Flight of the Outcasts

by Alister E. McGrath

  He gasped for air, trying not to cry out, and felt Julia’s hands on his shoulders. “Peter,” she was saying. “Peter, get up. You have to get up. Let me help you …”

  She was interrupted by the guard, who gave a swift kick to Peter’s side as he growled for him to rise. “Up, scum,” he snarled. “Thought you’d take your time, did you? Thought you’d take a nice stroll back to the mine? On your feet, boy.”

  Peter planted his hands on either side of his shoulders and pushed himself up. The stinging spread like a fire across his arms, bringing another gasp of pain to his lips. Julia had her arms around him and lifted him to his feet, stumbling under his weight.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on. It’s not bad. You have to keep walking.” Peter grunted and took one step, then another, trying to put his mind to anything but the agony in his side and across his shoulders.

  The road to the mine felt ten times as long as it had before. Every shuddering breath was another stab where the guard had kicked him, and the air Peter drew into his lungs seemed even more foul than it had before.

  The smell of sulfur grew stronger as they approached the mines once again. Coming to the end of the path, the guard gave both Peter and Julia a non-too-gentle shove in the direction of the cistern, where the older children were filling their water buckets.

  “To work,” he said. “You won’t be trying to escape again, and if you do you can be sure that the Gul’nog will make you regret it. I’ll be watching,” he promised.

  Peter and Julia bent to pick up buckets that were standing ready by the cistern, dipping them into the stagnant pool. Julia, for her part, could hardly believe how heavy a full pail of water could be, but she looked at Peter and saw that he was hefting the rope handle onto his shoulder. She could see by the way he was gritting his teeth that it was hurting him. A year ago he wouldn’t have been able to do it, she thought. The pain and the weariness would have been too much for him. But when it came to that, a year ago she would have been just as helpless. Julia slung the ropes over her shoulders and, along with her brother, joined the masses of weary prisoners.

  The two children moved among the captive people of Aedyn, lifting ladles full of water to cracked and thirsty lips. With each dipper of water Peter and Julia whispered the good news they brought with them. “The Deliverers have returned. The Lord of Hosts is calling you back. Cry out to him—he is already answering.” At one point Julia thought she saw Alyce, perhaps whispering the same words as she carried her load of earth to the groups of younger children, but she was too far away to be certain. And slowly, slowly, but ever so certainly, the rumor began to spread.

  It was a long, horrible afternoon. The sun beat down upon the baking ground, scorching the earth and all who worked on it. Peter, who had privately fancied that he could stand just about anything, found himself wilting under the unrelenting heat, the welts on his back stinging anew as the ropes from the water bucket cut into the sores. After only an hour his dust-stained clothes had been soaked through with sweat, and he indulged himself in a sip from his own water bucket. The day pressed on into evening, and as the light began to fade Peter could hardly imagine that just last night he had been flying over the sea on the back of a falcon, the wind in his hair and the stars in his eyes.

  He thought that the guards might have worked their prisoners on through the night, but Captain Ceres himself must have realized the foolishness of searching for a hidden object when no one could see two steps in front of him. One of the guards blew a horn, and all around him people laid down their shovels and pails and joined a long line following the road up to the tents. Peter walked slowly, scanning all the faces for some sign of Julia. But every face looked the same in the fading light.

  Finally he spotted her. He never would have recognized her but for her fair hair—nearly everyone in Aedyn and Khemia was dark. Her hair shone even under the dust and sweat of the day, and he hurried to catch up with her.

  “Found you,” he said into her ear, and she turned to give him a tired grin.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, glancing at the tatters of his shirt.

  Peter nodded curtly. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Julia thought that probably he was lying, and reached down to squeeze his hand. “The people are listening, Peter!” she said after a moment, her voice quiet so as not to attract attention. “Well … some. Not all. Some of them are so angry. They say that if the Lord of Hosts existed he would never abandon his people. But the others—they remember what it was like before, and they’re listening.” Her eyes were bright and hopeful, and Peter wondered if she ever got discouraged.

