The Last Escape

by T. W. Piperbrook

  The closest thing to singing Oliver ever heard from his parents were the sounds they wailed when they each went to the pyre. It was the same song sung by every peasant on his way to the fire. And though the verse each sang was a little different, they all became the same when the song reached its crescendo, just as the flame first caressed the skin.

  It was the only song that Oliver really knew and it lurked in his nightmares, making itself known and frightful for the eventual day when he'd have to sing it himself.

  Oliver no longer wanted his life.

  Without thinking, he stopped in the street, and stared in through a window at a family sitting down to a table with some large roasted bird in the center.

  Oliver wanted to be warm and smiling, with a full belly and a happy tune on his lips. Would an appointment to the academy lead to a life like the one he saw through the frosted glass? Or would he forever live in the academy dorms, hunched over a desk, unearthing ancient secrets from old books recently found, for the benefit of…

  …Of whom?

  The merchants? Would they be the beneficiaries of any uncovered secrets? Or would all the people of Brighton share in the new knowledge?

  Oliver spat a word that was turning into his favorite frustrated curse. Grown-up thoughts were sometimes too big, too vexing for a young boy's mind. Even he knew that boys his age should be starting to take an interest in the pretty girls, which he was, but from the conversations he eavesdropped on while in the market with Franklin, that was the only thing boys his age talked about. Well, that and the unrealistic dream that they'd one day ride a big black stallion in Blackthorn's cavalry, with chests puffed out and blue shirts crisp and clean.

  Those boys were all fools.

  Oliver often indulged the same fantasy, but he accepted his foolishness for what it was. A game to take a child's mind off the inevitable drudgery of long, hungry years of toil in the field, never having enough to feed himself or his family, never having the power to do anything about it. Oliver wondered in that moment if that was the reason people allowed themselves to be so sheepishly led to the pyre, seldom raising their fists to fight off the blue shirts, seldom running away with fear in their feet. Maybe they simply wanted the hopelessness to end.

  "You, there."

  Oliver's head snapped around as he involuntarily stepped away from the voice. Oh, no.

  Two men of the city guard were just a handful of paces up the road. "What are you doing?" one said.

  "Another orphan needs a beatin'," said the other.

  Oliver took another frightened step backward.

  "Be still there, boy," said the first one. "If I have to chase you, I swear by The Word, you'll regret it."

  "What's that in your hand there, you little thief?" the second guard asked, pointing at the purse of coins in Oliver's fingers. Worse yet, Oliver had the incriminating, neatly folded note from Evan in the other hand.

  Before Oliver could think what to do with his fear, before he could make the choice to run away from these two sods in the city guard uniform, a big, calloused hand locked onto his wrist and jerked his arm so hard that the coin purse fell away and hit the stones on the street. The sound of coins was unmistakable. For a moment, all froze, and all eyes locked on the fine leather purse.

  One of the guards spoke first. "A thief."

  Before the second guard could confirm the first guard's suspicions, Oliver found his strength, or more exactly, he found his defiance. He used a word he'd overheard spoken by Minister Beck when he was speaking quiet words to Evan once a few months ago. "Unhand me, dunce."

  The first guard's eyes went wide.

  The second guard asked, "What's a dunce?"

  "You are," Oliver told him. "Let go of me. I'm on official business for Father Winthrop."

  The guard with the grip spat back, "You're a thief." He pointed at the purse. "Where did you steal that?"

  Oliver took a risk. He raised his note and waved it in the guard's face. "You see this, you ignorant imbecile? Do you know what this is?"

  The guard's grip slackened, but didn't let go as he looked at the note.

  The other guard snatched the note from Oliver's hand and Oliver gulped, fearing that his gambit might have just cost him more than he could afford to pay. The guard looked at the paper. "What is it?"

  "Father Winthrop's private business," Oliver told them. "If you don't wish to find yourself standing on the pyre by midnight, you'll let go of my hand and return that note to me."

  The hand on Oliver's arm let go and the guard bent down to pick up the purse.

  "That's not yours," Oliver protested, lunging for the bag, only to be pushed away. He fell onto his butt.

  The guard picked up the purse and his eyes lit up as he looked inside.

