Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  It was beautiful, priceless. And it must have been ancient. The art of coloring glass had disappeared with the Lost Clan a thousand years before. If any man had found a way to make it his own, he would have hidden it in the darkest recesses of his cottage. Not Hadrian, however. He hung the lantern on an iron hook outside the door of his great stone house. He was not afraid.

  “What’re ya talkin’ about, Amos? The villagers don’t know half the madness in yer head if ya think Hadrian would give us that lantern.”

  “Never said he’d give it to us, Sim.”

  “What do ya mean, then?”

  Amos looked at Simeon with a mischievous grin. “We could take it. Just borrow it fer a while, ’til ya come of age.”

  “Ya don’t know what yer sayin’. It’s against the laws o’ Shiloh.”

  “Ya know there’s no great penalty fer stealin’. If it came to it, we’d just give it back. Besides, no one has ta know about it. We’ll go at night.”

  “Hadrian will know!” Simeon stared at Amos in horror. He knew his friend feared nothing, but this . . . this was reckless.

  “Ya can come with me or not, Sim. But I’m goin’. Tonight.” Amos stood, snatched up the torch he’d driven into the mud, and headed toward the cottage.

  Simeon was left in an awful spot. Every bone in his body told him that no good would come of this, but he couldn’t let his friend take such a risk on his behalf without helping or at least showing up. Anyway, he was tired of being afraid, tired of leaning on Amos’s courage. He decided that twelve years old was old enough to take a risk, and he would go with Amos if it meant he went to his certain doom.

  “Wait!” Simeon jumped to catch up with Amos, whose long strides had already taken him far from Linden Lake. He ran to his friend and fell into step beside him, guided only by the light of the torch as it bobbed up and down several feet above the ground.

  “I’m goin’ with ya,” Simeon said. Amos gave him a broad grin in reply, and his face was lit with its own light as he discussed hasty plans with Simeon.

  Wynn was huddled over her small candle, trying to mend one of Phebe’s shifts in the semi-darkness when the boys returned. She heard Amos sigh in frustration as he looked from the lone candle to the fireplace and back again. She wondered what was bothering him. Of late, he rather reminded her of a wild animal caught in a trap. She watched him plunk his bow and quiver by the front door and sit on the trunk against the wall. Simeon, as usual, was trying to make himself useful. He was stoking the fire, jabbing the metal poker absently into the embers.

  I wonder where Phebe’s gotten to. She should be back by now. Wynn pushed aside the haunting memories of another little girl who wandered out into the dark and never returned. She willed herself to concentrate on the tear in the shift. One stitch at a time, she forced the panic down, down, deep down, back to its lair.

  “Good evenin’, m’ dear ones,” Abner greeted, stepping through the door of the cottage holding three rabbits by the ears. Wynn let out a slow breath when Phebe appeared, close on his heels, hauling a basket of peppers for the soup. She had grown into a willowy girl of nine. The scar, slashing across her face from forehead to jaw line, was still distinct, but its angry red had faded to white. Her dark hair hung loose, whipping around her shoulders as she dumped the peppers onto the table.

  “I was startin’ ta worry about ya. Both o’ ya,” Wynn said with mild reproach. One hand swept over her husband’s shoulder, and her eyes searched his face, questioning. He looked weary, for all his cheerful words and smiles, but he said nothing. It was Phebe who answered.

  “Ya needn’t fret about me, Ma. I’m nearly grown now.”

  Wynn caught the subtle challenge in her daughter’s voice. Phebe was not permitted to go to the lake alone. Apart from their trips to the village, Phebe’s world extended to the fence across the lane in front of the cottage, the sheepfold in back, and the garden to the side. It was a point of contention in the family, but Wynn chose not to press the issue tonight. Instead, she made preparations for dinner. She laughed at Amos as he teased his sister, pulling strands of her hair whenever she turned her back and ducking out of reach when she swung at him.