  “We’ll take them back home,” he said, and squeezed the hand that he still held. “Now we just need to find Louisa.”

  There were groans of frustration as the prisoners approached the ridge and found that their shelters had all fallen down in the earthquake. There is perhaps nothing quite so miserable as returning home at the end of a day, eager to lay down your head and rest your eyes, and discovering that there is a great deal of work left to be done. But in the swiftly fading light they set to repairing the tents, for who else would help them?

  Peter and Julia held tight to each other’s hands in the crowd, trying to stay together. And they found Louisa right where they had left her: standing with the sick prisoners, singing softly to them as the repairs went on around them.

  The two come together; the two become one

  With union comes power, control over all

  Flooded by light, the shadow outdone,

  The Host shall return; the darkness shall fall.

  It was the same song they had heard her singing earlier, when they were being marched to the mine. Neither of them knew what the words meant, and wondered how Louisa had come to know them. It wasn’t like any song they’d ever heard at home.

  Peter, not distracted by the music, called out Louisa’s name. She looked up and smiled, seeming relieved to see them. She flipped her stringy braids over her shoulders and ran over.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “You left ages ago, and I thought you might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “No trouble,” said Peter, holding his shoulders stiffly. “We were taken to the mine by a guard after the earthquake.”

  “Were you all right?” asked Julia eagerly. “In the earthquake, I mean?”

  Louisa nodded. “There wasn’t much to fall down on us.” Peter was impressed in spite of himself. Only a day ago she would have had hysterics and fainted. The air of this place must be changing her.

  “Come on,” he said. “There won’t be room for us to sleep here with the prisoners, and I won’t take up a bed that ought to go to someone who needs it more. We’ll camp out in the forest tonight.”

  None of the three was particularly excited at this prospect, but Louisa gathered up a few blankets and they slipped out from the camp to the cover of the trees.

  They found a spot not far from the prisoners’ camp and cleared out the dead leaves and rocks before they lay down. They covered themselves in the threadbare blankets Louisa had brought along. They weren’t much to keep them warm, but they were certainly better than nothing.

  Perhaps you have, at some time in your life, spent a night camping outdoors. Perhaps you had a tent and a fire starter and a good fluffy pillow and plenty of blankets. You might have been kept awake by all of the unusual night sounds of the outdoors but you managed to get a very decent night’s sleep overall.

  Peter, Julia, and Louisa did not have such a good sleep. It was rotten and uncomfortable. They were all three badly in need of a bath and a good meal, for it is nearly impossible to sleep when one’s stomach is growling. Twigs and sharp rocks poked into their backs, and the night air grew distinctly chilly. They huddled close together and pulled the blankets tight around them, but still they couldn’t get properly comfortable.

  At some point during the night—it must have been well after midnight, but of course none of them could be sure—Pete
r rolled over onto his side and stood up. Julia grabbed at his leg.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked urgently.

  “I’m going back to the Captain’s tent,” he replied. “I just want to get another look at those papers that were on his desk. Whatever those guards were talking about sounded important.”

  “Don’t go, Peter,” said Julia. “It’s too dangerous. You’ll be caught.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Stay here. I’ll be back before you know it.” And he slipped away between the trees.

  He moved around the outside edge of the camp, thankful for the light of the full moon that night. He crept behind the makeshift shelters until he found him self back at the Captain’s tent. Those same thunderous snores were coming from deep within, and Peter lifted up one of the tent flaps and stepped inside.

  The Captain wasn’t there, but he could hear him off in another section of the tent. Two guards lay on cots stretched out in front of the desk, but both of them appeared to be sleeping soundly. Peter watched them for a moment, standing still in the doorway with his hand holding up the flap, but once he was satisfied that neither of them would wake, he stepped inside.

