by Dennis Foon
“The communion,” says Saint, nodding at Roan approvingly.
Next a brightly colored casket is brought forward by two Brothers. Its panels are elaborately decorated with paintings of the Friend. The Brothers lift the lid off, and gesture to Roan to get inside.
“Remember your training,” whispers Brother Stinger.
Saint puts his hand on Roan’s shoulder. “Go to the Friend, Roan of Longlight. He awaits you.”
Roan steps into the close-fitting casket and lies down on his back. All goes dark as the lid is replaced and screwed down. The only light comes from tiny airholes drilled in the wood. He hears the sound of footsteps as the Brothers leave the site. Within minutes, there is no sound at all. Roan is alone, captive in this box. He can move his fingers and toes, but not much more.
Roan’s shin begins to itch. He tries rubbing it against the lid, but he can’t reach the spot. He scratches his thigh, hoping to somehow satisfy the urge. That doesn’t work either. He pinches himself, trying to distract his mind. But his efforts only make the itch stronger. I’ll go mad, Roan thinks. Now he’s itchy everywhere, inside and out, every part of him desperate to move or turn or squirm. His heart pumps wildly. He wants to scream, pound on the lid, claw his way out.
Fighting the panic, Roan tries to concentrate on his breath. He feels the air flow through his nostrils, move against his skin. The cricket shifts in his pocket, bringing its wings together, making a little series of chirps. Roan feels as if he’s weightless, out of his body, no longer trapped inside the casket.
ROAN IS SITTING ON A ROCK IN A GRASSY FIELD. HE LOOKS DOWN AT HIS HAND AND SEES THAT HE’S HOLDING THE RECORDER. HE LIFTS IT TO HIS LIPS AND PLAYS. IT IS STOWE’S TUNE.
THE OLD GOAT-WOMAN APPEARS. “THAT’S NOT A GOOD IDEA.”
“IT’S ONLY A SONG.” HE PLAYS AGAIN.
“STOP.”
“WHY?”
“SHE WILL HEAR YOU.”
“ALL THE MORE REASON TO PLAY.”
“SHE IS WITH THE DIRT EATERS OF THE CITY. THE TURNED.”
“SHOULD I FEAR THEM?”
“ALL FEAR THEM.”
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE A DIRT EATER.”
“WE ARE DIFFERENT. AND YOU ARE EVEN MORE SO.”
“WHAT ABOUT STOWE?”
HE HEARS A VOICE IN THE DISTANCE. HIS SISTER’S VOICE. “ROAN!”
THE GOAT-WOMAN LIFTS HER HAND, SEALING ROAN’S MOUTH. HE SCREAMS, BUT THERE IS NO SOUND.
“THE DANGER IS TOO GREAT. YOUR SISTER IS ALIVE. AND YOU WILL FIND HER. BUT NOT NOW. CONTACT HER BEFORE THE TIME IS RIGHT AND SHE WILL BE LOST FOREVER.”
Roan’s eyes peer into the darkness, his body still trapped in the coffin. He opens his mouth and speaks, testing his lips. “She’s alive,” he says aloud. “It’s true, my sister is alive. The Dirt Eaters of the City have her. But who are they? What do they want?” But he calms himself, slowly sipping in air, counting his breaths until he drifts off to sleep.
He wakes to the sound of the screws being removed from the coffin. The lid is lifted. Roan, unsteady, eyes smarting from the bright sunlight, is helped to his feet, the Brothers all around.
Saint grabs his arms. “Did you meet the Friend?”
Roan, not wanting to lie, replies: “I felt a presence.”
Saint embraces him. “Well done. Praised be the Friend!”
“Praised be the Friend!” the Brothers repeat.
Late that night, Feeder appears at the door of Roan’s tent, looking wan and disheveled. “The painting’s almost done. In a few weeks it’ll be over.”
“You’ve been watching?”
“After your next trial, you’ll be baptized.”
Roan nods. “The baptism will be blood.”
“You figured it out.”
“It should be the blood of a bull, like in the pictures. But that’s not possible. All the cattle disappeared after the Abominations.”
“No,” Feeder mutters, “a bull’s been found. They find one every year. A bull’s blood will baptize you.”
