What other gods is he talking about? My skin prickles with heat and I want to tell him what I’ve done. A cord of apprehension ties my tongue so that I only mumble, “I’ve built it.”
But he understands. “Daughters,” he strokes the baby’s head, “stay here while I go with Bram.”
Chapter 8 A Soul’s Kiss
From the ninth page of the second Ledger:
He was not rebuked for his sacrifices.
“THEY BICKER AND fight and disagree all the time.” I complain to Raul as he walks beside me, pulling one of the sheep carts by hand. My emotions are closer to the surface than I want them to be. “And they’ve forgotten why they were subjugated in the first place—the religious persecution. The Suppression.” We skirt the smaller hangars and follow an old service road out to a secluded area I’d spotted from the tower. It’s just beyond the graveyard we’d made for the seventeen heroes of our battle with the cave-dwellers. I’d been here once before in the middle of the night. “And they come to me expecting magic. I’ve broken up fights, settled disputes, provided water from rocks, found shelter … the list goes on.”
“It’s a heavy burden,” Raul agrees, patting me on the back in that fatherly way he has. “Who have you put in charge to assist you?”
“Well, Harmon helps a lot, but—” I stutter and stop. We lift the cart over some rough terrain and continue into a park-like setting. We pass two sobbing women coming back from the graves. They keep their heads down, fingers rubbing hard against the bellies of the white figurines they hold. No words pass between us.
We continue past the graves where not even simple slabs or wooden posts mark the tombs. I recount the strange battle to Raul. The cart rolls roughly along a deer path and we stop next to a pile of rocks.
Raul’s laughter makes me smile. “This is it, Bram? This is your altar? Surely you could’ve done better than this, even in the dark.”
The pile is comprised of discarded stones, ones which were too sharp, too light, too small for what I constructed. Raul’s laughter abruptly stops when he looks a little further and sees what I really built. The altar is long and wide and waist high. Every rock fits tightly, mortar free.
“Oh.” Raul pulls the cart a few more feet and runs his hand along the hearth. “Flat stones here.”
As if his words appear upon the altar’s top, I see the letters tip and sway and flat stones here changes, swirls out words like father, fear, self, and heart, until finally every letter realigns into tents of healers.
I say the strange phrase aloud and Raul’s eyes widen, he hits his chest, and gasps. “We camped last night,” he hurries the words, “and the sky was clear. The stars were humbled by the moon. I pictured them as tents. Tents of healers.”
He giggles like Gresham and pulls back the cover on the cart. “Here’s what you sacrifice on the altar.”
Things to burn. We pile them across the flat stones and Raul exclaims, “Praise to God for rescuing you from Truslow. Praise to Him for freeing the people.” I repeat his words, feeling flakes of joy sprinkle around my heart. I make my own sacrifice of thanksgiving on the secret altar. We make a fire and watch until there’s nothing but ashes.
We pray aloud and then to ourselves. We rise from our knees when a chilled breeze swipes the last of the ashes up and away. I have a question for Raul. “The tents of healers?” He hasn’t explained it yet.
“What you’ve been doing, Bram, is not good. These people who come to you to solve their problems will only wear you out. The work is too much for you. You can’t handle it alone. Listen to me. God is with you. You’re his representative, but here’s my advice: select capable men from all the people—men who fear God. Make sure they’re trustworthy, honest, then appoint them as officials over a specific number of people. Give them a marked tent. Then they can serve as judges or rather healers.”
“Tents of healers,” I say again, tumbling the idea over and around.
“They can decide the simple cases and bring the tougher decisions to you. That will make your load lighter. See?”
“Will you go with us?”
He shakes his head. “Enjoy the rest of the day with your sons, Bram. We’re returning to the ranch in the morning. And if I read the stars correctly, you’ll be heading west tomorrow.”
“West?” That can’t be right, but he simply nods his head and leaves me to wonder. I speed up my pace to get back to my sons.
