“We were innocent before,” she said. “On the run from the church and the crown but having done no wrong. Can’t say that anymore.”
“There is no other way. To fight an army, you need an army. Armies need food and wages.”
“Perhaps. But doesn’t every selfish leader say such things to get what they want? What if Fairmont says we stole from the people, not the crown? They could just move the other money to the tax vault—money from merchants or farmers. Or they could double the taxes to fill their coffers again. Put an even greater burden on the poor folks to replace what we took.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m open to suggestions if you have a better idea.”
But she didn’t. She was neither politician nor bureaucrat, just a village girl out of her depth.
She put the coins back in the bag and looked at the road ahead, wondering where this conflict would take them next.
“We’ll need a base. A place to gather strength,” she said. “Any ideas?”
“How about the hills near Keetna? A week or two of good marching from here.”
“Right in the middle of the Great Land, far from the big cities. And Keetna has flatland to the south. Farmers. Food we could buy.”
“And they know us there,” Mykel said.
“Yes,” Nara agreed, eager to see Nilly. And Mimi. Familiar faces in the middle of the chaos.
“We’ll need you to build a place for us,” Mykel said.
He was right. These soldiers had no place to lay their heads, and once they returned to the outpost to collect the others, they’d be leaving Junn. Scarcely more than a dozen men—hardly an army. But they would build an army to take on Fairmont, and it would require a headquarters.
She thought about what such a fortification would look like. It would have to be underground, as the high walls of a fort would attract attention. The hilly region north of Keetna would be perfect for that. Many tunnels for entry, for easy defense, and for escape. Yes, Keetna would work.
She nodded. “Keetna it is.”
16
The Project
Sammy woke to rough hands pulling him out of the cage and a deep voice yelling.
“Move, runt!” the soldier said.
He wondered where he was going. They took two kids from the big cage yesterday, a boy and a girl, but they never came back. As Sammy walked outside the building and across a bumpy, flat area, the soldier pushed at his shoulder to get him to walk faster. It was bright outside, and he squinted his eyes. He saw a high fence surrounding some brick buildings, and the soldier directed Sammy into a door of a building, then down a stairway to a basement. The basement had a dirt floor, dirt walls, and two cages.
The soldier pushed Sammy into a cage and closed the steel door, the sound of the metal ringing in his ears. He was in jail again, but he had done nothing wrong. And now he was alone. That wasn’t fair, and it made him mad and scared him too. People shouldn’t be able to put kids in jail, and he wished Serah were here.
After a little while, Sammy’s eyes started to adjust to the light. A cot rested in the corner of his jail cell, so he sat on it. On the other side of the bars, he heard something move.
“Hello,” he said. He peered through the bars, but it was very dark, and he couldn’t see much. “Is anyone there?”
He heard soft footsteps as someone came near. He thought it was a woman, but he couldn’t tell for sure. It was too dark to see her face.
“Hello,” a voice said. It was a woman.
She reached through the bars and pressed her hand on Sammy’s hand. It was warm and soft and he shook her hand, then held onto it for a long time. She finally pulled her hand away.
“What did you do?” Sammy asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”
“Me neither.”
“Where are you from?”
“Dimmitt.”
“Where is that?”
“Um. I don’t really know. It’s on an island. We go fishing. And trap coneys. I go to school too.” Talking about Dimmitt made him sad. He wanted to tell her about Mykel and Nara and Simon, and maybe even about Lina. But he couldn’t say the words. He was alone and talking about them would just make him even sadder.
“I miss my home too,” she said.
The way she spoke was soft and fancy. He wondered where her home was but didn’t ask. It was weird, sitting in the dark and talking to someone he couldn’t see. He wanted to ask lots of questions, but this wasn’t like a normal conversation. People talked when running around the woods or playing soldier and robber. You should talk when you are doing things with someone, or quiet in whispers at church, or maybe in class. But they were in jail, and it was dark, and he didn’t know what to say.
The woman moved back into the darkness, and his cell felt colder. Then he heard a bad scraping sound. She was moving a cot, and it clanged when it hit the bars between them. Then he heard her lie down on the cot, and her warm hand touched his hand again. He laid his head on his cot, still holding her hand.
“I’m Sammy,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Pleased to meet you, Sammy. My name is Kayna.”
17
Veneti
The hard seat of the wagon had been unkind over the many miles, and Anne’s lower back ached as the driver steered the horses to avoid yet another pothole in the old road.
“It’s just up around the bend here,” the driver said. “Market day today. You can find some good root vegetables sold by the monks hereabouts. But they have no cabbages.”
The man’s voice was deep and unsteady. Age was unkind to hardworking farmers, evidence he bore in his slouched posture and deeply wrinkled face.
“It would have been a much longer trip without your help,” she said. “Thank you, Armen.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “It was good to have the company.”
The journey west had begun with many footsteps and several nights spent camping in the cool spring air, but men like Armen had been kind with the occasional rides.
The wagon rounded the bend, and the village of Veneti came into view. It was much bigger than the last time she was here, but still modest compared to many other villages. Sharply-sloped roofs adorned most of the homes and buildings, designed to shed the snow load that accumulated in these mountainous regions west of Fairmont.