With that, Feeder turns to leave. Roan follows him outside only to see Brother Raven, as usual, standing by.
“He seems excited,” Raven simpers.
“Does he?” Roan asks.
“I could have sworn I heard him talking about a bull.”
“He says you found one.”
Brother Raven sighs. “He should know better than that, speaking of the rituals to you. But I understand. He’s jealous, of course.”
“Why would he be?”
“You’re a favorite of the Five. You take meals and motorcycle rides with the Prophet. Through Brother Asp, you’re a hero in the villages. Brother Stinger’s convinced you have a gift of some kind. You received Brother Wolf’s most prized weapon, and you have my undivided attention. While poor Feeder—well, let’s just say he’s been a disappointment. But don’t you worry about it, I’ll have a talk with him.”
Brother Raven’s words only add to Roan’s concern. Why had Feeder come to see him? What was he trying to say? He’d seemed so...afraid. Roan needs to find out why.
The next night, on his way to read to Saint, Roan sees two figures silhouetted by candlelight cast on the wall of Brother Raven’s tent. One sits. The other stands over the first, speaking close to his ear. The standing figure appears to be Brother Raven, and Roan is able to identify the seated figure as soon as he speaks.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” is all the person says. But Roan knows the voice. Feeder.
He can’t make out the words, but it’s clear Raven’s manipulating the cook. Roan resolves to speak to Feeder about this strange incident the first chance he gets.
When he reaches the main room in Saint’s tent, Roan finds it filled with candles. On the table, in front of the Prophet, is a bottle with a brown scorpion floating at the bottom.
“Sixteen years old today. Happy birthday, Roan of Longlight.”
“How did you know?”
“Brother Asp told me. I think we should celebrate.”
Saint opens the bottle, and Roan smells a familiar thick, tart scent. “Scorpion brew.”
Saint fills two small glasses with the liquor and hands one to Roan. “This is an important moment. Today we toast your entry into manhood.” He lifts his glass. “To Roan of Longlight, newest of our Brothers.”
“I’m not there yet,” Roan reminds him.
“In a few weeks you will be. But you already shine so bright it’s fair to say those words. You are a huge asset to our cause.”
Saint throws back his drink. Roan takes a gulp from his own glass, and his mouth explodes. Then he buckles over in a fit of coughing. Saint pounds him on the back, gasping with laughter.
“The brown scorpions are small, but their poison packs a punch,” he says, handing Roan a pitcher of water. Roan drinks deeply, flushing the foul spirits from his mouth. “It’s an acquired taste.” Saint smiles.
Roan picks up his glass and swallows the remainder of its vile contents. He manages to keep it down by gripping the table. After a few minutes he exhales, surprised that his organs still seem to be intact.
“Nothing like it,” says Saint.
“I think you’re right,” Roan replies, feeling a little dizzy.
“Take the bottle.”
“Are you sure?”
“When it’s finished, bring it back and we’ll eat the scorpion together.”
“It may take a while.”
“We have plenty of time.” Saint laughs gently to himself.
“What is it?”
“When I was sixteen, that bottle wouldn’t have lasted a night.”
“You’d drink a whole bottle?”
“I’d drink whatever I could get my hands on. I had a lot of demons. I was convinced drink
would frighten them away.” He looks hard at Roan. “But my demons were older and craftier than I was. I needed the Friend to help me cut them down. You see more clearly. You acquire knowledge and await opportunity. You are patient, Roan of Longlight. You lead by example.”
A whistle outside the door announces a visitor. Saint calls him in. It’s Brother Wolf.
“I’m sorry, Brother Saint, but we have some preparations...”
Saint curses, remembering. With hasty apologies to Wolf, he turns to Roan. “Go into the library and find us some new books. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
As soon as Saint is gone, Roan wraps the bottle in a cloth and puts it in his carry bag. Scorpion brew could turn out to be useful.