  Amos and Phebe chattered all through their meal, speculating about their first trip to the Hall of Echoes. Simeon seemed distracted, offering a comment here and there, but never joining in the excitement of the others. Abner was quiet. It must be the Hunt, Wynn thought. He’s worried about taking the boys this year. She was thinking she might veer the conversation in another direction when Amos spoke up.

  “Da, I’ve been thinkin’,” he began.

  “About what, m’ boy?” Abner raised questioning eyebrows as he ladled more stew into his bowl.

  “If we split up on our huntin’ trips, we could catch twice the game.”

  “I don’t think so, Amos. Too dangerous.”

  Abner had clearly finished the conversation, but Amos continued. He was burning with plans and ideas.

  “I was thinkin’ maybe I could get enough skins ta buy Ma a lantern. She can’t see well enough ta do her cookin’ and sewin’, and I could help.”

  “We’ll soon have enough extra meat and skins ta get yer Ma a lantern. I’m strikin’ out tomorrow, headin’ west. You and Sim can come if ya like.”

  There was a pause, and Wynn rushed to fill the silence. “You’ve done well with the garden, Phebe,” she said. “I’ve never seen —”

  “But, Da,” Amos interrupted, “we could get twice as much if we split up. I’m old enough ta go on my own.”

  “It’s not safe fer ya ta hunt alone.” Abner raised his voice ever so slightly.

  “I’ll be alright, Da. I know what ta do if I run inta danger.” Amos’s voice rose to meet his father’s. If he had looked at his mother or his sister, he would have seen the warning in their eyes.

  “I said it’s not safe, and that’s an end to it.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Ya should be afraid!” Abner shouted, slamming his fist on the table.

  Tears welled up in Phebe’s eyes, and she hid her face in her hands. “Abner?” Wynn said. Something was wrong.

  He stood up quietly, walked to the hearth, and knelt down to stoke the fire. It hissed and crackled, little tongues of flame licking up the ends of the logs.

  Wynn went to his side, and it was then that she saw streaks of dull brown across the back of his tunic. She lifted the edge of the fabric and gasped at the sight of her husband’s wounds. He pulled away from her, moving to his familiar chair, but she had seen all she needed to see. Four parallel gashes. It could only have been a wolf. He must have washed his tunic and bathed in the lake in an attempt to erase all signs of the attack.

  “Da, what happened?” Phebe asked.

  Abner responded only by saying, “It’s not safe fer ya ta hunt in the wood alone, Amos. Don’t ask again.”

  The others finished their meal in silence.

  Eleven

  The Shadow hung heavy over the cottage that night. It wasn’t long before even the faintest hint of light was smothered by inky blackness. To Simeon and Amos it felt like an eternity. Amos, lying in his cot, stared at the dying embers of the fire, exchanging glances with Simeon, who was settled on a pile of blankets in front of the hearth. He waited until he heard Phebe’s steady breathing and the soft snores of his parents. When he was sure that sleep had claimed them, he motioned for Simeon to follow, then crept from the house, taking his father’s lantern with him.

  They moved quickly and silently, Amos just ahead of Simeon. They knew when they neared the village, for a few lanterns still burned outside the doorways of shops and cottages. No one stirred. The fires of the blacksmith’s furnace were dark and cold, and the only sound came from the huffing and stamping of the horses in the stables. As they skirted the edge of the village, the dim light of the lantern fell on the stone. It had s
tood on that spot, warning the people of Emmerich for centuries, and its surface was engraved with these words:

  For any who steals a man’s goods, payment in kind.

  For any who steals a man’s name, payment in flesh.

  For any who steals a man’s life, payment in blood.

  For any who steals a man’s light, payment in exile.

  The boys had seen the stone too many times to think much of it as they passed. But its words and its warning snuck along behind, shadowing their steps as they cut through grasses and over stones, making their way to the edge of the Whispering Wood and the large house that stood on its border.

  At last they saw the lantern, suspended high above the ground, its green and gold and purple light flashing on the stark gray stone of the house.

  “It’s a thing o’ beauty, isn’t it, Sim?” Amos was surprised at the lantern’s power. He was drawn to it. It awakened something in him that he could not quite place.

