by Bobby Adair
Out of three of the doors, she saw other ruins and the backside of a row of houses, all at a distance too far to hear. Opposite that was a field full of brown crops that looked to have been trampled. She knew they hadn't been. They had withered under the weight of the snow that had fallen and mostly melted away. Far across those fields, only the circle wall stood tall in the distance.
"I don't see anyone," Franklin said as he stepped up close to Fitz.
She flinched, turning her cheek to what she thought was a kiss coming her way. She stepped away from arms that were coming up to embrace her and gave Franklin a serious look.
Franklin deflated back into sullenness.
"I don't know what to feel about what you did to Oliver," she told him, her eyes stinging with tears as she remembered Oliver's cries. "In time, I hope we can figure that out."
"How much time?" Franklin asked. "No, it doesn't matter. I feel awful about what happened last night. I'm sure Oliver hates me, and he has every right to. I just wish I could make him understand it was for his own good."
Fitz laughed bitterly. "His own good?" She'd heard that said too many times when a man raised his hand to a child or a woman.
"No," Franklin said, stealing a half step closer. "I didn't mean it like that. Father Winthrop was going to send him to the orphanage, or maybe even the pyre, if I didn't do it." Franklin looked away, shame clear on his face. "He was going to send me to the field. He would have put us both out into the winter to starve."
"You wouldn't have starved," said Fitz.
Nodding, Franklin's voice grew suddenly anxious. "Yes, we would have. What if Minister Beck and Scholar Evan are right? What if famine is coming this winter?" Franklin walked over to the doorway facing the fields. Gray clouds floated across the sky. "The winter will be bad this year. That's what the old people say."
"I didn't know." Fitz shook her head.
"We've talked about the famine before," Franklin said, meekly.
"No," said Fitz. "I didn't know the part about Father Winthrop putting you two out." She started to feel bad. And the pyre? Would Winthrop really have sent Oliver to the pyre for the sin of sneaking out at night and playing in the streets just as all boys his age did? Was Winthrop that cruel? Was he truly that evil?
Fitz admitted to herself that yes, he was.
She'd seen him sit on the dais on every Cleansing day of her life. She'd heard his pious blathering as he condemned women and children to burn. Worst, she'd seen the look on his face as he closed his eyes and turned toward the sky, savoring each shriek as though it was the singing of an angel. Fitz, as a young girl, had always found Winthrop's behavior odd, a bit creepy. It was when she had the misfortune to bring Father Winthrop to his sexual climax that she saw that same face again. It was his face of orgasmic ecstasy.
That horrified her.
Father Winthrop was no human man. He was no unclean demon. He was something else, worse than both. Something wicked, but without a name. He was the truest of evils. He was the monster that masked itself in the blackness of children's dreams. He hid in the shadows of cold root cellars. He lurked in the forest. He was the icy hand that murdered babies in their beds, stealing their breath and leaving them blue-lipped and cold.
To the question of whether Winthrop would burn Oliver at the pyre, the answer was a resounding affirmative. There was no limit to the malevolence of those two yellowish-red eyes that looked out from behind those bulging fat cheeks.
She hated Winthrop as much as she hated The Word.
Involuntarily she snorted to get the memory of the smell of him out of her nose. She spat to get a sudden taste of him out of her mouth.
"Are you okay?" Franklin asked, concerned.
Nodding, Fitzgerald said, "I hate what you did to Oliver, but I understand." Fitzgerald's tears started to flow as she put a hand to her head. "Up here, it makes sense. I can see why you had to do what you did." She put her hand over her heart. "Here, it hurts me too much. It hurts me to think of what you did to poor Oliver. That look on your face as you beat him frightens me. It's as if you had turned into a younger, leaner version of Father Winthrop." Fitzgerald sobbed. "But maybe what hurts the most," she reached out and put a hand on Franklin's cheek, "is that I thought I'd lost the Franklin I care about; that you'd turned into something else. Now I know what you must have been feeling to have to beat your friend like that. It breaks my heart."
