A Knight of the Word

by Brooks, Terry

  He lurched to his feet, an effort that left him dizzy and weak. It was as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He was like a child. She helped him over to the window, and he peered out into the rainy darkness.

  `There; she said, pointing, `at the back of the building, in the basement windows:

  Slowly his vision focused on the dark, squarish bulk of the shelter. At first he didn't see anything. Then he caught a flicker of something bright and angry against a pane of glass, low, at ground level. He waited a moment, saw it again. Flames.

  He braced himself on the windowsill and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. `Call 911. Tell them to get here right away.' He squinted against the gloom, peering down the empty streets of Pioneer Square. `Why hasn't the fire alarm gone off?'

  She was on the phone behind him, lost in the dark. `That's what I wondered. That's why I didn't call it in right away. You'd think if there was a fire, the alarm . . . Hello? This is Stefanie Winslow at 2701 Second Avenue. I want to report a fdire at Fresh Start. Yes, I can see it from where I'm standing . .'

  She went on, giving her report to the dispatcher. John Ross moved away from the window to find his clothes. He tried a light switch and couldn't get it to work, gave up, and dressed in the dark. He was still weak, still not functioning as he should, but the rush of adrenaline he had experienced on realising what was happening had given him a start on his recovery. He pulled on jeans, shirt, and walking shoes, not bothering with socks or underwear, anxious to get moving. There should be someone on duty at the centre. Whoever it was should have detected the smoke-should have answered the phone, too, when Stef called over to see what was wrong.

  She was hanging up the phone behind him and heading for the door. `I've got to get over there, John!' she called back to him as she swept out into the living room.

  `Stef, wait!'

  `Catch up to me as quick as you can! I'll wake as many people as I can find and try to get them out!'

  The door slammed behind her. Cursing softly, he finished tying the laces of his shoes, stumbled through the darkness to the front closet, pulled on his all-weather coat, grabbed the black walking stick, and followed her out.

  He didn't waste time on the elevator, which was notoriously slow, heading instead for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could manage with his bad leg, hearing her footsteps fading ahead of him followed by the closing of the stairway door below. His mind was clearer now, and his body was beginning to come around as well. He limped down the stairs in a swift shamble, using the walking stick and the railing for support, and he was into the entryway and out the front door in moments.

  Rain beat down in torrents, and the streetlights were murky and diffuse in the storm-swept gloom. Second Avenue was deserted and eerily quiet. Where were the fire engines? He left the sidewalk and crossed through the downpour, head lowered against gusts of wind that blew the rain into his face with such force that he could barely make out where he was going.

  Ahead, he watched Stefanie's dark figure pause at the front door of the shelter. pounding at it, then fumbling with her keys to release the lock. The building was dark, save for a glimmer of night-lights in the upper dormitories and front lobby. Inside, everything was silent and still.

  Then the front door was open and Stef was inside, disappearing into the gloom. As he drew nearer, he saw rolling grey smoke leaking from the basement windows and the front entry, escaping the building to mix with the mist and rain outside. His chest tightened with fear. In an old building like this, a fire would spread quickly. He shouted after Stefanie, trying to warn her, but his words were blown away on the wind.

  He reached the front door, still open from Stef's entry, and rushed inside. The interior was murky with smoke, and he could barely see well enough to make his way across the lobby to the hallway and the offices beyond. The stairway door to the upper floors was open, and he could hear shouts and cries from above. He coughed violently, covered his mouth with his wet sleeve, and tried to find some sign of the night manager. He couldn't remember who had the duty this week, but whoever it was, was nowhere to be found. He searched the length of the hallway and all the offices without success.

  The basement door was closed. Smoke leaked from its seams, and it was hot to the touch. He ignored his instincts and wrenched it open. Clouds of smoke billowed forth, borne on a wave of searing heat. He shouted down the stairs, but there was no response. He started down, but the heat and smoke drove him back. He could see the flames spreading along the walls, climbing to the higher floors. Wooden tables, filing bins and cabinets, records and charts, and even the stairway were burning.

  He slammed the door shut again, backing away.

  There were footsteps on the stairway behind him, r_he women and children coming down from the upper floors. He limped over to meet them so that he could direct them to the front door. Then appeared out of the gloom, dim shapes against the haze of smoke. They stumbled down in ones and twos, coughing and cursing in equal measure, the children clinging to their mothers, the mothers clinging back, the women without children helping both, the whole bunch wrapped in robes and coats and even sheets. The smoke was growing thicker and the heat increasing. He shouted at them to hurry, urging them on. He tried to count heads, to determine how many had come out so he could know how many were still inside. But he couldn't remember the number in residence, and he didn't know how many might have been admitted that afternoon after he left. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three - they were filing past him in larger groups now, bumping up against one another in their haste to get out. Thirty-five, thirty-six. There had to be at least ninety, probably more like a hundred.

