Rise

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Richard was at the front door now, so she kept going, circling around the side, past a couple of trash cans—empty and chained to the wall—to a chain-link gate that led to a tiny yard in the back. The chain hung loose, so she pushed it open and crept into the shadows behind the house. There was no sign of inhabitants back here either. Her feet crunched on snow, and she banged on the back window just in case.

  “April,” Richard’s voice came from around the side, “we should go. No one’s here.”

  She wanted to argue, but he was right.

  Worse, when she tried to reach out for Nick, she could still feel distress—but she had no idea how to find him.

  Voices on the other side of the house grabbed her attention—Richard talking to someone who sounded agitated. She came around to the front, into the headlight beams, and shielded her eyes to see Richard talking to a woman in a ratty coat. He waved for her to get into the car, so she did, and waited. He joined her after a few minutes.

  “What was that about?” April asked.

  “The landlady. Thought we were a couple of burglars. She lives across the street.”

  “Does she know where they are?”

  In the dim light, April could make out concern on Richard’s face. “Not here.”

  “We could see that for ourselves.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Richard said. “April, she says they haven’t lived here in two months.”

  “What?”

  “Shelley was behind on her rent; the landlady evicted her. She doesn’t know where she went. Says she hasn’t seen her around here since.”

  “Why didn’t Nick tell us?” April said. “On his last visits . . . he made it sound like they came here.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Her breath was starting to come a little faster.

  “It’s okay,” Richard said.

  “No, it’s not. He’s practically been lying to us; that’s a bad sign, Richard. And you should have seen him before this visit . . . and I can still feel him. He’s in trouble. Where . . .”

  “Can you tell where he is?”

  “Of course I can’t!” The words burst out of her. “You know it doesn’t work like that!”

  “I’m not sure we know how ‘it’ works as well as we think we do. I just thought I’d ask.”

  His hand was on her shoulder—she didn’t know when he’d put it there. Panic rose in her, and for once it wasn’t accompanied by the heat in her soul—and for once, she wished it was. That heat was power, and right now, she needed power.

  “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Come on, come on, come on . . .”

  “April, it’s all right. We’ll find him.” She heard the words he wasn’t actually saying: Calm down. You need to calm down.

  Why? Was he afraid of her? Afraid of the heat, of the fire?

  But it wasn’t going to burn. It wasn’t there. Wasn’t there now that she needed it most, now that she wasn’t afraid of it. Or at least, now that her need outweighed her fear.

  “Okay, think, Richard,” Richard said. Talking out loud at least as much to calm her down as to keep himself focused, but she appreciated it even though she saw through the action. “How do we find them? She’s been living somewhere—so we check rentals and find out if she rented somewhere else. Only places that would be willing to rent to someone with bad credit.”

  “Or she’s staying with someone else,” April said. “Maybe her ex.”

  “Husband?” Richard asked.

  “That’s who I meant,” April said, her stomach sinking. But the question brought up the possibility that Shelley had just moved in with some other boyfriend, past or present. And who knew where that might be.

  “I can start calling around from the office first thing in the morning,” Richard said.

  “I don’t want to wait that long.”

  “Neither do I. But I’m not going to reach anyone tonight.”

  April closed her eyes, her hands braced on the dashboard. She reached out, trying to find him—encountering the sense of distress once again, a sense shrouded in fear. Whether Nick was afraid or she was just feeling her own fear in response to him, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t calm herself down any more than she already had. This all felt too raw. Too personal.

  Too much like she herself was in trouble, with all of her nerves open and expecting a battering.

  And then, small and fainter than a whisper, came a question: Where would you be?

  And the answer was easy.

  Running.

  If she were in Nick’s shoes, she would be running.

  And if he was in this town, she knew where he would go. She doubted he could find his way up to the cell house in the dark—too many unfamiliar streets between their neighbourhood and wherever he was. But he could run toward the bay. All he had to do was follow the sloping streets straight down.