  On the desk was the same mess of papers that had been there earlier in the day. He stepped gingerly over to the desk and looked at the papers that lay on top. Lists of names, longer lists of numbers, plans for some sort of building. And then a larger paper, the width of his arm, yellowed and wrinkled with age, the sides curling up on each other as if they were accustomed to being rolled up. Peter slid it out from underneath the others and squinted his eyes, trying to make out the writing on it, but it was too detailed to read in the half-light of the candles in the tent. He rolled it up, being careful not to let the paper crackle, and turned to leave the tent.

  But just as he was going the end of the rolled-up parchment smacked against a glass inkpot that had been sitting on the desk. It knocked the pot with enough force that it fell on its side and then, before Peter could reach out to stop it, rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor. It shattered at once, and dark liquid splashed all over the broken pieces of glass. Both guards woke and leapt to their feet.

  CHAPTER

  11

  It took Peter an instant to react. He stared in horror at the guards, and then, just as one reached out to grab him, he bolted out the door and fled behind the Captain’s tent into the dark woods. He ran and ran, ran for all he was worth, but more than once he felt the brush of hard fingertips against his shoulder blade. Two sets of heavy footsteps matched his every step, never seeming to tire.

  Peter couldn’t see much in front of him—just the dark outlines of trees and rocks in his path. He ducked over and under branches, desperately sucking air into his lungs as he forced his tired limbs forward. And then, all of a sudden, the ground seemed to fall out from under his feet. He stumbled clumsily down a steep ravine, his feet tripping over themselves and the mess of branches on the forest floor. He grappled to find his footing, and, to his relief, heard the guards trying to do the same. Their stumbling bought him another few moments. At last he found the bottom of the ravine and tripped into a few inches of water.

  The river was shallow but swift. He splashed straight through to the opposite bank, listening for the splash of the guards as they too fell into the river. They were a second behind him, but only a second. Reaching the bank, Peter clambered up the side of the ravine, using his hands and feet to grab at anything that would hold him. The guards were falling further behind now: Peter was slight and athletic, and despite their strength the guards’ weight was slowing them down as they climbed. Some sixth sense in Peter understood this, and knowing that they weren’t directly on his heels he swerved sharply to the left.

  Even through the dark of the night he could see the shape of a huge tree coming up in front of him—the trunk so large it would take four men to circle it. Peter ducked to its opposite side and leaned back against it, holding in his breath and trying not to pant. He closed his eyes tight, squeezed his hand around the roll of parchment, and breathed a silent prayer to the Lord of Hosts that he would not be seen.

  The guards had seen him run to the side and had followed, but they soon became disoriented. Ten yards beyond the tree where Peter was hiding they stopped, confused.

  “Where did he go?” one asked the other. “We just had him—he was right here.”

  “Search the trees,” the other replied. “He’s got to be hiding somewhere near here.” In the half-light of the moon that filtered through the trees Peter could see him put his fingers to his lips, and as he waited the guard let out a shrill whistle.

  The sound of it pierced the air, and Peter knew that whatever it signaled would not be kind to him. He watched and waited, listening hard into the darkness.

  As he waited the guards split up and began to comb the area. Peter slowly and cautiously edged his way around to the other side of the tree, still holding his breath. He waited there for what seemed an eternity but could only have been a few minutes, and gradually realized that the guards had moved on, searching deeper into the woods. He breathed a deep sigh of utter relief and turned back the way he had come …

  … Only to be confronted by the hulking form of a Gul’nog.

  It towered over him, its lips curled into a snarl over rotting teeth and its meaty arms poised to kill. Each arm ended in a fist the size of Peter’s head. Peter stood still, not moving, not breathing, clutching the scroll of paper that was crinkled tight in his hand. And then, almost without thinking, he turned on his heel and sprinted off between the trees.

