Exodia
Page 20
The tanks pick up speed. A second and third tremor are followed by seven successive blasts. Support beams wrench apart and before even one Blue can reach our side the entire bridge folds in on itself.
“Glory to Bram O’Shea!”
“No!” I raise my voice and urge them to praise another. “This was Ronel’s plan!”
I get down, duck through the crowd, and run nearer to the edge. I clasp my hands over my ears to muffle the painful cries. Men cling to horses’ necks or fall from somersaulting vehicles. Lions claw at men and air, panicked or angry as they plummet, unaware of their final predicament. Ribbons of blue diminish into the depths, human beings, but I’m not close enough to see the bottom. The crashing sounds of metal are distant pings underscored with explosions. The thump of each body hitting the rocks so far below is not audible even to me, but I know when each scream or roar breaks off.
Lydia and her mother, Jenny, come up on either side of me. Lydia pulls my arms down from my ears, holds my hand. There is only a single breath of silence before a cheer goes up behind us.
“We’re free!”
The joy is palpable. From their sleds and packs people pull out banners and flags. Children grab the ends and parade around while adults shout and sing and whistle and make more noise than a thousand lions. It’s too soon to celebrate. They should be shocked, horrified, at this devastation.
But we’re free.
Mira leads dozens of women in a dance line that follows the children as they snake among us. When she passes us she pulls Lydia away and I hate that I’m no longer touching Lydia’s hand. Without her euphoria coursing through my being I feel as if my special gemfry powers are shutting down. My teeth chatter until I bite hard against the drain of adrenalin.
Suddenly the shouts and claps fade to nothing. I spot a large group of Reds who have stopped their jubilation and appear to be marching toward me. As they pass through the crowd people act bewildered, ashamed. But mostly they are horrified. All eyes are riveted on this group. The spontaneous excitement of our victory over the Blues has morphed into a wretched misery. Too quiet.
“The Mourners,” Jenny whispers.
“What do they want?”
“You.”
I shudder and immediately a deep voice in the threatening group growls to Lydia’s mother, “Our able hero twinges, Jenny.”
I look to Jenny and see regret and guilt and even fear in the grimace on her face that magnifies the lines at her mouth and brow. She reaches out a protective hand, about to grasp my arm, but changes her mind. Her fingers only brush the hairs along my wrist. But it’s enough. Her thoughts, her knowledge of the Mourners’ plot races straight to my head. I think of how even the smallest transgression can trigger an avalanche of trouble.
The deep canyon is only a few steps behind me. I could end this myself. The long fall would last only seconds. Seconds that I’d fill with thoughts of Lydia, my son, my failure to take these people, my people, to a land where they’d be free.
But the angry man’s statement revolves in my head, churning out fragments: their jeers, Hebrew agony, an intense job. There’s a fuller meaning to his words that I need to work out.
The Mourners are a few feet in front of me. Their weapons are drawn. They’re ready to give me the punishment I deserve. For my life. For my murders.
Almost all the letters find a place in a rolling list of words: tongue, atone, rebel, lions, enrage, argue, relent, hero, honor, liberate, north, but nothing comes together in a full verdict.
Ronel’s silvery cloud moves to a few yards above my head while my tongue rests between my teeth unprepared. I have no statement to make, no speech to persuade them, no great oration or fiery sermon.
There’s a stillness as they await my response. The last sentence spoken aloud, our able hero twinges, Jenny, suddenly shouts its message in my ear only: the real journey begins now.
I’ve been tongue-tied too long; the word is my only salvation. If ever I need to speak well, it’s now.
End of book 1: Exodia
Book 2: Out of Exodia
Other Books by Debra Chapoton:
OUT OF EXODIA
A SOUL’S KISS
SHELTERED
THE GUARDIAN’S DIARY
EDGE OF ESCAPE
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