Franklin embraced Fitz, not caring if any passersby, playing children, or farmers in the field saw them in the Crooked Box.
Chapter 17: Fitzgerald
When enough tears had fallen, Fitz pushed the emotions aside and pulled away from Franklin so she could dry her wet cheeks on the sleeve of her dress. "What do you know of what's happening with Father Winthrop and General Blackthorn?"
Franklin's face showed his confusion. "I know a great many things, I suppose."
"The army?" Fitz asked. "You do know that General Blackthorn is calling up the militia, right?"
"I—" Franklin started, "I knew the militia was drilling. I've heard bits and pieces. I suspected some things."
"Do you know why?" She asked.
"To keep order if the food runs out?" Franklin said, his answer clearly a guess.
"General Blackthorn is taking the militia to exterminate a horde of demons in the Ancient City."
Franklin's eyes showed a childish wonder at the mention of the Ancient City. To all children in the three townships, the Ancient City was the place of fairy tales and nightmares. All manner of heroes in the stories went there to slay demons. All manner of horrors befell them. He said, "I didn't know."
Fitz said, "He's taking—"
"Wait," said Franklin, surprised, and a little bit irritated. "He talked about all of that while you were in the temple this morning?"
Fitz nodded. She took a moment to explain about Blackthorn's fixation on her, how he'd leered at her through the whole meeting with Winthrop. Once he'd seated her in the pew, however, they'd treated her as if she were deaf. She told Franklin the highlights of the meeting, and finished with, "I always knew in my heart that Father Winthrop was a coward."
Looking nervously out through the doorways again, Franklin said, "Take care when you say such things. The pyre awaits all who misspeak."
"Do you disagree?" Fitz asked. "You've known him longer than anyone. You've been in his company more than anybody."
Franklin pursed his lips, looked around, and whispered, "He's a foul man. If there truly is a creator of men, then I think that creator took all the worst parts a person could be, rolled them into one man, and called it Winthrop."
Fitz half smiled at Franklin's agreement.
"Just be very careful when you utter such things," said Franklin. Getting back on topic, he said, "Why is it important that General Blackthorn is leaving with the militia?" Franklin shrugged. "That is the way of things, is it not?"
Fitz shook her head. "This time it's different. Mind you, I haven't heard the previous conversation, so I've had to piece together some of the gaps. I believe General Blackthorn is taking the cavalry and an army of militiamen bigger than any previously seen. He's taking an army so large that he wants both Minister Beck and Father Winthrop to accompany him."
Franklin asked, "How can you be sure?"
"I can't be sure of the count, I don't have my numbers," said Fitz, embarrassed. "I only know that when they talked of the men going, they talked as if it might be nearly all the men in the three townships."
"That's not possible," said Franklin, dismissively. "Just not possible."
"Most of them, then," Fitz said, defending her point. "You must admit, though, that Blackthorn intends to create an army of enormous scale. That only makes sense if he's decided to take the whole council with him to watch over the men. And the militiamen are already coming to Brighton from the townships. You can't deny that."
Nodding, Franklin didn't say anything. He looked out through the doors and into the distance.
"What do you
think?" Fitz asked. "Does that make sense?"
Franklin nodded again.
"Of one thing I have no doubt," said Fitz.
Franklin turned back to Fitz, giving her his full attention.
"Father Winthrop is afraid to go out beyond the circle wall. He shivers when he talks of getting on a horse and riding beside General Blackthorn."
"That doesn't surprise me," said Franklin.
"Even when General Blackthorn assured him he'd not have to take part in the battles, that he'd remain in the camp to comfort men's souls when they returned from the day's fighting, still Father Winthrop balked. He begged and cried for General Blackthorn to leave him in Brighton."
Franklin smirked. "Father Winthrop should take care with what he says. If a commoner had spoken in that way to General Blackthorn, he'd likely be in the pyre now."
