The young man grimaced. "Can I sit down?”
"Sure. Sure.”
Cole downed his water. "Are you all right, Alan?”
"I’m always all right, m’boy.” With a deliberate knowing look, he said, "How about you?”
“Do you have a needle and thread?” asked the young man.
"Whatever for?”
"Stitches.”
"Son, if you need stitches, we’d best get you to a hospital. I can drive. I’ll pay for it.” Alan stood to lead the way and grabbed his keys off a hook on the wall.
"No! No hospitals. I take care of myself. I’ve done this before.”
"Brock, you can go home for the day,” Alan said. "I’ll take care of the young man.”
Cole eyed the knife at the man’s waist. "Are you sure, sir? I would rather stay.”
"Looking out for the old man, are we? Admirable, Brock, but this is business I’ll tend to alone.” He considered the black fabric around the young man’s left arm. "On second thought, your wife is Unified, no?”
"Yes, she is.”
"They’re good with stitches, aren’t they?”
"Especially her. She was a medicine woman.”
"Would she be willing to assist us?”
* * *
Hesper required a needle and thread, fire to sanitize the needle, warm water to wash the wound, honey to dress it, and a clean cloth. Between the two households, they managed everything.
Dried blood caked the strips of cloth to his skin in a few spots, but they peeled away without much trouble. She examined the wound. "It is wide, but not too deep.”
The needle made the sanitizing fire dance as she dragged it through. She cleansed the wound with the water and cloth, then set to the stitching. With a face of stone, the stranger watched everything she did.
"What is your name?” she asked.
"Jesurun. I go by Jes. You?”
Needle in hand, she froze. His voice felt like the glowing remnants of a fire that burned someone’s house down. Trouble and destruction? Yes. But the heat of the rubble warmed her. She’d heard his voice before.
He burns, but he will not die.
"I am Hesper. Do we know each other?”
"You remind me of somebody I used to know, but I don’t know you.”
She finished the stitches in a few minutes and applied honey for a dressing. The job was neat and well done, and it felt wonderful to have done it. Useful in a world that had no use for her beyond pleasure.
Jes inspected her work and nodded approvingly. "I usually do it myself, but it’s kinda nice having someone else do it for once.”
Cole crossed his arms. "You get wounds worthy of stitches on a regular basis?”
"I’m sure the lad has his history,” Alan said. "We probably shouldn’t ask about it. Care for a cherry turnover, Jes?”
Thirty-One | Post-Conquest: 232
Cole had to move on with life, ignore what he felt about Jesurun, and enjoy Hesper, whose spirits were consistently low and level these days. They talked about the sweet, simple, non-philosophical things Hesper most enjoyed. For a time, all seemed right with the world as they sat on the terrace and gentle breezes blew citrus scents their way. Eating fruit they picked from their trees, it was as if they were Adahy and Hesper again.
Almost.
He couldn’t keep himself from eyeballing Alan’s yard four houses down. While Hesper told the story of the doe who ate a daylily from her hand, Cole’s wandering eyes caught on the people in Alan’s backyard. Black hair and black clothes—Jesurun. Short, thick, and fast—Alan. That was a bit strange. Might even warrant a follow.
"Cole, what do you see?”
He startled. "I’m sorry. Maybe I’m crazy, but I have to go.”
"Go where?”
"I need to follow them.” He pointed at the men.
"Why?”
She was offended. He was hurting her. He’d brushed her off once, and he couldn’t do it again, but . . .
No.
He had to let it go. It wasn’t really his business.
But what if it was?
"I just do. I wish I were armed, but I haven’t the time to run in and get myself together. I have to go.”
"Cole!”
"I’ll be fine! They’re going on foot? Out the back door? How can I ignore that?”
Hesper’s face crowded out his scattered thoughts and forced a smile to his lips. "I suppose you have the self-control required to ignore it, don’t you? It’s important, Hesper.”
Why was it important? Was it that important? Her gray eyes begged him not to go, even though her pride never would. He sighed. “I'll be back soon.”