  “Still sure we won’t get caught?” Simeon whispered.

  “Stop yer worryin’.” Questions and limitations were not what Amos wanted. Simeon was starting to sound like his da. “Just keep ta the plan.” Simeon nodded assent, and the two stepped softly into the wall of trees. Not far behind the house, a little creek ran through the wood. It must have branched off from the River Meander and wound its way down to this dry, sickly end. Abner had mentioned the wide, flat stones that lined the banks of the creek when they made their way home from their last hunt in the wood. He had thought them perfectly suited for building fences. Amos thought them perfect for stacking, and his impetuous plan hinged upon them.

  He and Simeon bent to lift the first stone, carefully placing Abner’s lantern on top and using its light to guide them to Hadrian’s lantern. The pillar grew, stone by stone, until both boys were covered in a thin layer of sweat. Amos watched with some amusement as every crack of dry branches beneath their feet sent Simeon’s pulse racing. At times, Simeon would stop, straining his ears for some hint of movement within the house. It did not come. They finished their task without incident.

  “Here goes,” Amos said, with a wink at his friend. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic and lifted one foot to the top of the pillar, placing a hand against the wall of the house to get his balance. The stones shifted and rocked, making dull cracking sounds, but still, nothing stirred within the house. Carefully, oh, so carefully, Amos shifted his weight forward and lifted himself up. The pillar leaned, stone crunching against stone. He gripped the wall with his fingertips and struggled to steady himself. When the teetering pillar finally stilled, Amos reached up to take the lantern from its hook. His face was bathed in its warm light. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. How he longed to hold it in his hands, to give it to his friend. He tore his eyes from the sparkling glass and looked down at Simeon. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open. Amos thought he could almost see Simeon’s heart beating through his tunic.

  “Sim, why don’t ya hide in the trees on the edge o’ the wood?”

  “No, Amos. I’m stayin’. Just hurry.”

  “Sim, I don’t need the other lantern anymore. As soon as I get this one, I’ll meet ya over there.”

  “I said I’m —” He stopped. He was certain he’d heard something. It was a muffled sound, like wool brushing over stone. He looked at Amos. “Hurry!”

  Amos lifted his arms above his head and took the lantern in his hands. He lifted it slightly, moving it along the hook, trying not to scrape the brass against the iron. He inched toward the edge of the pillar. The lantern was nearly free. Every muscle was stretched taut. Then the rocks pitched beneath him. The lantern clanged into the wall. Amos fell to the ground with a thud, and the pillar toppled onto his leg.

  Simeon rushed to help him, frantically shoving the rocks aside. Amos helped as best he could, and soon he was free, but neither boy noticed the creaking of the great wooden door as it swung open. Hadrian stared down at them.

  “What have we here?”

  Simeon froze. Amos thought his friend might faint, for he looked as if he wasn’t breathing.

  “We came ta see yer lantern,” Amos said, standing to his feet and looking Hadrian dead in the face. Around him, a fitful radiance shone.

  “Is that so?” Hadrian came closer. He looked at Simeon first, smiling a little. Then he dismissed him altogether. He turned to Amos. “You came to see my lantern in the dead of night?” His eyes moved to the tumbled pile of stones, then returned to Amos. The cold smile never left his face. It seemed etched there, as if in stone.

  “I know who you are, boy. You’re Abner’s son.”

  “I am,” Amos said.

  “Amos, Wielder of Fire, the boy who fears nothing, is that right?” Hadrian’s eyes narrowed. The light of the lanterns didn’t fall on him. It flickered over Amos’s face and Simeon’s, over the stones of the house and the grasses at their feet. But it never touched Hadrian. He stood cloaked in darkness, and only his eyes and his teeth shone distinctly.

  Amos hesitated. “There’s nothin’ ta fear.” His left hand clenched into a fist and relaxed, causing the slightest movement of his arm guard.

  “Not even the Shadow?” Hadrian asked.

  “There’s more than Shadow in this world,” Amos replied.