  And if he got there, she thought she knew where he would go.

  “The pub,” she said. “Can we go to the pub? I think he’s running. I think he’ll go there.”

  Richard was already backing into the street. “On our way.”

  The lights on the streets increased as they got closer to the harbour. April counted as they drove, letting the numbers keep her focused, and her eyes searched the streets for a small, skinny form pelting toward the bay—running, like she’d seen him do so many times before. Before he was one of theirs. Before she cared so much about him that she could taste his need now, like a bitterness constricting her throat. She wanted him to be sitting beside her, pestering her with questions about drawing and Oneness and fires.

  Oh, fires.

  They were on the street that ran along the wharf, and Richard slowed down so they could scan the streets and shadows more thoroughly. There wasn’t much traffic down here at this hour—most of the businesses were still open, but only a handful of patrons were abroad.

  Richard pulled up in front of the pub, and April jumped out of the car and pushed through the front door into the noisy glow of the place. Nick wouldn’t be allowed inside at this hour, especially not on his own, but he was a decent hand at sneaking in.

  No sign of him.

  But his dad was there.

  April had run into Nick’s father once or twice in the days before he came and joined them at the cell house. It had always been here, sitting at that bar, where he’d usually had too much to drink. He wasn’t a big man, or an especially mean one, but his relationship with Shelley was rocky enough to make for a volatile life together.

  April pushed her way up to him at the bar and asked without preamble, “Do you know where Nick is?”

  “What?” he asked, his eyes opening wide in surprise and then narrowing at her. “I remember you. You’re that . . .”

  “Please, I just need to know—have you seen Nick?”

  “Ain’t you his guardian now? Doesn’t he live with you?”

  “He does, but he was visiting his mother.”

  He thumped a half-empty stein on the bar. ‘And you expect me to know where he is? Ain’t seen her in months. She replaced me with some good-for-nothing—”

  “Who?” April asked. “Do you know his name? Or where he lives?” She forced herself to sound calmer. “Shelley didn’t bring Nick back to me, and I’m . . . concerned about him. I’m trying to find out where he might be.”

  Nick’s dad—Toby, she remembered—leaned back and regarded her skeptically for what seemed like an eternity. His seat on the barstool looked a little unsteady, and she silently prayed that he wasn’t too drunk to know what she was asking.

  Finally he said, “Guy’s name is Sanders. Tom Sanders.”

  “Does he live here in town?”

  “No, up the coast a ways. Takes a couple of days to get there. He’s a fisherman. Works up and down the bay.”

  April’s heart sank even farther. A couple of days? Why hadn’t Nick told them Shelley was taking him so far? Assuming, of course, that she had taken him there before and that she h
adn’t held visitation in some more local halfway place.

  “Is Shelley living with him?” she asked.

  “For the last three months. Don’t ask me why. I tried to be good to her. Woman can’t be pleased.”

  “And Nick?” April asked, her voice shaking slightly. “You think he’s safe with them?”

  “He’s a tough kid.” But Toby’s eyes betrayed some worry. “He’s been through more than he should, probably. I don’t know Sanders, if he’s violent or not. Shelley always had bad taste in men.”

  Nodding, at the irony of the comment and in recognition that Toby had told her all he could, April pulled away. “Thank you.”

  “You going to find my kid?”

  She gave him a grim smile. “We’re going to try.”

  Chapter 15

  The day after the wave of miracle healing, several of the villagers fell ill again. It didn’t take long before the disease reestablished its hold. Some of the healed had gone home; Teresa hoped they were still well. In any case, they never reappeared at the castle. But of those who had stayed, more than half were stricken again, and the servants were soon back to their unhappy service. The painting of Tildy remained in the courtyard, and some of the sick agitated to be positioned where they could see it, but it was as though the power was gone. Franz Bertoller, grim and stolid, said nothing to Teresa either about the healings or about the subsequent relapse.

