The Achawuk gathered on the shoreline, cheering, as Packer Throme, their Tannan-thoh-ah, was rowed to them in the ship’s tiny shallop. They called out to their much-missed Zhintah-Hoak, now returning to his homeland, when finally they recognized him. He was dressed in a suit, a bow tie under his neck, looking proud and pleased.
But Packer couldn’t find his beloved priest among the Achawuk. He scanned the crowd, growing more and more concerned, until by the time his feet trod the sandy beaches, he feared the worst.
“Welcome, Packer Throme, my king,” a sunny voice called out. Packer followed it to its source, and blinked. Yes, it was Father Mooring. But his hair had grown out, as had his beard. He wore no shirt, and his skin was tanned and brown as an acorn. He wore only what the other Achawuk wore. He stepped toward Packer, and embraced him.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have worn my best loincloth,” he said with a grin.
Panna was immensely releived to feel solid earth under her feet again. When she felt better, they toured the islands, meeting all of Father Mooring’s new friends. A few had come to faith, just a handful so far, but Father Mooring seemed not the least bit discouraged. The king and queen worshipped with them in an open-air church two consecutive Sundays, on a solitary stretch of beach with a wooden cross erected in the shade. The services were conducted in Achawuk. Very, very slowly. They sang their songs of worship in the Achawuk tongue, to Achawuk tunes. The priest had decided early on that God had come to visit these people, not the other way around. After a two week stay, Packer and Panna sailed home to Nearing Vast. They would never again see Father Bran in this life.
After two decades, a town called Mayakaloh appeared as a small dot on the Vast Chart of the Seas. After two more the town became an established port of call. But it never did become a part of Nearing Vast. The Achawuk remained the Achawuk. Father Mooring lived out his days among them, revered as friend, and teacher, and as a faithful priest of the Most High God.
The House of Throme left many imprints of note, as it became more and more enmeshed in the heart and soul of Nearing Vast. On the first anniversary of Varlotsville, the people of that small town gathered at noon, and knelt in the square, surrendering once again to God and thanking Him for the victory over the Drammune.
On the second anniversary, word had gotten out, as it almost always did, and the king came to participate. The occasion then spread throughout the City of Mann. By the fifth anniversary, it was a national holiday, known as Kneeling Day, and everyone left off whatever they were doing, mostly leisure activities now, picnics and parades, in order to bow the knee at noon, and surrender once again to the God who defeated enemies. By the twentieth anniversary, pubs opened at nine in the morning and didn’t close until well past midnight. A century later, most of the kneeling done that day was in shrubs by those who had overimbibed. But the day was remembered, nonetheless.
Much of the Western Wilderness was settled during Packer’s reign, in no small part due to the storied handiwork of two grizzled men who ventured west, the Hammersfold brothers. They overcame giant bears and giant men, driving them yet farther west. Or so the legend went. And the kingdom expanded.
The House of Sennett, true to its checkered past, found a mixed place in history. The former king and queen, Reynard and Maeveline, made their peace with Packer and Panna and lived out their days, if not happily, at least peaceably within the Mountain House. Prince Ward wandered back and forth from rake to valued confidant, until finally his excesses wore him out. He put away the ale for good, married, and then lived a quiet life of civil service. He happily and capably led projects large and small, and helped rebuild the honor and the strength of Nearing Vast.
Princess Jacqalyn, by contrast, went to prison, where she railed at everything and everyone until she drove herself quite mad, after which she lived in relative comfort in an asylum among the trees, now regrown, not far from the Hollow Forest.
Mather Sennett found honor in death that he had never earned in life. Having revealed publicly his indiscretions, neither Packer nor Panna would ever say a word against him again. He was “my honored predecessor,” and though he was king for but a day, Packer always pointed out that it was a truly glorious day in the history of the nation. Mather forever showed the spirit of the Vast, a spirit of sacrifice, and of love, and of humility. And as such he was an example for all generations.
The Church prospered once again, under new and humbler leadership. Usher Fell and Harlowen “Hap” Stanson, stripped of all their titles, left this world side by side, their exit gate a trap door in the gallows on the Green. It was a grim and searing lesson for the many witnesses on hand, but one that carried with it the knowledge that in Nearing Vast, at last, power and prestige could not substitute for upright character, and evil deeds would have evil consequences.
Dog Blestoe returned to Hangman’s Cliffs, but not to his fishing boat. He had no grip left in his hands. But once or twice a year he was summoned to the palace and asked for his advice. He always grumbled, as he fingered the coins in his pocket, coins he sorely needed. “The kingdom will come to ruin,” he’d say aloud, to any who’d listen to him there in Cap’s pub, “when kings pay that kind of coin for nothing but half an hour of idle talk with old fishermen.” But he not would abide another soul to speak ill of the king.
Smith Delaney was immediately and forever hailed a national hero to the Vast, the man who finally slew the assassin Talon, the evil Hezzan of the Drammune, and saved the king from certain death. Delaney could not be bought enough mugs of ale, or hailed often enough in the streets, or patted on the back too much by total strangers. Far worse, he discovered to his chagrin that suddenly, many intricate women seemed to find him quite, quite delightful.