In the library, Roan lights some candles and begins sifting through the books. He makes a small pile of volumes he recognizes from his father’s library. He’ll take them to his own quarters to study. Plato’s Republic, a history of the French Revolution, Machiavelli’s The Prince, the Tao Te Ching, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Satyagraha in South Africa by Mohandas Gandhi. His father often spoke of Gandhi. He called him “the warrior who never fought.” Roan opens the book and reads about the word “Satyagraha,” which is actually three concepts combined into one. “Sat” means truth. The commitment to see it and express it. “Ahimsa” is the refusal to inflict injury on others. To practice Ahimsa, you must genuinely love your opponent. “Tapasya” is the willingness for self-sacrifice—not in striving for victory, but in helping your opponent also see the truth. Roan’s eyes sting. He wants to tear the book’s pages out. These ideas killed his parents, killed Longlight. But what lay behind his people’s self-sacrifice? There had to be more to it than the simple refusal to fight. Gandhi preached Satyagraha for freedom. What was the truth Longlight died for?
As he puts his father’s books in his carry bag, Roan feels the snow cricket scrambling out of his pocket. Landing by the door, it bounds away. A little off-balance from the scorpion brew, Roan lurches out of the library and follows the cricket down the canvas hallway. After a few seconds, the little insect leaps out of sight.
Close behind, Roan enters what must be Saint’s bedchamber. It’s a simply furnished room, with only a woolen mattress and carpets to cover the floor. The cricket perches on a rug beside the bed. Roan hesitates. This is Saint’s private place. Roan doesn’t want to leave the cricket in here, so he moves toward it. The insect disappears beneath the rug. Roan, baffled, lifts the fabric, revealing the stone floor. The cricket sits motionless on the smooth rock.
As Roan reaches out his hand for the cricket, he notices a fine crack in the stone. Leaning closer, he follows it until a shape is discernable. An opening. Roan takes his knife out and slips it into the divide, prying up the rock. A metal box. He touches the box, feeling its cool surface. He wants to open it, but he hesitates. This is surely a private possession. He has no right to trespass. He puts his hands back on the rock, ready to close the secret compartment again. But the cricket jumps on the metal box, skidding brightly on the dark mottled surface, and Roan can no longer resist. He grips the lid and lifts it off. Inside is a book: The Religions of Ancient Rome.
Roan picks up the book and leafs through it. His eyes catch on an image of a bull being slain by a man, surrounded by a bird, a snake, a scorpion, and a dog. The chapter is called “The Cult of Mithras.” It explains that the cult followed a religion practiced by the Roman army, and an illustration shows a group of warriors praying as a young soldier is baptized in a stream. Another illustration shows the god Mithras being born out of a rock, his sword raised high, fallen stones at his feet. There’s another of a cave called a Mithraeum, a place decorated with depictions of Mithras. Soldiers sacrifice a bull to their god, its blood pouring onto an initiate.
Captivated, Roan keeps reading. He learns that thousands of years ago, the sun rose in the constellation of Taurus the bull every spring equinox. While Taurus ruled the sky, the celestial equator passed through the constellation Taurus, then those of Canis Minor the Dog, Hydra the Snake, Corvus the Raven. The same constellations Roan had pointed out to Saint the night they returned from Kira’s village.
Over the years, according to the book, Taurus’s position in the sky began to change, and the bull was gradually replaced by the constellation Aries. Mithras, whose name came from ancient Iran, was thought to have moved the universe, killing Taurus the bull and bringing in the age of Aries.
Roan is overwhelmed by what he’s seeing, what he’s reading, and he struggles to make sense of it. A hidden book filled with words the Prophet can’t read. But he can understand the pictures. A bird, a snake, a scorpion, and a dog. Brother Raven, Brother Asp, Brother Stinger, Brother Wolf.
“Roan!”
Roan freezes at the sound of Saint’s voice. He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t breathe. Making no sound, he places the book back in the box, replaces the lid, then starts to slide the stone cover back into place. The fit is too tight, it won’t go in. He can hear Saint’s footsteps.
“Roan!”
Heart pounding, Roan forces himself to calm. Shutting out everything else, he focuses completely on the lid, lifting it, then lowering it evenly into the slot. He replaces the carpet, sweeps the snow cricket into his pocket.
“Where are you?”
Roan glides out of Saint’s bedroom. Thankfully, the canvas corridor is empty. He slips into the library, but not unnoticed. Saint is staring at him with narrowed eyes.
“What were you doing?”
Roan, maintaining his concentration, shrugs. “I was in the outhouse.”