Shoeless children played in the rivulets of water that danced across the old roadway, enjoying the snow runoff from the higher peaks that surrounded the village. The true blessing in this place, however, was the grand edifice on the side of the mountain behind Veneti. High stone walls surrounded the monastery that had stood for many years as a center of service, learning and study. And of faith. It had been the home of her dear friend Bylo, long before he knew his role in this world. But Veneti had been more than that to Anne.
Armen pulled to a stop. “Well, that’s it for me,” he said, getting out.
She carefully stepped down, one hand on the small of her back as she straightened herself. Her shoes touched the ground and she paused a moment. Long wagon rides were not part of her normal routine, and although she was grateful for the lift, she would be sore for several days.
She walked to the back of the wagon and retrieved her pack, slung it over one shoulder, and approached Armen, who was removing the wood posts that would make a canopy for his stand. Cabbages filled much of the wagon, stuffed into more than a dozen baskets.
“Setting up so far from the market?”
“I like to get the out-of-town folks as they come in.” He pointed back down the road. “Before they spend all their money. They like cabbages. Use them in their caribou soup.”
“Sounds delicious. I’d like to buy one if you don’t mind.”
Armen raised his eyebrows briefly, then reached for the nearest cabbage. “It’s on the house,” he said, smiling as he offered the cabbage with a largely toothless grin.
“Why, thank you, sir,” Anne said, taking it. “I pray that
you earn many coins today.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As she walked into Veneti, she passed a bakery where a boy stood in the doorway eating a biscuit. The smells of fresh bread and rolls made her stomach grumble. She looked up as she walked, seeing a raven staring down from atop a nearby shop building, eyeing her cabbage, most likely. She looked to her left and saw a young lady approaching on the opposite side of the street. A puppy with an odd pattern of black-and-brown fur strained against a leash in the girl’s hand, but the girl held it fast as it bounced about, splashing in the street puddles as they walked. This was it! The young man she was looking for was nearby, but she didn’t want to turn to look at him for fear of missing this opportunity. It had to be just right.
“Come here,” Anne said to the young girl.
The girl slowed, looked both ways, then crossed the street. The puppy followed reluctantly at first, then lurched forward, pulling at the leash as Anne knelt to greet the girl, still holding the cabbage in one hand.
“Does your mama make caribou soup?”
“No. But my grandmama does.” The girl’s voice was squeaky, delightful, and Anne suppressed a smile. Though she had foreseen this meeting and knew what the girl would look like, she always wondered how the child would sound. What a doll.
“It’s yours,” Anne said, handing the cabbage to the girl. “Got it special, just for you.”
The raven overhead cawed loudly and flapped its wings. Anne turned to the left. At the edge of the road was a young man holding a basket of bread. His jaw went slack, eyes wide in astonishment.
“You’re her,” he said.
Anne walked over to him. “Was it close?”
“The tapestry! You’re the old woman.”
“Tell me. Was it close? The girl is perfect, I’m sure. I spent a lot of time on her. But the raven. The puppy. Did I get them right?”
“Holy Dei! I gotta tell Papa. He won’t believe this!”
“What’s your name?” Anne asked.
“Gabriel,” he said. He was in his mid-twenties, with a scruffy face and high eyebrows. “My grandpapa told me about you, old woman. Almost every night at bedtime. Said you would come back someday.”
“I’m not such a big deal.”
“Papa said he was crazy. Said they all were. ‘Nobody lives that long,’ he always told me. But grandpapa was sure—and said as much every day till he died. And I always believed. My sister too.”
“You’re a gem, Gabriel. But, please, take me to it.”
“Oh. Um, okay.” There was hesitation in his voice.
“What happened?”
“I’ll have to show you.”
As a seer, Anne was accustomed to seeing things that had not yet happened, but those visions were often accidental. Or sent by Him. This one had been different. She had done this one on purpose. For a purpose. But now she worried.
“Papa and I worked at the monastery for years, cleaning along with the monks. Papa even cooked for them. Family tradition. Grandpapa worked there. And his papa did too. Way back for generations. But the church dismissed most of us.” Gabriel sighed. “I rarely get work anymore. I move things into storage as monks move out, or when they pass. ‘You’re young and strong,’ they say. So, I carry cots and chests into storage. Where they stay. Forever, it seems.”
From a distance, the monastery walls looked the same as they always did, but such was true of stone. The structure had not changed, and nobody would know from a glance that it was nearly vacant.
“A shame,” Anne said. “Places of prayer should be filled with people. Nobody in the town worships with the monks anymore?”
“There’s a church in town, but lots of people have moved away. Ever since the waters changed, that is. They’re not like they used to be, some say.
The walk didn’t take long, and they avoided the city center where the growing market crowd would have slowed them, instead skirting the edge of the town along the small river that rushed along.
“Do you want me to carry that pack for you?” Gabriel asked.
“Nah, I’m fine,” Anne said. She looked over at the river and smiled. “At least, the river still runs strong.”