* * *
At the end of the alley, Jes and Alan took a road to the south and picked up their pace. Cole maintained a firm follow from a distance, staying in the shadows as much as possible. The journey ended in a rural section on the southern outskirts of Pomo Gate, where several weathered and unkempt homes dotted the area, though only one house showed signs of life. Its roof needed replacing and the broken windows, repaired with duct tape, leaked copious amounts of jazz music. If these people kept recordings in their home, they didn’t respect laws concerning entertainment choices—unless they had a jazz band in there.
Cole liked them already.
Jes and Alan stepped into the building without knocking. Cole sprinted for the house and crouched beneath a window. Music overwhelmed the voices within. Shades kept most of the house’s secrets, glowing with buttery light interrupted only by passing silhouettes. Bent over, he rustled through the high grass and weeds around the house to look for a better location or—if he was lucky—a way in.
The broken basement window on the north side would do nicely. With a loose hinge and an old-fashioned lock, it would be a cinch. It lifted on the loose hinge side, and the rusty hinge on the left broke off, tearing up the frame’s rotten wood. After an assessment of the size of the opening, he scanned the basement with his flashlight. It was only an empty room with stairs leading up to a door. Perfect. He slid past the grassy overgrowth into the basement and set the window against the building to give the impression it was in place should anyone happen to walk by.
Strong, earthy, almost-sweet stench of mold pervaded the dirt-floored basement. Cole crouched to look under the door. The muffled voices and music indicated that the dim room on the other side of the door probably came between the basement and the rest of the house. Perhaps a pantry or closet. He took a chance and cracked the door ever so slightly.
A pantry. Canned goods and boxes lined the wall to his right. Cole entered and crouched at a peeling door to hear the voices on the other side.
Jes’ voice stood out, low and rumbly.
This better not be Alan taking his new buddy to a birthday party.
Heartburn crept into his throat and a strong sensation of being watched skittered through his brain and down his spine. He jumped and backed away from the door.
"What’s up, Al?” a man’s voice said.
Cole crawled back to the door to hear better.
"This here is my new friend,” Alan said. "Jes came looking for help this afternoon. He’s had a rough life, but he’s taken a real turn around due to a fellow who sounds an awful lot like Ansel.”
"Ansel’s been gone several months,” said the other voice.
"Yep. This young man claims to have met him about two years ago while working as a bouncer in Sacred Gate.”
"Go on.”
"Even before meeting Ansel, he’d fall into some kind of trance. Blazing tattoo. Drawing. You know, different but the same as usual. He’s wanted in twenty different sections—Did I get that right, Jes?”
"Yeah. What do you mean different but the same as usual?”
"The LEWs want him dead.”
"Do you have the drawings?” the man asked.
"Yes. Right here.” A pause. "Give the folder to Seamus, hey?”
Several moments of silence passed before Seamus spoke again. "Son, how d
oes it feel when you draw these things?”
Cole just barely made out the quiet response. "Like fire. It sucks.”
"Right. I see. Do you know much about the Book of Light, Jes?”
"Heard about.”
"It’s disappeared. We’ve been looking for it ever since. We haven’t come across it for a good hundred years.”
"We? A hundred years?”
"Our group.” Seamus laughed. "We may look old to you, but we’re not that old. People have been looking for it in secret for two hundred years. Every time it resurfaces, the Kyrios find and destroy it. They’ve had three known encounters in our lifetime.”
"Who knows how many there’ve been who no one knows about.” Another man’s voice spoke.
"Who’s ‘they?’” Jes asked.
"The Kyrios,” replied the new man. "I work with them. I know what they do. They don’t get the death-light out of thin air, Jes.”
There was the leak.
Alan cleared his throat and spoke carefully. "Jes, this must sound bizarre to you.”
"What?” Jes sounded irritated. "You think my writings and pictures are the Book of Light? That thing the Kyrios have? A kids’ story?”
"No, Jes,” said Seamus. “We think you’re the Book. The Book of Light is a person. It always has been.”