  He peered through the haze, feeling the heat grow about him, seeing red flickers from down the hallway at the back of the building. The fire was climbing through the air vents.

  There was still no sign of Stef.

  Sirens screamed up to the front doorway, and firefighters clad in flame-retardant gear rushed inside in a knot. Ross was down on one knee now, coughing violently, eyes burning with the smoke, head spinning. They reached out for him and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to resist, barely able to keep hold of his staff.

  Hoses were being dragged through the doorway, and he could hear the sound of glass being broken.

  `Who else is in here?' he heard someone ask.

  He shook his head. `More women and children . . . upstairs. Stef is up there ... helping them: He retched violently and doubled over. A night manager.. . somewhere:

  They hauled him outside into the cool, rainy night, propped him against the side of an ambulance, and gave him oxygen. He gulped it down greedily, his eyes gradually beginning to clear, his sight to return. Knots of women and children huddled all around him, shivering in the cold night air.

  His gaze settled on Fresh Start. Flames were climbing the exterior of the walls, shooting out of the second- and third-story windows.

  Stef!

  He lurched to his feet and tried to push his way hack inside, but hands closed tightly on his arms and shoulders and pulled him back again. `You cant do that, sir; a voice informed him quickly. `Get back now, please:

  Windows exploded, showering the street with shards of glass. `But she's still in there!' he gasped frantically, trying to make them understand, fighting to break free.

  More women and children were being hustled out, escorted by firefighters. A hook and ladder truck had rolled into position, and the extension was being run up toward the roof. Police cars had arrived to protect the firefighters and control traffic, and there were flashing lights everywhere. At the fringe of the action, a crowd was gathering to watch from behind cordoned lines. The mix of rain and hydrant water had turned the streets to rivers.

  Still struggling, Ross was moved back to the makeshift shelter, overpowered by the combined weight of his protectors. Fear and anger swept through him in a red haze, and he felt himself losing control.

  Stef! He had to go back in for Stef !

 
; And then she appeared, stumbling out the smoke-filled doorway of the shelter, a small child clutched in her arms. Firefighters clustered around her, taking charge of the child, moving both of them away from the blaze, the building behind them bright with flames.

  Ross broke free of the restraining hands and went to her. She collapsed into his arms, and they sank to the rain-soaked pavement.

  `Stet; he murmured in relief, hugging her tightly.

  `It's all right, John,' she whispered, nodding into his shoulder, firefighters rushing past them in dark knots, hoses trailing after like snakes. `It's all right:

  Fresh Start burned for another hour before the Fire was extinguished. The blaze did not spread to the nearby buildings, but was contained. The shelter was a total loss. All of the women and children housed in the building were safely evacuated, in large part because of Stef's quick action in getting to them before the blaze spread to the sleeping rooms.

  Only the night manager did not escape. His ruined body was found in the basement, lying near the charred filing cabinets and records bins. It took only a short time to make a tentative identification. It was a man, not a woman, and Ray Hapgood had been on duty and was unaccounted for.

  It was three in the morning when Ross and Stef re-entered their apartment and closed the door softly behind them. They stood holding each other in the darkness for a long time, breathing into each other's shoulders in the silence, saying nothing. Ross could not stop thinking about Ray.

  `How could this have happened?' he whispered finally, his voice still tight with shock.

  Stef shook her head and said nothing.

  `What was Ray doing there?' he pressed, lifting his head away from her shoulder to look at her. `It wasn't his duty. He was supposed to go out to his sister's in Kent. He told me so:

  Her fingers tightened on his arms. `Let it go, john:

  A stubborn determination infused him. `I don't want to let it go. Who had the duty tonight? Who?'

  She lifted her head slightly and he could see the angry welts and bruises on her face. 'Simon makes up the list, John. Ask him:

  'I'm asking you. Who had the duty?'

  She blinked back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.. `You did. But when you went home sick, Ray offered to fill in''

  He stared at her in disbelief. He had the duty? He couldn't remember it. Why hadn't he known? Even before he was sick, why hadn't he known? It should have been posted. It must have been. He was certain he had looked at the list. So why didn't he remember seeing his name?

  He felt worn and defeated. He stood in the dark holding Stef and looking into her eyes, and for the first time in a long time he was uncertain about everything. `Did you see my name?'

  `John . . '

  `Did you, Stef?'

  She nodded. `Yes: She touched his face. `This isn't your fault, John. Just because you weren't there and Ray was doesn't mean its your fault'

  He nodded because that was what she expected him to do, but he was thinking that it felt like it was his fault, just as it had felt like it was his fault at San Sobel. Any failure of responsibility or neglect of duty belonged to him, and nothing could change that. He closed his eyes against what he was feeling. Ray Hapgood had been his friend, his good friend, and he had let him die.