“It used to have a blue tint. Long ago. From the glacier that feeds it, I think.” Gabriel pointed high above the monastery to a field of ice and snow. “Freshest, cleanest water in all the Great Land. People used to come from miles around to drink it, even carry it back home. Healing properties, they thought. It’s why so many people lived here.”
They passed an open cave in the side of a rock face to the right. An old man was kneeling in front of a pile of sticks, striking flint to spark a fire. Beyond the cave, the road opened into a large, flat area, where several fields had once been. Potatoes and grain had been grown here, but now weeds had overtaken the soil.
“No potato fields anymore?” Anne asked.
“Not enough monks to care for them. Easier to just buy them at market.”
“Sad,” Anne said. “I used to enjoy digging in the dirt here. Work is good for the soul.”
“It is.”
“How often do they have you working in the monastery, Gabriel?”
“Couple of times a month, maybe. They don’t even have an abbot anymore. Brother Makin runs things, but he’s often sick in bed.”
It was sad to hear that the monastery had been largely abandoned, but not surprising. Places of worship required money to support, and greedy regimes often spent those funds on something other than supporting the faithful.
The trail from Veneti to the monastery was overgrown, with potholes even worse than the ones on the main road into town. Weeds sprouted in the middle of the path and overgrown bushes and birch saplings intruded on the walking area. There was still enough room to walk or ride a horse, but it didn’t seem as if many wagons had been making the trip.
The monastery gates were open, and Gabriel led Anne straight into the main yard, where pools of water covered many of the worn stone tiles. Mortar crumbled in many of the grooves between the stones that formed the walls, and moss accumulated in shadowed areas. Weeds and loose gravel cluttered the space; added to that were crates and trash stacked in odd places.
“How many monks still serve?”
“A dozen maybe.”
“Do they still have a library?”
“Of sorts. Most of the books are gone. I helped crate them up a few years ago. Off to Fairmont they went.”
“A shame.”
“So why are you here, old woman? I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you. They never told us your name.”
“Call me Anne. And take me to the library. I don’t know my way around here anymore.”
“Okay. This way.”
Gabriel led Anne down a long passageway. They passed a monk in sandals and a long tattered robe pushing an empty cart; he paid them no attention as he passed. At the end of the passageway was a dark stairway. Gabriel grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and led the way, holding the torch high to spread the light ahead.
Dust billowed up with their footsteps, and Anne coughed as she covered her mouth. At the bottom of the stairs, they turned right. The passage continued into a large, dark chamber that would have to be directly under the yard above. Boxes, crates, and discarded furniture were scattered about with little organization and around the perimeter of the room, one could see empty bookcases bolted to the stone walls in places. No books adorned the shelves.
“It’s over here,” Gabriel said. After about twenty paces, he turned back to Anne and offered the torch. “Hold this, please.”
For the next few minutes, he moved boxes, rolled rugs, then a huge pile of trash to create a path. He turned back to Anne, and she returned the torch to him.
“It’s in the same place it’s always been,” he said. “This way. Right where you left it.”
“This used to be a grand studio,” she said as they walked. “While reading the books, one could also gaze upon paintings and sculptures. Tapestries and
mosaics on the walls. Beauty and learning, in one grand room. Now it’s a trash heap.”
Like so many old things, this monastery was dying. But it wasn’t just the decaying building that weighed on her heart. She remembered this monastery’s charity efforts. Here they gathered to feed the poor, teach trade skills to the young, and provide medical care. This place wasn’t just about prayer and seeking the divine; it was about serving the living. Humility. Sacrifice. No, the pathos of a failing monastery was not about crumbling mortar and empty rooms. It was a symptom of a nation that was losing its faith… and its heart.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said. “This is what I meant. They used to treasure the work in here and display it proudly. But the room is dry, so I put everything here, on orders from Brother Makin. They haven’t maintained the rest of the structures, so now the other roofs leak. This is the only safe place.”
“It’s okay, son. I expected as much.”
They came to a wall where a tapestry hung, nearly twenty feet tall and twice as wide, dusty, faded, and old.
“Took me fifteen years,” she said. “I was never skilled at weaving. Kept making mistakes.”
“Grandpapa used to sit here as a boy when his papa was sweeping the room and dusting the shelves. When I was little, he would tell me the story, passed down from ages ago. About how you came and served alongside the monks of old. How you weaved this every day, and how it seemed to take forever. You told them to keep it right here. Never to move it. We may have let the rest of this place go to dust, but we didn’t move it. Not an inch. I swear.”
“You did well, Gabriel. And your grandfather too. I think I was close, wouldn’t you say? Maybe the color of the cobblestones is off—they have faded. And that building on the left. Too tall.”
Gabriel held the torch closer, and the shapes depicted in the tapestry became clearer. Shops lined a roadway filled with people on their way to market or home. A tailor adjusted a gown in a display window, and a boy sat in front of a bakery, nibbling on a roll. An old woman in the street knelt, offering a cabbage to a little girl who held a puppy on a leash. The woman had a patch over one eye and a pack on her back. On a roof above, a raven flapped its wings, and one could imagine it cawing in protest. In the foreground was the silhouette of a young man carrying a basket of bread.
Finding Kai Page 11