* * *
Bram found Kassandra and Katie standing outside the tent, both with their arms crossed, speaking softly to Lydia’s mother, Jenny. Katie scowled at Bram as he approached, but Kassandra dropped her arms and reached for the tent flap. She put a finger to her lips and held the cloth back as Bram ducked inside. Both of his sons were sleeping on blankets spread in the center of the tent. He knelt down and feathered their precious heads with soft kisses and whispered confessions. Kassandra let the flap fall back and in the privacy of the warm shelter Bram cried quietly while he watched the boys sleep.
Kassandra moved away from the tent when she saw Lydia ambling toward them. She found her father resting on the cart a little ways away.
“So where did you two go?” She posted herself at an angle so she could keep an eye on the tent.
Raul waved his arm noncommittally toward the woods. “He’d made an altar.” He shielded his eyes with his forearm as he looked up at his oldest daughter. “It’s a pretty amazing coincidence. His destiny …”
Kassandra put her hands on her hips. “I don’t have a part in it anymore.” She tightened her lips.
“You could, though. There was something else in the sky last night. I’m not sure, but-”
“No. Don’t even get me started. As much as I wanted off that ranch three years ago, today all I want is to get back home.”
Her father crinkled his brow. He looked beyond Kassandra to watch Katie give Lydia a hug. He wished he could understand his girls. Before everyone in his town had been captured and marched to Exodia, Katie had a young man who wanted to marry her. Somehow he’d escaped the march. When he and Katie, Kassandra, and Gresham returned to the ranch they found him there, caring for the sheep. He’d been a hard-working ranch hand ever since, but his affections were split between both girls. There was nothing in the stars to help with that.
* * *
Gresham stirs at the sounds of animated talking among the women, then he settles into a steady breathing rhythm to match his brother’s. My own breaths are shallow, catching like thorns against my heart.
Thorns against my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut against the words that begin to form from the phrase: oath, hymn, shattering, straighten, restart. I’m afraid of the message held beneath the surface of my thoughts.
I’m not ready for such crushing pain; I could never be ready. There’s nothing I can do but let it rip me open.
I shake my head and force myself to rise and sneak out of the make-shift nursery. The women hush when they see my face. Tears refuse to stop filling my eyes. I motion them to move a dozen paces away, over toward Raul and Kassandra.
The majority of the Reds are congregating in small groups along the sides of buildings, leaning, talking, waiting. Children play and chase each other. I blink and clear my throat, force myself to make my hands into fists, clamp my teeth, and search the grounds for men I can trust. I spot Harmon, Josh, and Blake. They’ll be the first I’ll name to serve as judges. Korzon, Teague, and Hamlin will be naturals to heal the rifts that grow between the Exodian Reds and the Reds that were marched in from captured cities. Barrett’s father, and Herb, and Branson can head the less aggressive families. There’s quite a large group around Eugene; he’d expect a leadership position. I’ll appoint him and two others from among those who have griped the loudest. I’ll divide the Mourners into different groups.
Kassandra joins the women, but Raul pulls the cart closer to me.
“It’s hard to say this.” I drop my head, lift my eyes, and hope my former father-in-law can read the miserable hear
tache that clings to the few words I must say. “I need to send you all back to the ranch. Today.”
His eyes narrow. He’s shocked that I would tell them to leave now. I’m sure he’d never choose duty over his precious daughters. My sons should mean at least that much to me. But I made a promise, an oath that no one else knows. I was the subject of a hymn for too many years and my path is laid out before me. Straight it is, though following it may shatter me. Thorns against my heart. A heart that’s ripping open.
* * *
Lydia stopped talking when Kassandra stepped nearer. Having Bram’s former wife here was much too hard. Obviously Bram would want his sons to stay. And of course then Kassandra would stay. Lydia watched the young mother plant her hands on her hips, her long fingers splaying across her still plump middle. The competition would be unbearable. If only she had her good friend Barrett to see her through another broken heart.