The room grew quiet.
"What did I do to make you think it’s me?”
"This won’t sound logical to you,” Seamus said. "But, throughout history, there have been individuals with a particular sensitivity. Us. If the Kyrios don’t kill them first, the Books are drawn to us. We know who they are by the burning sensation in our chest. The symptoms they exhibit are also important.”
Jes barked a derisive laugh. "You guys are nuts.” A chair slid across the floor. Papers shuffled. "If the Book of Light was a person, everybody would know. I’m just as ready to get rid of those schmucks, too, but I’m not going to throw in with zealots to do it. I mean, really? Heartburn? You decide who the Book is because of heartburn?”
"It’s been a long time, Jes,” Seamus said. "The people will believe whatever they’re taught. Several generations have passed since The Conquest. Plenty of time to erase society’s memory.”
"Prove it.”
"Don’t you see how convenient it would be for the Book of Light to be made into something kept behind closed doors for the privileged few alone? No one would ever know. Give it a couple generations, and no one will exist to challenge the Kyrios. Most won’t care to risk their hide to do it even if they wanted to.”
Cole smiled. If only he could meet Seamus.
"Who are you guys anyway?” Jes said.
"We’re just people.”
"Sensitive people, huh? With no proof. Nothin’? Just heartburn?”
Another chair slid across the floor. "People who want to see the Book of Light take its place in the Bastion of Holiness. God’s power will follow you if you trust It.”
Thirty-Two | Post-Conquest: 232
Close to God? Nope. Everyone assumed the Kyrios were close to God. David used to have the assurance of his own righteousness, but even that had disappeared long ago. He’d tried to do what was right and help people as much as he could without dying. But cowardice . . . it required a heavy emotional fine in lieu of a courageous death.
And now, his soul lay flat on its back, lost in a rush of trouble, unable to even think of connecting with God. His beloved wife had been murdered, his favored wife had likely gone mad, and the Kyrios had dead bodies under the Bastion of Holiness. One might even be his dad. Why would they ever keep such damning evidence?
Fear.
It started in his gut and worked its way through his body—cold, sweating, fear—an oily, stick-to-your-heart kind. A shadow moved in his periphery. Right. He needed childish moving-shadow fears as much he needed a hole in the head.
Faint voices seeped into his room. He checked his watch. Half past three in the morning. Who would be up and why would there be another man in the house besides himself? Perhaps Cole and Hesper had returned. Careful not to let the door squeak, he peeked into the hall and slipped out. The soft voices came from Dulce’s room, so he crept up to the door, wincing with each step, and listened. David hadn’t heard her voice sound so silvery since the day she fell in love with him. They were not close at this time, but that was the ebb-and-flow nature of relationships. Nothing he ever worried about.
She belonged to him, and the idea of a woman he was intimate with, took care of, and respected, betraying him and sleeping with another man . . . Terrible images came to his mind. Violent ones replaced them. He was prepared to barrel through the door and bruise that slime ball’s kidneys. Screw the pain, he’d do it.
A certain word made the man’s voice recognizable.
Vincent. Vincent with “the fat one.”
He couldn’t take Vincent on when he was this injured. The voices fell silent. Like a whipped puppy, David stepped away from the door and sulked back to his room. He’d have the divorce paper signed in the morning. He had to tolerate Evelyn’s affairs to keep the Kyrios out of his hair, but he wasn’t going to let a woman pull that again.
* * *
Hesper tried to sew. Cole would be fine, but what about her?
Tried to relax. What about her?
Tried to read. She had to trust that he was doing what he must.
Tried to care. She did care.
It was hard to care when he did not. Where was he? He had been gone all night. The short hand barely touched the four. She growled.
I am going to demand someone tell me how clocks work.
Out on the terrace, the sweet smell of the trees greeted her—a reminder of how much she needed them. The soft grass soothed her swollen feet as she approached a mulberry tree and hugged it, resting her forehead against the bark. It was not quite the same as the forest. Perhaps the closeness of many trees, growing wild—not in rows—gave her the peaceful feeling, but this still grounded her.