“I’d be pleased if ye just kept me assigned to ship, and not to shore,” he told his king in confidence. “I wasn’t made to be so toasted a man as it seems I’ve now become.” The king understood, and assigned his faithful friend to the Legend, the spitting image of the great cat they both loved, captained now by Andrew Haas. So Delaney sailed the rest of his life through. And when he had finally sailed his last, he was buried among the Thromes and the Selines, with all due honors, high on Hangman’s Cliffs.
Then finally, one perfect spring day when the songbirds sang and the smell of new flowers, honeysuckle and lilac, drifted through the palace, Packer Throme, now ancient and infirm, breathed his last. Panna held his hand, her chair pulled up close, her hands brindled with age but firm and sure and comforting. The king’s children, and their children, and their children yet again, gathered around his bed in the royal hospital, doors and windows thrown open wide, hearts thrown open wider yet. Tears rained. Small voices asked, “What’s wrong with Grandpapa, Momma?”
And older, gentle voices answered, “He’s gone to heaven, dear one. He’s gone on to see his King.”
“He has a king?”
“Oh, yes. Our King Packer serves a great and noble King, much greater than he ever was. As do we all.”
And Queen Panna laid her head down on her husband’s shoulder, and her frail body shook. Then the family melted away, leaving her with her Packer, her one true love.
“Sleep well,” she told him, stroking his scarred hand, the noble signet loose on his forefinger. She touched his peaceful face, his cheek, his beard, now white and thin. “Rest. And then rise, young and strong again. And hold a place for me.” For this world had suddenly grown very small, and cold, and distant. “I miss you already.” And her tears flowed.
And when her aged eyes had seen a grateful nation pay its last respects, when throngs of mourners, hearts afire, trailing the royal bier as though each one had lost a father or a grandfather or a great-grandfather, when her hands had clenched the dirt in the small cemetery high above the seas, and she had scattered the fragrant loam that was the final blanket drawn up over a king’s last bed, when all her sons and daughters, and all their sons and daughters, wives and husbands, and all their children had comforted
their Grandmamma as best they could, then Queen Panna of Nearing Vast lay down her toils, and released her spirit, and joined hands once again with her beloved, the two of them now young and strong and vibrant again, forever.
And the Firefish? They never did return to the mayak-aloh. They were never seen again.
And yet, they never quite disappeared. Even many, many years later, when these remarkable events had dimmed almost to darkness, distant names and dates for Vast schoolchildren grudgingly to recite, an occasional flame still flickered. Something was seen in the water here, far under a bottomless lake. Something lurked in the ocean there, where a ship had strangely disappeared.
And then the children’s eyes would widen, and their hearts would race.
The End.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George Bryan Polivka was raised in the Chicago area, attended Bible college in Alabama, and ventured on to Europe, where he studied under Francis Schaeffer at L’Abri Fellowship in Switzerland. He then returned to Alabama, where he enrolled at Birmingham-Southern College as an English major.
While still in school, Bryan married Jeri, his only sweetheart since high school and now his wife of more than 25 years. He also was offered a highly coveted internship at a local television station, which led him to his first career—as an award-winning television producer.
In 1986, Bryan won an Emmy for writing his documentary A Hard Road to Glory, which detailed the difficult path African-Americans traveled to achieve recognition through athletic success during times of racial prejudice and oppression.
Bryan and his family eventually moved to the Baltimore area, where he worked with Sylvan Learning Systems (now Laureate Education). In 2001 he was honored by the U.S. Distance Learning Association for the most significant achievement by an individual in corporate e-learning. He is currently responsible for developing and delivering new programs for Laureate’s online higher education division.
Bryan and Jeri live near Baltimore with their two children, Jake and Aime, where Bryan continues to work and write.
Be sure to visit his website at www.nearingvast.com.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
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To learn more about Harvest House books and to read sample chapters, log on to our website:
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
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READ MORE FROM GEORGE BRYAN POLIVKA
Blaggard’s Moon
(a prequel to The Trophy Chase Saga)
From the author of the highly praised Trophy Chase Saga comes this exciting swashbuckling tale of a pirate sentenced to die for the crime of mutiny.
As he awaits his fate, this pirate (none other than the delightful Smith Delaney from the Trophy Chase Saga) ponders his life and the events that have brought him to this fate.
In the process of remembering, and in grappling with mercy and justice as they have been played out in his life, a tale is spun, a tale of true hearts wronged, noble love gone awry, dark deeds done for the sake of gold, and sacrifices made for love. In the end, our pirate will come face–to–face with himself, with his own death, and with a God who promises grace where none is deserved.
Readers of Christian fantasy will once again be swept away by Bryan Polivka’s compelling storytelling abilities. As Publisher’s Weekly said of the author’s first book, “readers will be flipping pages eagerly.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 125