She tipped impatiently from one foot to the other as she studied Kassandra. Her face, when she turned a glaring eye her way, sent spears of pain to her heart. Lydia’s stomach twisted with nausea. She pretended to cough, choked out an excuse to leave and hurried to the hangar where her things were stashed.
Jenny Sroka noticed her daughter’s hesitation, the stubborn tilt to her head, and the palpable discomfiture. But she had no idea what Lydia was determined to do.
* * *
I owe Raul a further explanation. “I need Lydia to make this journey with me.” I glance her way and see her turn to go to the hangar.
“Will you marry her?” Raul’s face contorts into an unreadable expression.
I open my mouth but Raul puts a hand out to stop me before I can speak a whispered yes, the very word on my cautious tongue.
“It’s all right, Bram. I knew this from the beginning. You have a mission. I’ll raise your sons as my own and send them to you when they’re old enough.”
* * *
Bram gathered the twelve he’d chosen and led them into a conference room on the first floor of the control tower. The men pulled a dozen dusty chairs from the top of a long table, turned them upright, and tested each one for strength before they settled into the seats. Bram stood.
Eugene kept one fist on the edge of the table and the other close to a bulging belt sack at his waist. Most of the men sat still; a couple tried to swivel their chairs. Eugene caught the eye of Asher and Cleavon who both then balanced a fist on the table.
Bram stuttered and started again saying, “I picked you because you’re all capable men from Exodia. I’m appointing you as leaders of the people.” At that two fists dropped from the table and several men sat a little straighter. “You will be officials, some over a hundred or more, some over fifty. We’ll work that out now.”
Eugene opened his hand, raised it, and spoke. “Easiest to do it by the old neighborhoods.” He released the grip on his belt sack and smirked. “I’ll take the B streets.”
Bram nodded his approval, remembering the night he ran through the slum and found his way by the street names’ alphabetic structure. Slowly they talked through which families lived where and whose leadership they’d be under until each man had a general idea of how many souls he’d be responsible for. Harmon listened carefully, repeating names, and mentally listing the groupings.
An argument started over the assignment of the non-Exodians who’d been marched in by Truslow’s soldiers. Bram quickly designated the ones from Kassandra’s town to Harmon and the others to Korzon and Teague.
“Now,” Bram began when Harmon nodded that he had it all memorized, “you will serve as judges for the people. At all times. Understand?” The affirmations were unanimous. “You’ll bring me only the most difficult cases, but you can handle the simple ones yourselves. You know, like when someone accuses another of stealing. If the problem is between two people under your authority, use your discretion. If there’s a dispute between people under two or three of you, then you work it out fairly. Come to me if you can’t agree.” He leaned against the table, weary of standing for so long. “All right, it’s getting late. I’ll find Malcolm and we’ll announce the groupings as the people gather their evening meal.”
They filed out of the room and Bram ran into Malcolm in the hallway.
“They’ve gone, Bram.” Malcolm cast his eyes down.
“I know.” He put his arm on Malcolm’s shoulder and they walked out into the late afternoon. “We need your box for some announcements.”
“Fine. The cloud ain’t movin’, but I got a feeling it will tomorrow. ’Cause your family’s gone.”
Bram covered his sigh by clearing his throat. “I think you’re right, Malcolm.”
Some people were not happy to be under Eugene or Hamlin. Most didn’t care or didn’t understand the plan, but listened politely anyway.
Bram spoke little, turning the microphone over to Harmon when questions arose. He stepped back and nearly crushed Mira’s toes.
“Hey,” she said and jumped aside. “I know you’re probably upset that she left, but…”
“It’s for the best.”
“Right. And she’s the wrong skin color for you anyway.”
“What? What has skin color got to do with anything? Kassandra’s skin is the same as yours.”
“No, I meant Lydia.”