"The threat of the pyre was mentioned," said Fitz. "In the end, I'm afraid Father Winthrop's protests seemed to sway General Blackthorn."
Letting surprise out in his voice, Franklin asked, "He's going to allow Father Winthrop to stay?"
"General Blackthorn allowed that he was going to take time to decide the matter," said Fitz. "Father Winthrop may ride out with the army, or he may remain the last of the three Ministers in Brighton."
Franklin grimaced.
Nodding, Fitz said, "I thought the same."
"Father Winthrop with absolute power," said Franklin. "That would be bad for us all. General Blackthorn is a tyrant, but he's smart. He keeps order. He's consistent. Father Winthrop cannot lead the townships. What would happen if things went badly and General Blackthorn and Minister Beck were killed?"
That was the question that Fitz was leading Franklin to. With what he was already saying, she hoped he'd see the next steps, or at least find within himself the courage to see them.
"If General Blackthorn and Minister Beck get killed out beyond the circle wall," Fitz said, looking around, making sure no one was within sight, "Father Winthrop must be with them. He must suffer the same fate."
Franklin stared at Fitz. His face showed nothing of what he was thinking.
Fitz grew fearful that maybe she'd gone too far, suggesting not only that Father Winthrop might die, but also that he should.
Finally, Franklin nodded and croaked, "I agree."
Fitz wrapped Franklin in her arms and pressed her breasts against his chest while she turned her head to whisper in his ear. "Thank you, Franklin. I was so afraid you wouldn't."
"More than that," said Franklin, whispering back. "Not only do I hope that Father Winthrop goes out with the army, I pray that he doesn't return."
Fitz rubbed her hands over Franklin's shoulders. In her experience, men liked that, the subtle admiration of their strong muscles. It girded their confidence, especially among the young men visiting The House of Barren Women for the first time, full of nervousness to the point they couldn't get aroused. Despite the bluster and dung about strong men with hearts of stone, Fitz knew that those who weren't cruel, the men who'd one day make good husbands, needed their confidence inflated, and once done, that confidence held them up.
She hoped she was helping Franklin with his confidence.
She leaned away from him, but still close enough that they shared the same breaths. Looking into his eyes, she said, "Do you see what we must do?"
Franklin looked back into her eyes, but had no answer.
"I think," she started, "that you and I must do all that we can to ensure Father Winthrop is on a horse beside General Blackthorn on the day the army leaves Brighton for the Ancient City."
Franklin's gaze slipped away. He leaned back and stepped out of the embrace.
Fitz worried.
Franklin started to pace in circles, his eyes shifting about rapidly, his breath quickening.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, not worried by the sudden change. Franklin was getting excited, but trying hard to tamp it down. She knew him well enough to see that. "Tell me."
Franklin stopped in front of her, took her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. Shaking his head, he said, "I don't know if voicing these thoughts makes me as evil as Winthrop, but do you realize what would likely happen if Father Winthrop were to leave?"
Hoping Franklin had the right answer, Fitz said, "Someone would have to take his place in all matters during his absence."
"Me," Franklin said, nodding. "It would make sense to have one of the more senior Fathers from Coventry or Weymouth come to take Father Winthrop's place, which is what would surely happen if he were suddenly to die. But in going, he would be too fearful that one of them might usurp his power and find some way to push him onto the pyre. He'd leave his position to me while he was gone, someone he sees as being too weak to make a political play to oust him."
"And if you are sitting in his place on the council during his absence and he doesn't return? If he dies?" Fitz asked, again hoping Franklin saw the answer she already knew.
"It's not a clear-cut answer, but if I handle political matters correctly, I might be the Bishop when all the maneuvering ends."
"I could help you with those matters," said Fitz. "I understand men in a way you have not yet learned. Together we could make it happen."
Smiling, Franklin said, "Then we would be together, and no one could take you away from me."
"And Brighton would be the better for it," said Fitz. "The people would not suffer with you on the council."