Grounding. She was a leaf in the wind.
Grounding. She squeezed the tree.
Why was Cole turning away from her so much?
Cheek to the trunk. Grounding.
He was so focused on everything else, but he did not know . . . he did not know what was coming for them.
The friction of the rough bark burned her palms as she slid to the earth. Strength lived in that bark, years of fruitful service, pruning and growth, disease and treatment.
Give some of yourself to me. Let this experience prune me so I may be useful and not a mere doll to be enjoyed.
The Meros did not need her skills. Even Cole did not need her; he wanted her. Was that not enough?
Let me be useful. She closed her eyes. But who am I talking to?
* * *
Challenging Dulce after her lover left was a cowardly move, but the situation required it. David preferred to handle the matter in a civil, legal manner. No fights in the middle of the night. End the thing with dignity.
Before dawn, he took a paper of divorce from the filing cabinet in his office, signed it, and brought it home. He limped up the stairs and through the hallway until he stood at Dulce’s door, then rapped gently a few times. Sleepy and unsuspecting, she answered.
Literally biting his tongue between his molars, David flicked his wrist toward her, offering the paper. She frowned, questioning him with her face as she took the end of her safety and security from his hand. After reading it, innocence and surprise tried to make her look pretty.
Innocent? No, ma’am.
Surprise? That he believed.
"Either go get that guy you were with last night to marry you, or I’ll have you on the auction block in three days so they can’t execute you.”
Vincent only hurt the ones he most enjoyed. Clearly, he hadn’t hurt her, so he either didn’t enjoy her very much or had a deep affection that wasn’t merely sexual. For her sake, David hoped it was the latter. He wasn’t completely merciless. Most men turned their Gentle wives i
n for adultery, after all.
“I’ve done right by you, Dulce, and I don’t see you as a toy. You’re a woman who’s made a choice, and I won’t force you to be with me when your heart and body are elsewhere.”
The sweet and mild Dulce’s face changed. Her jaw set as she shoved the paper into his chest, letting it dip, float, and dive to the floor. The door closed in his face.
* * *
Alone, David sat in the dining room with a bowl of oats drowned in spiced milk. A small glass of orange juice at his right hand, and a soft-boiled egg in a shiny copper cup at his left. Half-way through the meal, Dulce, a streak of pink, rumbled down the stairs, past the dining room entrance, and out the door, which she slammed behind her.
Cool and collected, he enjoyed the rest of his oats and his egg. Lorelei entered the room and began to clear his dishes, so he sat back and watched her work.
"Say, Lorelei, I don’t need this big table anymore. You don’t suppose we can cut it in half and tip it up in such a way that I can eat my meals in a wooden teepee? Then—Oh, no, let’s sell it. I’ll get myself a card table. What do you say? I’ll live the bachelor days of the ordinary little fellows out in the real world.”
Lorelei stood dumbly with a plate in hand. David raised the glass of orange juice, arched an amused eyebrow, and considered her as he sipped. He set the glass down, smiled, and said, "How about you marry me, Lorelei. You’ve always been my true love.”
She blushed and gave him a light smack upside his head.
"I haven’t made you blush in ages! It’s a sign, Lorelei dear. In the east, red is the color of marriage.” He laughed. "You’ve certainly been my first and truest love, Madam, even if not for wedded bliss.”
She shook her head and shuffled off to deliver his dirty dishes to the kitchen.
David leaned on the table and rested his head in his hands, staring into his juice, focused on the pulp at the top. Damn that man. If anyone deserves damnation, it’s Vince. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it’s the idiot staring at pulp.
Thirty-Three | Post-Conquest: 232
After an early morning meeting with the Kyrios, David slid his chair back and rose to leave, but Vincent reached across the table and grabbed his elbow—a silent command to stay. After everyone left, Vincent delivered an icy glare and released him.
Tree of Life Page 28
