by Jeff Altabef
When they had finished, Aaliss studied the two mounds.
The valuables pile looked short—the witch had a heavy coin purse on her, Tynchek wore a silver armband, and one other axeman had a copper ring. The weapons stacked substantially higher.
“Not bad.” She pointed to the larger pile. “They brought a lot of steel.” She lifted one of the battleaxes. “It’s heavy and well made. I wouldn’t want to get stuck on the receiving end of that blade, but it’s too bulky for me. I prefer a short sword and quick strokes.”
Eamon had been unusually quiet, and glanced up at the darkening sky with a frown on his face.
Aaliss couldn’t tell if he had heard her, but even if he had, she knew his mind was with his brother. She moved close to him. “Wilky will make the cure and we’ll be on our way. There’s still time.”
“There has to be. He has to live on. The tribe needs him.”
He looked down at his feet to obscure his face, but she saw enough and knew that look. Yes, the tribe needed Dermot, but Eamon needed him more. He might be worried those feelings made him appear weak, but she thought the opposite.
A few moments later, Eamon looked up. “If Fintan becomes King, he’ll start a war with the Painted Ones. He can’t wait to attack someone. If Dermot doesn’t get that cure in time, all of this will have been for naught. And Jillian would never have gotten hurt.”
Aaliss grabbed his arm. “The Witch said Jillian will recover. You saved us from that brother of yours, and we freed P’mina from Santra and those axemen. That’s not bad for a couple days’ work.” She shoved him on the arm and that brought a reluctant grin.
“True. But I have a feeling you would have found some other way out of that Basement.”
“And we’ll get the cure to Dermot in time to save him and stop your brother.” The words tumbled from Aaliss’s mouth without her thinking much about them.
Since when did I decide to go back with him? Wilky and I are safer on our own and not tangled with the Butcher Tribe.
When she peered into his blue eyes, she felt her heartstrings tug.
She tried to convince herself that she’d go just long enough to see Dermot cured, but it wasn’t working terribly well.
Eamon turned to say something, but stopped when P’mina emerged from the cabin.
“We’re finished!” she said.
Wilky and Kalhona sat cross-legged in the center of the small house on the wooden floor, dust swirling around them. In front of them were two wooden cups and a tall yellow candle made from beeswax. The smoke smelled like lilacs.
P’mina waved at the floor around them. “Sit.”
They settled in a makeshift circle with the cups and the lit candle in the center.
Aaliss sat beside Wilky. His eyes looked sad, his lips turned downward. Glancing at the two cups, she understood what had happened. “So there’s just enough to make two doses of the cure?”
He nodded.
“It’s your cure,” Eamon said. “You should take one, and I’ll bring the other to Dermot.”
Wilky shook his head. “No.”
Aaliss glowered at him. What does he want?
Since they discarded their gasmasks, she had fixated on making the cure and protecting him from the Red Death. Now a cup stood inches from him filled with the cure, and he simply says, no.
Wilky pointed to the two cups. “There are two tribes.”
Aaliss’s heart sank as she understood what he wanted. “Is this really necessary?” Heat flushed her face. He could be so frustrating. “Who knows when we’ll get these ingredients again? I want you to take it.”
Wilky shook his head. “The two must bond together. It’s the only way. A new enemy comes.”
“A new enemy,” said Eamon. “Who? These axemen?”
Wilky looked at him, his eyes glowing. “I see it.”
“What do you see, Wilky?” Aaliss asked, her voice breathless.
He closed his eyes, and spoke in a flat tone as if he were merely reporting events he just now saw.
A chill washed through Aaliss. She had never seen him like this.
“They march along a long road that swirls around them like a cloud. The clay falls upon them, turning everything red. A man rides a horse at the front of the war band. He has broad shoulders and a long beard twisted with many different-colored hairs. Two battleaxes are slung over his shoulders. They call him chief but he does not lead them. A witch rides on a red horse next to him. She has the power. She has the vision. She dreams of a world ruled by witches. They carry two banners, the bloody wolf and the red raven.”
“How many are they?” asked Eamon.
Wilky paused for a long moment. “They form a river that stretches farther than I can see. The ground shakes from their footsteps. A bloodlust hovers over them. It’s the witch’s making. They do her will. They’re coming for you.”
Wilky blinked a few times and snapped back to the present.
Could he have seen a vision?
In Eden only the High Priest could see the future or hear from God. Anyone else claiming to see a vision was immediately branded a liar and burned for blasphemy. But Wilky never spoke false. She glanced at the other faces around her, certain that everyone believed what he had told them.
“Are you sure they’re coming for us? Both tribes?” Eamon leaned closer to him.
Wilky nodded.
“How much time do we have?” P’mina asked.
He shrugged.
“The clay road has to be the Freeroad that leads to The Exchange and the City of Bones.” Eamon glanced at Wilky for confirmation, but received none, so he continued. “In that case, they might be two weeks away.”