Franklin nodded. "That is what must be done. We must see that Father Winthrop is on that horse."
Chapter 18: Melora
"We should probably look for a place to camp soon," Bray suggested. "Then we can cook the rabbits."
Melora and the others agreed. Having left the grassy plain behind, they continued into the dense forest. William whistled softly as he walked, proudly carrying the rabbits he and Melora had killed. Ella and Melora strode next to each other.
"Thanks for showing him that," Ella said. "I haven't seen him this happy in a while."
"No problem," Melora said. "It'll take practice, but he has talent with the bow. I can see it."
Ella sighed. "I've protected him too much. He's asked to learn in the past, but I was always reluctant. I should've taught him sooner."
"You should both learn," said Bray. "You need to know this."
Ella agreed. "Can you show me, Melora, the next chance we have?"
"Of course," Melora said.
The hunt had restored some of Melora's energy. For a second, she was able to forget about the nagging pit in her stomach. She brushed off her pants, realizing how dirt-stained she was. The smell of soot and ash were constant reminders of the friend she'd lost. She needed to rid herself of the stench.
"We should find a place to bathe," Ella suggested, noticing her discomfort.
Hearing the request, Bray called over his shoulder. "There's a stream nearby. The water will be cold. I probably won't jump in, but if you'd like to rinse off quick, I can take us there. We should probably fill up our water flasks before camping for the night, anyway."
Melora sighed gratefully. It was good to have someone who knew where they were. There was nothing worse than running through the forest without aim, praying for a place of refuge, spending nights in the trees or staying with strange settlers. Several days of that was enough.
Soon, Bray led them down a gulley, taking them to a rocky bank flanked with bubbling, clear water. He bent down and dipped his hands in, slicking back his hair. His eyes were dark and shadowed. His face was stubbled. He looked as exhausted as the rest of them.
"Why don't you bathe while I keep watch?" he offered.
Ella gave him a suspicious look.
"Don't worry. I'll wait up the bank. I won't look," he assured them. Without further conversation, Bray smoothed his hair away from his face and walked to the top of the gulley. True to his word, he didn't glance back. When he was gone, Ella spoke to William and Melora.
"We'll take turns," she said. "You go first, Melora. Willia
m and I will wait."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. You should get the smell of fire off you."
"It's not a natural smell," William said, prompting both Melora and Ella to look at him with questions on their faces. "If we have to hide from the demons, we won't be able to. They'll smell her if they get close."
Melora glanced around the area, convincing herself it was safe. She unslung her bag and set down her weapons. She walked down to the water, submerging her hands. In spite of the cold temperatures, the water calmed her nerves, reminding her of days spent near the Davenport River. She shed her clothes and waded in. The water was cold. Frigid. She watched as the water sluiced away the dirt that seemed to be ingrained on her skin, scrubbing away the remnants of several long, exhausting days.
When she was finished, she donned her clothes and let Ella and William take a turn.
Chapter 19: Franklin
It was late afternoon when Franklin and Fitz walked out of the Crooked Box on their way to find a dress merchant. Fitz was excited. Just days earlier, her life was on the verge of ending on the pyre, her hopes stolen away by Housemother Mary. Now she had a hope of turning her life into more than she ever dreamed.
"How do we do it?" Franklin asked.
Fitz looked at Franklin. "What are you asking?"
"How do we make Father Winthrop go with the army?"
"Either we find some way to convince General Blackthorn to show him no leniency and make him go," said Fitz, "or we find some way to convince Father Winthrop to change his mind and go of his own accord."
Franklin laughed harshly. "We must do one of two impossible things."
Fitz stopped, grabbed Franklin's shoulder, and spun him to face her. "Yesterday morning, if I'd asked if you'd ever beat Oliver bloody, what would your answer have been?"
"That's not the same thing," Franklin argued, shaking his head.
"You would have told me such a thing would never happen," she said definitively. "You would have told me such a thing was impossible."