  Teresa herself alternated between resignation and feeling crushed.

  She didn’t know what had happened the day before—other than that it had manifested the Spirit, his glory, his personhood. She had seen him. And she would never forget the sight. But the miracle had not been under her control, and neither was this reappearance of disease under her control. She was helpless. And hated that fact.

  Caring for the sick on that first day after the miracle was no easier than it had been before. As some of the victims cursed and wept bitter tears, even so caring for them was bitter.

  Teresa worked that day till she thought her back would break, and in the end refused to go back to her quarters. She simply could not. Instead, she retired to the chapel, lit candles, and knelt to pray all night.

  This time, with the image of a bright man in her mind’s eye, holding sword and wineskin.

  Teresa had long ago learned to function on only a few hours of sleep; her spirit was stronger than her flesh, and if she was troubled in spirit, or wanted to seek after the Spirit who sustained hers, sleep would elude her. Her body ached with exhaustion as she dropped to her knees, but she knew she would not doze, even in the soft light of the candles. She lit incense and let its fragrance rise, beckoning her soul to join it.

  She did not anticipate the vision, but it came. And changed everything in an instant.

  * * *

  Tildy met Teresa in the castle corridor as she hurried over the flagstones in the early morning intent on confronting Franz Bertoller. The girl looked worried, and she reached out to clutch Teresa’s arms as she spoke.

  “Where are you rushing to, my lady?”

  Teresa hardly looked at her. “I must speak with the lord.”

  “But . . . now? Have you eaten?”

  Teresa forced herself to focus on the girl in front of her. “Tildy, it’s all right. I have to speak to the lord. I can eat later. I’m all right.”

  But the fear didn’t vanish from Tildy’s face even a little. She was white, and Teresa could see that she was shaking.

  “Please, my lady,” she said, her voice strained, “it’s not . . . you shouldn’t . . .”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Teresa said softly. Fixing her eyes on the girl’s face, she gently removed her arms from Tildy’s clutches and took her hands, assuring her that she would not rush away. “What is it?”

  “I shouldn’t trust the lord,” Tildy blurted out. “You mustn’t . . . he . . .”

  “Not here,” Teresa said, looking up and down the corridor. “Come with me, Tildy. Come and tell me what you want to tell me. What you’ve wanted to tell me all this time.”

  The girl had tears in her eyes, but she nodded. Hand in hand, Teresa led her back out of the castle and to the chapel. Tildy crossed the threshold with a visible abundance of nerves, her eyes darting around the tiny place of worship. They fixed on the altar, and Teresa saw her go pale again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Tildy pointed to the cloth over the altar. “He died there,” she said woodenly.

  “What? Who?”

  “Can’t you see the bloodstains?” Tildy asked. “The old priest. The lord killed him there.”

  Teresa felt the blood drain from her own face. She had noticed the stains—but she’d seen them as mud, as neglect, not as what they were.

  “The lord killed the priest here, and he poisoned his own father on the same day,” Tildy said. “I remember the day, though I were only a small bairn.”

  “I had no idea,” Teresa said.

  But she knew something else. She wondered if Tildy shared this terrible knowledge too. The knowledge that she had been rushing to confront the lord over—the knowledge given to her in vision.

  All this time, as drawn as she was to the Oneness and the Spirit, Tildy had resisted being Joined. She had always been afraid. And for the first time, Teresa understood why.

  “Do you know?” Teresa asked quietly. “Do you know what else he is guilty of?”

  “Aye, he killed all the Oneness,” Tildy said. “There were many in his father’s day. He hunted them down and killed them all.”

  Teresa looked down, her stomach lurching.

  She hadn’t known that.

  “He only left this chapel standing to remind us,” Tildy said. “He threatens all with death who would become One. So you must forgive me for resisting you . . . I . . .”