* * *
I make two false starts. I leave the airport and run south for half a mile before racing back to search the hangars. I ask everyone I pass if they’ve seen her. No one points me in a promising direction. No one nods. No one repeats her name and says oh, sure, I’ve seen her. She’s right over there. No one.
I head across the runways and search the outbuildings. I hurry back and take the tower steps three at a time, reach the lookout room, and scan in every direction. The bleak skies press upon the distant lands. The eastward trail reveals my family quite far away, the fading rays of sunset glinting off their backs not gold or red, but a fading blue.
Lydia wouldn’t follow them.
Would she go north, slow enough for us to catch up to her tomorrow? Or south, back to Exodia? She certainly wouldn’t head west to chance an encounter with the few remaining cave-dwellers.
I grab the rod and swing it in all directions hoping it will somehow divine my course, but there’s no pull at all. I set it on the console and stumble-run down the stairs. I burst outside and think again that west toward the underground city is the least likely route she’d take. So I head that way, not even thinking to tell my brother or sister, or to take a jug of water.
I follow the cart tracks Raul made earlier when we went to the altar. A guilty thought crosses my mind and a feeling of resignation unleashes my exhaustion. Not a physical fatigue. A spiritual defeat. I call out the name that forms in my mouth, but the sound of it echoes backwards, and barks in my ears.
“Lydia,” I rasp out her name again as I pass the mound of leftover rocks. I stub my toe and lurch forward, catch myself, and stagger toward the altar.
“I’m here.”
Her head pops up from the other side where she is crouched against the bottom slab.
I let myself fall across the altar’s top, panting, gasping, like a sacrifice unwilling to be still. She whisks away her tears and I swipe at mine.
“That can’t be comfortable,” she croaks out, pointing at the rocks that poke against my belly. She gives a little laugh, clears her throat, and in a more velvety tone asks me to sit beside her.
I come around the barrier and lower myself to slide in next to her, noticing her shoes perched on top of her bag. Her feet are bare; tiny bits of leaves and ash cling to the bottoms.
“Why’d you take your shoes off?” She follows my gaze to her toes and shrugs her shoulders. Her eyes throw off sparks of blue and gold.
“It seemed like holy ground, I guess.” She brushes off her feet and shivers.
I tap my fingers on the top stone. “I felt I had to build this.”
“There’s something spiritual about you, you know? It’s what I’ve a
lways liked best about you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. The sun finishes setting and the temperature drops. She draws the edges of her garment across her chest, hiding another sign that she’s grown cold. I can’t help but think of how much I love her.
“Lydia…” My heart is as near to bursting as it was when I sat in the tent studying my sons. Breaking then. Mending now.
Her eyes betray a difficult question and I’m quick to answer it.
“I sent my family away.” I hold her gaze. She reflects my pain. Understands.
I draw her into my arms and press my lips against hers. The kiss lingers long. Healing me.
* * *
Lydia melted into Bram’s embrace and kissed him back with all the passion and longing she’d been concealing. Ever since he’d returned to Exodia with a wife and child she’d tried to deny her feelings. The first time, when Kassandra had left him, she’d allowed herself some hope.
Their journey out of Exodia had brought them closer, to the edge of something big, they’d even shared an ardent kiss, but when she’d seen his family return … the revelation of a new son … the look on his face … she’d lost that hope.
His kiss was gentle, warm, fulfilling. There was a promise in this kiss, a promise sealed at the base of this altar he’d laid with his own strong hands, a promise that wed their souls.
She wept between kisses, but Bram held her more tightly, kissed her with equal passion and longing, warmed her skin, stroked her hair. Lydia’s lost hope was replaced with a joy that bubbled over until her sobs became laughter.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she drew back enough to look him in the eyes. She kept her arms around his broad shoulders. “I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just—”
“I know. I feel it, too.”
“Does this mean …?” She couldn’t finish her question. Bram covered her mouth with his. Then he kissed her nose, her lifted chin, her raised eyebrows as if he were trying to answer the question there.
Out of Exodia Page 7