“I wanted to give you this,” Saint says, holding up a small box. “A birthday present.”
“Thank you,” says Roan. Inside is a tarnished silver ring hewn into the shape of a badger. “What does it represent?”
“When badgers hunt, they don’t stop until they get what they’re after. Tenacious. We’ll have to be that way to defeat the City. Badgers are also healing animals. They help us not lose sight of our purpose. Put it on.”
“It’s so light,” Roan remarks. He can’t help but be intrigued by this unusual token.
“Did you find me an interesting book?” asks Saint.
Is Saint toying with him? Has he been found out? Stomach lurching, Roan scans Saint’s face. Not an inkling of suspicion. Relieved, he responds to the question. “I thought I’d read to you about the French Revolution.”
“Good. Let’s begin.”
Keeping the clamor of his new knowledge at bay, Roan reads to Saint of intrigue, betrayal, and the death of thousands. Saint listens intently. As usual, Roan continues until Saint becomes drowsy. Then he walks back to his own tent, relieved for once not to see Brother Raven lurking nearby. Inside, he carefully empties his carry bag, hiding the bottle of scorpion brew and placing the books in his mother’s rucksack.
Roan stretches out on his bed, trying to make sense of this new information. The more he goes over things in his mind, the more obvious and unsettling the truth becomes. Saint must have created the Brothers’ religion based on the hidden book’s pictures. He was lying about his Revelation on the mountain, about being given the Word by the Friend who appeared to him in a blaze of white fire. That would explain his fear when Roan pointed out the constellations. If the Brothers knew about that, Saint’s power as their leader would collapse. This is dangerous information. What if Saint were to find out Roan knows the truth about his God?
Roan still has one more trial ahead of him, and then the baptism of blood. Blood of a bull, just as he saw in the book. But there is no bull here. Roan knows that, and he’s filled with dread at the thought of what might replace it.
Roan feels as trapped as he did in the coffin but much more afraid. At least then he knew there’d be an end to it. He breathes, trying to disperse the anxiety that’s clutching at him, but it doesn’t work. The fear builds and builds
until a small shape crawls out onto his pillow. Roan, grateful, watches the cricket rub its wings together and begin to sing.
ON A FLAT YELLOW STONE, THE MOUNTAIN LION LIES SLEEPILY IN THE SUN.
“THERE ARE ANSWERS TO YOUR QUESTIONS IN THE CAVE WHERE THE RED ROCK TURNS BLUE,” THE LION SAYS.
“HOW DO I FIND IT?” ROAN ASKS.
“LOOK IN THE SAND …”
THE CAVE
GREAT PAINTINGS THERE ARE THAT NO ONE HAS SEEN OR WILL EVER SEE. THE BROTHERS MAKE THEM OF SAND AND WHEN THE FRIEND’S BREATH CARRIES THEM AWAY ON THE WIND, THE VISITATION DESCENDS.
—ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND
WELL BEFORE DAWN, Roan stealthily passes the snoring Raven’s tent. There are a few other early risers getting a head start on their tasks before being summoned to raise the sun. But as he expected, no one’s arrived at the sand painting yet, and the canopy provides some cover from prying eyes. Until now, Roan’s focus has been on his own tiny part of the painting. He’s glanced at the progress of the larger picture but only to admire it for its artistic virtue. But now, under the torchlight, he stands before the huge painting, taking it in, studying it for clues.
He sees that the killing of the bull takes place inside a cave on the side of a mountain. The area around the cave teems with beautiful shades and shapes. He scrutinizes them, trying to make sense of the patterns, but he can’t decipher the puzzle.
The morning bell rings; not much time. Roan breathes, calming himself, trying to concentrate on the whole painting in the same way he focuses on his minute grains of sand.
A long streak of blue meanders around the painting, ending at a waterfall near the cave. It’s water. Of course. Roan understands. It’s the same stream that comes from the mountain ridge about a mile south of where he stands. Follow the stream and he’ll find the cave.
Roan ferrets out the large supply pot holding the sienna-colored sand, his sand, and empties all but a little of it into his bag. He conceals the bag of red sand by a cluster of trees near the streambed, and rushes off to the morning ceremony.