  “Forgive you!” Teresa cried. “Oh, Tildy, there is nothing to forgive. But you must not allow fear to keep you from the Spirit. The Spirit is life. Fear is death. Now that you know all these things, now that you have seen the power of the Spirit, you must reject fear and choose life.”

  Tildy simply stared at her with wide, fearful eyes. “All the sick,” the servant girl said. “They are those who joined with him in his persecution of the Oneness, and their families. He made a covenant with them to destroy the Oneness and keep them out of our land. I do not understand why he brought you here.”

  Why indeed?

  “Then he has betrayed them,” Teresa said, deciding that Tildy did not know what the Spirit had shown her in the dark of the night. “For the disease is of his own making. As it was ten years ago, in my country. He has conjured it through his own dark power, through his alliance with demons. That is why it has returned. Because he took up arms against the Spirit and recalled the disease to this place.”

  Tildy hugged herself, thin arms wrapped around thin body. “It is a great evil,” she said, wonderingly. “Can any power be so great?”

  “You can answer that yourself,” Teresa said. “You saw the miracles yesterday. You have seen the Spirit in me. Is the power of darkness greater than what you have seen?”

  “I do not think so,” Tildy whispered. “But is the Spirit not losing now?”

  “No,” Teresa said. “Did you see him yesterday?”

  “See the Spirit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I did,” Teresa said. “In a waking vision. I saw a man shining like the sun, with a sword in one hand and a wineskin in the other. The wineskin spoke of healing, joy, and life; it was the source of the laughter that swept across the castle grounds as the healing went forth. But the sword—the sword spoke of battle and judgment. I tell you this, Tildy, whatever may come, the Spirit will not lose. He cannot. No doubt Bertoller intended that all who were healed yesterday should come back under the power of disease; that did not happen. Many have returned to their homes and others are still well even here. Only some have succumbed again. And you tell me many of these were
in covenant with him against the Spirit?”

  “All,” Tildy said. “They all.”

  “Then we should not be surprised if there is a sword against them. I thank you for telling me all these things,” Teresa said. “And for warning me. But I must go to the lord and confront him for the evil he is doing. He cannot go unchallenged.”

  “But you . . . why must you challenge him? He is not your lord.”

  “But he fights against the power in me,” Teresa said, “against the Spirit I serve. And many years ago he attacked my own power as he learned to wield disease like a sword. He brought death where I tried to bring healing. He cannot simply go on unchecked.”

  “But I am afraid he will kill you,” Tildy said.

  Teresa smiled, refusing to show the fear that she felt—the certainty that Tildy was right and the degree to which she did not feel ready to face death. The knowledge that her premonitions about the man had been so right—and far more so than she had imagined—was nearly crushing. She questioned now her own motives in coming here, the idealist hope that she could somehow change him. But now that she was here, now that she knew what she knew, she had to confront him. There was simply no question about that.

  For the first time, she was glad Niccolo had not come. Better that he was not here for this.

  Still smiling, strong in front of Tildy, she said, “He may kill me. But my spirit will live on in the Spirit. And light has come to this place, Tildy—I do not think the darkness will be allowed to reign unchallenged again. Others will rise up to challenge its sway.”

  She locked her gaze with Tildy’s so the girl could not look away. “Others. You. Don’t fight the Spirit, Tildy. Life itself is not worth more than he is. Until you have entered into his being, you are not alive. You must believe me.”

  “I know you are right,” Tildy said. “I have felt it many times—that you are alive where we are only half so. The Spirit in you draws me, calls to me.”

  “Then answer that call.”

  “But he will kill all who do,” she said, bewildered. “More blood will stain this altar.”

  “But not in vain,” Teresa said. “Never in vain.”

  She turned, paused in the doorway of the chapel, and drew a deep breath that Tildy could not see or hear. She could not let her own fear show—not only because she did not want this girl on the verge of overcoming to see it, but because she knew that if she let it become visible, it would overcome her too.