Aaliss knew Wilky would say no more. Perhaps he knew nothing else. Still, she understood what he wanted, and sighed. “The two doses are for the two tribes, one for each leader—Dermot for the Butcher Tribe, and one for the leader of the Painted Ones, to bind them together so they can unite to face these invaders.”
Wilky nodded.
Eamon grabbed a cup. “Thank you for the gift of life for my brother. Dermot is deserving.”
P’mina seized the other one. “Our Tribal Mother will be honored to receive this tonic.”
“We should swear an oath to join the two tribes to defeat these axemen,” said Eamon. “I swear on my ancestors, who live in the heavens, to bring the tribes together and defeat this threat as one.”
When Eamon finished, P’mina, Kalhona, and Wilky all swore to the same quest. Once they finished, all eyes turned toward Aaliss.
She felt the heat from their collective gaze and turned toward Wilky, who stared at her with that stubborn look in his eyes.
Not this time.
She stormed from the cabin without uttering a word.
***
The cold wind whipped across Aaliss’s face. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she smelled war and death in the air.
Wilky joined her, a sad expression darkening his face.
“Wilky, what have you done?”
“The tribes must unite.”
“How do you know?”
“I see it. And we are to help.”
“This is not our fight. How can we return to Eden if we’re helping these tribes?”
“We can’t.”
Aaliss looked away. All she had wanted was to protect Wilky from the Red Death and find a way back home. Now everything had twisted together. She had met Eamon and his blue eyes, and Wilky had that stubborn look on his face that meant he’d never change his mind. She had no choice now. She would plunge into the middle of the two tribes and this war without any idea where it would lead them.
Can I keep him safe in the middle of a war?
***
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Chapter 38 – High Priest
The High Priest waddled as he walked, the blubber rolling from one side to the other with each step, his knees creaking in protest. He refused to limp or grimace as that would show wea
kness. He had to be above weakness. As Jacob’s chosen one on Eden, he must be infallible. Once people questioned his physical condition, they might question his relationship with Jacob and his infallibility. He could never let that happen, would never let that happen. Charles the First had let them question his infallibility, and they burned him at a stake. No, he would never let them see weakness.
He longed for his electric cart. Eden only had a handful of carts left: one for him, one for the President, and two others in case of emergencies. They had to carefully maintain the battery-operated vehicles. They retained the technology to fix them, but they lacked the necessary natural resources, which lay outside Eden. All that would change. Soon, he’d recreate life on the planet the way it had once been, only better. With the Red Death as his tool, all power would concentrate in him and his clergy.
He had looked forward to the walk to the Orchard, hoping that the exercise would do him good. He knew there would be much walking in his future—one of the small, necessary inconveniences he had to face. Still, halfway through his stroll, he wished he had brought the cart.
He hadn’t always been fat. There had been a time, before his father died, before he became High Priest, when he was lean and strong and fit. Everything changed when he became High Priest. He had to become more than himself. He had to become Jacob’s representative in Eden. He had to become infallible and swim in the murky waters of politics and crises and stress. The pounds added up over the years, as did the scheming.
The late afternoon sun beat down on his head but did little to warm the crisp autumn day. His orange full-length robe swished as he walked. A blue circle with a capital J in the center was embroidered on the right chest.
Two Senior Priests followed in his wake, content to carry a skin of cold fermented cider in the event he became thirsty, dried apple slices in case he grew hungry, and to attend to whatever other needs he might have. Neither of them was a Blood Relation and therefore could never progress beyond Senior Priest to a Cleric. Still, they were diligent and loyal, and would soon be rewarded when he successfully enacted the Eden Day Plan.
One of the High Priest’s children usually attended to his needs, but not today. He had six from his two wives, ranging from five to thirty years old, the oldest being his son and successor. He had to keep them in the dark about his plans for Eden Day and beyond. His oldest was ambitious, and the less he knew about the future, the less of a threat he would be. When the High Priest slept, he often dreamed of his oldest sneaking up behind him with a knife in his hand. No, the less his offspring knew, the better.
For a short time he might have conferred with his first wife, but that trust had faded away when he married his second one. Now he grew weary of both women he called wives. In Eden, only the High Priest could have multiple wives. God had told Jacob that, as guardian of the human race, he must procreate, so Jacob had taken three wives and had twelve children. Since then, not only did the members of the Community expect polygamy from their high priests, they required it from them. Since Jacob took three wives, it was an unwritten law that subsequent high priests should limit themselves to two. After all, no one could compare with Jacob... until now.
The High Priest smiled.
After Eden Day I will be all powerful, rivaling Jacob himself. Not only will I take many wives, but polygamy will be expected from all Blood Relations.
He pictured scores of young men with braids ruling over the Soulless, all owing their very existence to him. He liked to daydream as he walked. It took his mind off the ache in his knees. He grinned and slowed his gait as the gravel path ended at the large, wooden doors of the Orchard’s facility.
One of the Senior Priests jumped in front of him and swung the door open.
“I shouldn’t have to slow down for you to open the door! My time is too precious to be wasted.”
“Yes, your Grace.” The man’s voice trembled.
