the feeling he’d had when he’d been surrounded by demons. He’d felt invincible. But these strange people had taken that away.
Or had they given him something else?
“I am the god of war. I have blessed the people in this dome, so that all inside it are safe. The demons no longer come near us,” Winthrop said. “You will be protected, if you stay with me.”
The priestesses smiled at William. A few more woke as they heard the talking. William looked at his handprint, and then at the people around him. He couldn’t deny what Winthrop was saying. All around him were dead demons and Winthrop’s people. No one was in danger. No one was afraid. These people were even more powerful than William’s demons.
“We have driven the twisted men out of their nests. We have driven them from their homes, and slaughtered them in the streets. The power they hold over the great, flat earth is ending.” Winthrop held his hands up, basking in his proclamation, as his voice grew louder. “The demons’ blood has shown us the path to righteousness. My people are victorious. We are protected from the demons by their blood.”
A few of Winthrop’s priestesses sat up and adjusted, revealing their bare shoulders, reminding William of the swaying bodies, and their chanting words. He recalled the ecstatic looks on the women’s faces when they danced. He’d never experienced anything like that in Brighton, or in the wild.
“Our fearlessness makes us free,” Winthrop said, loud enough that more people awoke from sleep. Jas
mine and Phillip sat up, rubbing their eyes, joining a growing circle of others. They watched Winthrop as if he were conducting a sermon in Brighton. Without warning, Winthrop coughed, wiping some drool from his face. He stared at one of the priestesses, as if she might’ve caused it. “I need something to drink. Give me some snowberry from my personal supply.”
Without a word, the girl reached into a nearby bag and handed him a flask. Winthrop uncapped it, tipped the container, and drank greedily. Watching Winthrop drink gave William a subconscious reaction—he licked his dry, cracked lips.
Winthrop noticed.
“Are you thirsty, my son?” Winthrop offered the flask to William.
The crowd leaned forward as they refocused on William, waiting for his answer. William backed away. He felt as if he was being tested. One wrong word and he’d be burned. But Winthrop shook the flask back and forth, persisting until William crept over and retrieved it. He scooted back and held it to his stomach as he crouched in his blankets, but he didn’t drink.
“Drink from my flask, and you will be rid of the last of the demon curse,” Winthrop said to William.
William looked down at the flask in his hands. He hesitated as all the eyes in the circle turned on him. Jasmine smiled. For a moment, he felt like he was on the dais again during the inspection at the Cleansing, under the scrutiny of the Elders, but this attention was different. It was good. It was the implication that he might be one of them, if he obeyed. Winthrop leaned forward, watching him.
William sniffed the flask.
The liquid smelled like the odors that lingered in the alleys and streets around the pubs in Brighton. Any time Ella and William had passed those buildings, Ella had pulled him along, as if the raucous, laughing crowd might suck him inside. It had always seemed to William that the people in there were having more fun than the people on the outside.