  "You'll regret this," Oliver sneered. Then, he puffed up his chest as he stood and filled his voice with all the pompous authority he could imitate from Father Winthrop. "I am Novice Oliver. Are you two such slow-witted men that you've not seen me standing at Father Winthrop's side in the temple, at The Cleansing?"

  "My eyes are bad," said the man looking into the coin purse. "I thought he had two girls by his side."

  The other guard laughed and said, "Franklin is Father Winthrop's novice."

  "You can't even count to two?" Oliver chided. "Are you that stupid?" He stepped back, more than half expecting that those bitter words would earn him a slap across the face.

  Instead, the guard with the note furrowed his brow, trying to figure out whether he had to listen to a mouthy little boy. He said to the other guard, "Bring the purse and the boy over into the light." He pointed at a lantern hanging from a pole at an intersection of two streets.

  The unbreakable grip locked around Oliver's wrist again, and the guard half-dragged, half-carried him in the direction of the lantern.

  Halfway along, Oliver stopped struggling and took on his best haughty, offended air.

  When they reached the light, Oliver said, "Look at me now, dunce guard. Look at me as thoroughly as you need. Do you recognize me now?"

  The guard's face started to change as recognition set in. He told the other guard, "Let go of him."

  "Let go?" the other guard asked, looking greedily at the coins as he cut a fearful glance at Oliver. "You recognize him? Is he Father Winthrop's novice?

  "It would seem," said the first guard.

  The hand fell away from Oliver's wrist and the guard's voice quaked when he said, "My apologies. I didn't… I have bad eyes, as I said." Still, he looked at the silver in his other hand, caught between two of his own decisions.

  Oliver suspected that one of those decisions might end up with him dead and his body tossed over the circle wall. He knew enough about men to know that they often did much worse for a chance at much less silver. "I am expected," he said. "They'll come looking for me momentarily if I do not arrive."

  Shaking his head, the guard with the note, said, "This doesn't make sense to me." He fumbled with the note for a moment. "If this was honest business, why send a boy into the night with so much silver?"

  "Because the city guard is here to protect me," Oliver told him. "Are you telling me that you're not competent to do your jobs? What are your names, so that I may tell Father Winthrop, and he may pass them along to General Blackthorn?"

  Pushing the bag of coins back into Oliver's hand, the guard with the strong grip backed away a few steps. "That won't be necessary. No, it won't."

  Oliver gave the guard a dismissive nod. "You men should go back to your rounds and allow me to proceed without further delay."

  "What does the note say?" The first guard asked, apparently not frightened enough.

  "It is a list of names," said Oliver. "Men in General Blackthorn's service that Father Winthrop believes need to be disciplined.

  The guard with the note looked at the folded paper and said, "That's what I'll see when I unfold this."

  The other guard was still backing away. "Come on. Let Novice Oliver go. We've got plenty to
watch without causing him more trouble."

  The first guard unfolded the paper, defiance on his face. When he saw the words, though, Oliver saw the spark of fear and he knew the guard couldn't read. That wasn't unexpected; very few people could. A man walking the town on cold, windy nights surely wouldn't be able to. Oliver said, "Do you see your name on the list?"

  Slowly shaking his head, the guard said, "No. I do not."

  "Then please return it to me," Oliver told him.

  Finally reaching a decision, the guard folded the paper, handed it back to Oliver and said, "My apologies, Novice Oliver. Sorry for the delay."

  Oliver stuffed the coin purse into his small pocket, having learned very quickly to keep it out of sight. He trod off into the night.

  Chapter 53: William

  William closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but all he heard was the whispering. He quietly stretched his legs. They'd bedded down at the base of a tree, and though his body was tired, his mind wouldn't leave him alone.

  For days, the forest had been spilling its secrets to him in barely perceptible words and nonsense phrases. At first, he'd thought he was mistaken, that it had been the rustle of the wind, or the animals skittering through the forest. It had to be something other than voices.

  But the voices only seemed to clarify themselves with words that grew bold and distinct, interrupting his thoughts and making it hard for him to concentrate. They spoke to him at all hours of the day—while he walked, while he ate, and while he slept. The voices wouldn't leave him alone.

  William knew he was sick. He knew he was turning.

  But that wasn't what was happening now.

  He didn't feel like he was turning mad. He felt like he was getting smarter.