  Hadrian laughed. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?” He looked up to the lantern still swinging on its hook. “My lantern would be a fitting prize for you. I won it long ago from someone afflicted with the same madness as yours.”

  Hadrian stepped closer, his eyes smoldering with blue flame. “I know what waits for you in the Shadow. You might not fear it yet, boy, but it’s coming all the same. It’s coming for you.” He leaned in, his breath reeking. “And it will feast on you before the end.”

  Lightning streaked and branched across the sky, and there was a deafening crack of thunder. For the first time in his life, Amos’s courage failed him. He spun around, grabbing Simeon by the arm, and ran like mad into the depths of the night.

  They never spoke of that night.

  In the days that followed, a small, nearly imperceptible trembling began in Amos’s heart. He wrestled with Hadrian’s words, turning them over and over. What could they possibly mean? How could Hadrian possibly know what the future held? He tried to silence the voice that rang in his ears, tried to forget the cold light in Hadrian’s eyes. But fear stood at the door, knocking, knocking, begging entrance.

  It might have encouraged him to know that he had held Evander’s own lantern in his hands. Perhaps. But he did not know it. And he was only just beginning to understand the terror that gnawed at every heart in Shiloh, a terror as constant and inescapable as the darkness. He was only just beginning to feel it, but in Amos’s heart, at last, the feasting had begun.

  Twelve

  Simeon had his first dream on the eve of the Great Hunt. He was draped in a heavy mantle, blinded by its dark folds. He reached to touch the fabric, gave it a tug, and felt the movement of the thick wool brushing over his head. He struggled to breathe, the mantle growing heavier, pressing against his mouth and nose. Its lower folds encircled his legs and arms. He was smothered, choking. He struggled to lift the mantle, straining under its weight. Finally, it gave way. He flung the loose fabric from his body and took a gasping breath of air. As it fell to the ground, the fabric took form. An immense body covered in ragged black fur, four black feet with merciless claws, jagged white fangs, and blazing orange eyes appeared before him. A growl of rage rumbled in the wolf’s belly, and without knowing why Simeon screamed, “Abner!”

  His eyes shot open. He stared up in confusion, and then turned to see his surroundings. Embers were cooling on the hearth, and his mother stood over his cot.

  “Simeon? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t know what to tell her. How could he explain what he
had just seen? It hadn’t happened, wasn’t real. Yet, his body had responded as if the wolf crouched in that very room.

  “Nothin’, Ma. I’m alright,” he said. But something had changed; something had begun; something had taken over which he could neither predict nor control. Now, when the villagers stared, he would know. He would know and tremble, for he was a Dreamer.

  Three great halls stood in Shiloh, though their designs and purposes could not have been more different. Of the existence of the Bright Hall of the Immortals no man knew, and the Hall of Shadows lived only in whispers and rumors. The Hall of Echoes, however, was known to every man of that country. For more than seven hundred years it had stood at the northwestern corner of the Whispering Wood, its massive walls formed by a series of tall stones standing vertically in a circle. Smaller stones, lying horizontally, connected the gaps at the tops of the larger stones, and the stone floor was inlaid with the signs of the four clans. To the left and west of the raised platform in the center of the Hall of Echoes was the mark of the Clan of the Builder. A black stone watchtower circled by black stones represented the clan responsible for erecting the great hall. To the north was the sign of the white tree, by far the most intricate of the mosaics, with white stones cut in the shapes of leaves and branches and spreading roots. To the east was the sign of the Lost Clan, its twelve sun rays stretching out from a central circle in an odd mixture of short and long, straight and curved lines. To the south, the sign of the Fire Clan was laid out in reddish stones, its three tongues of flame uniting and twisting around a core of beaten edanna.

  The Hall of Echoes had no roof and no doors, and it stood gray and cold nearly all the year. Until the first frost. Then the torches, held by iron braces within and without each vertical stone, were lit. A bonfire was built on the central platform, and the Hall of Echoes was transformed into a fiery ring with a fiery heart. The surrounding landscape came alive with light and clamorous activity as thousands came from villages all over Shiloh to celebrate the Great Hunt.