The High Priest ignored him, strolled through the portal and entered the warehouse. It smelled of oak, apples, and sawdust. Harvest season for the Orchard had started a few weeks earlier, so the facility burst with apples and activity. Workers sorted different types of apples into large wooden crates that threatened to overflow, the apples rolling onto the floor as if they had minds of their own. Casks of apple juice were neatly stacked in massive pyramids, and he heard the steady clanging of the apple press in the distance. He had never seen the facility bursting with more fruit—undoubtedly a sign from Jacob that he would have all he needed for his plan.
He scanned the building and found Father Luke.
The aged priest directed two workers who pushed large wheelbarrows filled with apples. “Those go in the crates on the west wall. If there’s no room, just leave them in a pile on the floor. I’m having more crates made.” Father Luke’s voice sounded nuanced with age, as if his deep tan and the lines on his face had embedded themselves in the timber of his voice.
The facility functioned as the depository of the apple harvest, the distillery for the fermented apple cider, and the storage area for the Sacred Drink.
The High Priest turned toward his two assistants, who looked eager to please him. “One of you should fetch my cart, and the other should stay here. I want to commune with Father Luke privately.”
He tottered his way to Father Luke, already looking forward to tonight’s massage, when his young masseuse would work out the aches in his legs.
Father Luke glanced in his direction, and flashed a stoic expression on his leathery face. The man was short, allowing the High Priest the luxury of looking down at him.
When they were boys, the High Priest and Father Luke were best friends. In truth, he was the only friend the High Priest had ever known. As they grew past their teenaged years, they started to quarrel. When the High Priest’s father died unexpectedly, thrusting him into the role of high priest, the relationship grew troublesome. He could not have a member of the clergy question him, even if they were childhood friends. But Father Luke had a way with the old apple trees. Even when he was young, they bore fruit for him in greater abundance than they would for anyone else, so the High Priest banished him to the Orchard, safely away from the Compound.
“Good afternoon, Father Luke. I hope Jacob has enlightened your day.” The High Priest flashed a fake smile as he spread his arms wide in an awkward blessing. The robe flowed off his limbs and his large frame.
“As I hope he has for you.” There was no affection in Father Luke’s voice as he completed the customary greeting and response expected of senior clergy. “It is always an honor when you bless us with your presence, your Grace. Have you decided to tour the Orchard and stroll through the trees? It might take some time. I hope you brought your walking shoes.”
His voice dripped with sarcasm. It had been years since the High Priest had last made an inspection, and they both knew that one would serve as his last.
The High Priest ignored Father Luke’s sarcastic tone, and clasped his right hand firmly on the man’s shoulder. “No need for that. I trust the Sacred Trees are in good hands. I just wanted to see the casks for Eden Day, and give them a blessing.”
“Why certainly, if you feel the calling, but I don’t recall you ever blessing the casks before we’ve delivered them in prior years.” Father Luke’s eyebrows arched high above his deep-set eyes.
“Jacob has appeared to me in a vision and told me that this year is special. He wants me to bless the casks today.” The High Priest shrugged. “I’m only an instrument of his will.”
Father Luke rolled his eyes and turned his back on him. He moved quickly, giving the impression that he had little time for this foolishness.
That was fine with the High Priest. He wanted to spend as little time in the Orchard as possible—the dust bothered his breathing. He followed behind Father Luke, trying hard to keep up with his short rapid steps. They weaved their way around crates of apples, humming conveyor belts, and large oak tanks that they used to ferment the apple cider to the storage area
in the back of the facility.
Twelve massive barrels were lined up neatly in a row. The High Priest hummed as he inspected each one and settled on the one furthermost down the line. Eleven of the barrels had a green apple stamped on their side. The last one had a red apple. He smiled. Everything was in order.
He had to make sure for himself. “You seal the barrels tomorrow, correct?”
“Yes, as it is written. They are always closed two months before Eden Day. I will place my seal on each barrel to certify its purity. I’ve been doing this for thirty years. I think by now I’ve got it down right.”
“Good. Everything looks like it is in the proper order.” The High Priest raised his arms above the barrels and mumbled a short blessing. When he finished, he turned and left without another word to Father Luke.
***
Piers had watched the two from the shadows. After the High Priest and Father Luke left the storage area, he limped to the barrels. He noticed nothing unusual at first... until he saw the small red apple stamp on the last cask, the one where the High Priest had paused.
Odd.
All the other barrels had a green apple stamped on them.
***
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Chapter 39 – Viper
The Viper stalked toward the prone body of a large, haggard-looking young man by a creek. He waved his arms to scare away the crows that had already started pecking at the dead man’s bloated face, and swatted away the flies.
“Good.” He ripped the bolt out of the corpse’s chest. “My rabbit has teeth.”
He squatted low and noticed a separate pool of blood near the deceased man. He followed the crimson trail to a dead woman. “Interesting. One of her new friends is hurt.”
He tracked the blood to the edge of the clearing and found hoof prints. “The trail heats up.”
He frowned at the darkening sky, mounted his own horse, and followed after them.
***
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