  Peter could feel the hot breath of the Gul’nog on his back, hear the thunderous weight of its feet crashing toward him through the underbrush. Peter ducked under low-hanging branches and leaped over bushes, ducking this way and that between the trees, trying with all his might to stay ahead of the monster. He zigzagged through the woods, turning abruptly to the left or the right to evade the Gul’nog’s claws. His lungs were on fire but he forced himself forward, forced himself to stay those few steps ahead. There was no time for thought, no time for planning. Only one word was left in Peter’s mind: run.

  He ran for what felt like miles, the Gul’nog always close behind. The creature never seemed to tire, swatting aside tree limbs as if they had been nothing more than a tiresome insect. Peter could only be thankful that he was alone—that he didn’t have to wait for the girls to keep up …

  The girls. Julia and Louisa. He was leading the Gul’nog straight toward them!

  Peter spun to the right and sprinted away. There was no path to follow and some corner of Peter’s mind told him that in a few moments he would be hopelessly lost, but still he kept on, steering the Gul’nog away from the place where Julia and Louisa were camped.

  And then, just as Peter felt that his lungs were about to burst, he saw his escape.

  Up ahead a sheer cliff towered over them. The moonlight illuminated its craggy face—the spiny outcroppings, the caves cloaked in shadows, the —

  The cave. Peter could see one, just ahead. It was small, maybe just large enough for him to stand up in, and hidden just at the foot of the cliff. If he could only reach it before the Gul’nog saw it …

  Peter sprinted forward, gaining a stride’s worth of ground on the monster. They came up to the cliff and Peter ducked down into the cave’s opening, looking back just in time to see the Gul’nog running past.

  Peter watched as the creature slowed, then came to a stop as it realized that it had lost its prey. It raised its face to the air and breathed in long and deep, trying to smell him out. Peter shrank back into the recesses of the cave, trying to slow his gasping breaths, certain that the monster would be able to hear the pounding of his heart. But as he watched the Gul’nog started forward once more, heading off into the trees.

  Peter collapsed against the cave wall and buried his face in his knees, trying not to think of what the Gul’nog might have done to him had it caught him. And then, after
a long moment, Peter looked down at the scroll that was still clutched tightly in his sweaty hand.

  He unrolled the long piece of parchment on the floor of the cave, squinting down at the lines of ink that made this paper so important to the Khemians. They’d spoken of some sort of prophecy—there, at the top, was that some sort of writing? But the shadows of the cave made it impossible to see: moonlight could not penetrate here. So Peter hurriedly rolled the parchment back up, stuck the roll in his belt, and sat back to wait.

  He should have been tired. He hadn’t had a full night’s rest since Christmas Eve, after all. But Peter couldn’t shut his eyes. There was too much to wonder about, too many strange new noises to listen to, and too many questions to ponder. So he stayed wide awake, looking out into the dark forest and breathing that stagnant air, waiting until he could be quite sure that the guards and the Gul’nog had gone back to their camp.

  When he was certain that he was safe, Peter crept out of the cave on his hands and knees, looking all around to be certain that nothing sinister was waiting for him. Seeing nothing but long shadows, he rose to his feet and began the long journey back to the camp.

  He had become disoriented in the long flight from the Gul’nog, and he might never have found his bearings in the dark had it not been for the volcano. Looking up through the trees, looking for anything familiar, Peter could see the giant plume of smoke, punctuated by bright flashes of lightning, rising to the sky.

  Noting the direction of the volcano, Peter put a hand into his pocket and took out his father’s compass. He flipped open the top, realizing as he did so that it was still too dark to see. Finding a patch of moonlight between the trees he squinted at the tiny dial. West, he decided. He would have to head west.

  He crept along, keeping to the shadows and trying to keep as silent as he possibly could. He trod slowly when he reached the brook, barely lifting his feet above the water and trying not to splash. He climbed back up the sloping side of the ravine and, after a long walk through the trees during which he lost his way not once but twice, found himself back at the camp.