  `John, listen to me' Stef was speaking again, her face close to his, her body pressing against him in the darkness. `I don't know why this happened. I don't know how it happened. No one does. Not yet. So don't go jumping to conclusions. Don't be shouldering the blame until you know the face. I'm sorry Ray is dead. But you didn't kill him. And if it had to be someone, I would rather it ryas him than you'

  He opened his eyes, surprised by her vehemence. `Stef'

  She shook her head emphatically. `I'm sorry, but that's how I feel'

  She kissed him hard, and he kissed her back and held her tightly against him. `I just can't believe he's gone' He whispered, his hand stroking her slender back.

  `I know'

  They held each other for a long moment, and then she led him to the bedroom. They undressed in the dark and crawled into the bed and held each other again in the cool of the sheets, The streets beyond their window were silent and empty. All the fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and bystanders were gone. The rain lad faded away, and the air was damp and cold in the wake of its passing. Ross hugged Stef's smooth body against his own and listened to the soft, velvet sound of her breathing.

  `I could have lost you tonight,' he whispered.

  She nodded. `But you didn't'

  `I was scared I had' He took a long, slow breath and let it out. `When you were inside, bringing out the last of those children, and I saw the flames climbing the walls, I thought for sure I had'

  `No, John,' she whispered, kissing him gently, over and over, 'you won't lose me ever. I promise. No matter what, you won't lose me'

  The dream comes swiftly, a familiar acquaintance he wishes now he had

  never made. He stands once more on the hillside south of Seattle, watching as the city burns, as the hordes of the hold swarm through the collapsed defences and begin their ritual of killing and destruction. He sees the battle taking place on the high bridge where a last, futile defence has been mounted. He sees the steel and glass towers swallowed inflames. He sees the bright waters of the bay and sound turn red in the reflected glare.

  He finds he is cold and indifferent to what he witnesses. He is detached in a way he cannot explain, but seems perfectly normal in his dream, as if he has been this way a long time. He is himself and at the same time he is someone else entirely.

  He pauses to examine this phenomenon and decides he has changed dramatically from when he was a Knight of the Word. He is a Knight no longer, but he remembers when he was. Oddly, his memories are tinged with a wistfulness he can't quite escape.

  Before him, Seattle burns. By nightfall, it will have ceased to exist. Like his old life. Like the person he once was.

  There are people huddled about him, and they glance at him fearfully when they think he is not looking. They are right to fiat him. He holds over them the power of life and death, They are his captives. They are his to do with as he chooses, and they are anxious to discover what he had planned for them. The exercise of such power is a curious feeling because it both attracts and repels him. He wonders in a vague sort of way how begot to this point in his life.

  From the long, dark span of the high bride, bodies tumble into an abyss of smoke and fire like rag dolls. Their screams cannot be heard.

  The old man approaches, as he has approached each time in the dream, and points his bony finger at Ross and whispers in his hoarse, ruined voice, 'l know you.'

  Get away from me, Ross orders in disgust and dismay, not wanting to hear the words he will speak.

  'I know you,' the old man repeats, undeterred, the bright light of his madness shining in his strange, milky eyes. 'You are the one who killed him. I was there.'

  Ross stands his ground because he cannot afford to turn away. His captives are watching, listening, waiting for his response. They will measure his strength accordingly. The old man sways as if be were a reed caught in a stiff wind, stick-thin and ragged, his mind unbalanced, his laughter filled with echoes of his shattered life.

  Get away from me, Ross says once more.

  The Wizard of Oz! You killed him! I remember your face! I saw you there, in the glass palace, in the shadow of the tin woodman, in the Emerald City, on All Hallows' Eve' You killed the wizard of Oz! You killed him! You!

  The words fade and die, and the old man begins to cry softly. Oh, God, it was the end of everything!

  Ross shakes his head. It is a, familiar litany by now. He bas heard it before, and he turns away in curt dismissal. It is all in the past, and the past no longer matters to him.

  But the old man, presses closer, insistent. I saw you. I watched you do it.I could not understand. He was your friend. There was no reason!

  There was a reason, he thinks to himself though be can
not remember it now.

  But, the young woman! The old man on his knees, his head hanging doglike between his slumped shoulders. What reason did you have for killing her?

  Ross starts, shaken now. "what young woman?'

  Couldn't you have spared her? She was just trying to help. She seemed to know you . . .

  Ross screams injury and shoves the old man away. The old man tumbles backward into the mud, ,gasping in shock. "Shut up" Ross screams at him, furious, dismayed, because now he remembers this, as well, another part of the past he had thought buried, a truth he had left behind in the debris of his conversion . . .

  Shut up, shut up, shut up!

  The old man tries to crawl away, but he has crossed a line he should not have, and Ross cannot Forqive him his trespass. He strides to where the old man cringes, already anticipating the punisLment he will deliver and he lifts the heavy black staff and brings it down like a hammer. . .