  He understood how to follow the tracks in the wild, and he understood the ways in which the forest worked. He no longer viewed trees as trees, or bushes as bushes. The forest was a single, breathing entity, begging to be understood. All around him were the conversations of animals, the creaks of the earth, and the groans of the trees. He understood everything. Stories of pain, hunger, and sorrow spilled from the earth, as if they were meant for his ears only.

  At first, he hadn't been sure why they were communicating with him, and why he couldn't answer back. William had tried whispering into the forest when Mom and Bray weren't listening, but hadn't gotten a response. He'd even tried talking to the trees when no one appeared to be watching. Neither had produced a result.

  It wasn't until he came face to face with the demon that he understood.

  He recalled the creature that had been pinned against the tree the day before. When it'd opened its mouth, it had released the same guttural sounds he'd heard back at the river, but this time, the sounds made sense to him. These weren't the incoherent babblings of a crazed animal, but the competent words of a superior being. The demons were trying to be understood, just like the forest or the animals. Their message was clear.

  They wanted to cure William.

  They wanted to cure them all.

  With his eyes still closed, William smiled, thinking about the things the demon had told him. The demon's words gave him hope. He wasn't infected. The others were. The people slaying the demons—his "kind"—were doing so out of fear, a need to destroy that which they didn't understand. He didn't know that when he lived in the townships, but William knew now.

  He pictured the smoldering pyres he'd witnessed at The Cleansing, the scalping of demons at the river, the angry eyes of the soldiers. Mankind had perpetrated evil. Not the demons.

  It wasn't demons that had stabbed and burned the settlers in their home, killing Harriet and her family. It wasn't demons that had slaughtered Davenport. Demons weren't tracking them through the forest, intent on dragging them back to behead them, spike them, or worse.

  That was all man's doing.

  All these things were obvious to William now, but he couldn't dare voice this knowledge to his mother or to Bray. They'd fear him if they knew what he knew, just like men always feared the demons. And so William kept quiet, listening to the subtle voices in the wind, knowing he was destined to join the beings that spoke to him.

  He was a part of them. Not a part of Brighton, but a part of the wild.

  A part of the demons.

  Chapter 54: Oliver

  Oliver stopped in front of Dunlow's house and found a touch of fright. Uninvited knocking on doors after the sun went down was a social taboo; for what reason, Oliver didn't know. Nevertheless, he'd come this far. He clenched his jaw tight, stepped up to the thick old wooden planks, puffed his chest out, and steeled his confidence with the memory of his triumph over the simple-minded guards. He knocked.

  Immediately, the voices inside the house fell silent. No other sounds followed. Oliver wondered what that meant.

  He waited a moment. He heard no footsteps from inside.

  He knocked a second time. Three raps. He waited.

  Soft footsteps grew a little louder as they came up to the other side of the door. A tiny wooden cover on the peephole opened, and Oliver saw half of an old man's face through the opening.

  "What are you doing on my porch at this hour, boy?"

  Oliver's instinct was to step back from the man's anger, but he caught himself before he did so. "He held up his folded paper. I have a message—"

  "A message?" Dunlow's temper flared. "At night? From who?"

  Feeling his confidence grow as he stood there, Oliver said, "I am Oliver, Father Winthrop's novice and—"

  Dunlow gulped and his tone changed. "Father Winthrop." Dunlow sucked in an audible breath and said in a more civil tone. "Yes, I recognize you."

  "Yes," Oliver said, copying Father Winthrop's officious tone. "I have a message for your twin sons, Mister Dunlow."

  "From Father Winthrop?" Dunlow asked.

  "I cannot say," said Oliver, maintaining his tone. "I have been instructed to say nothing of the message's source."

  "I see." Dunlow's face moved away from the tiny peep window. Oliver heard the sound of a wooden brace being taken off the other side of the door. A moment later, the door swung open and Dunlow waved Oliver in. "My apologies. I didn't mean to be rude. I didn't recognize you at first."

  That surprised Oliver so much that he couldn't think of a response. Instead he walked past Dunlow and into a semicircle of his two sons, his daughters, and his wife, all looking at Oliver with some mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

  Dunlow gently closed the door behind Oliver and pointed at his twin sons. "There they are."

  Oliver stepped up to the twins as they stood side by side. He said, "Is there a place where we can speak in private?"

  "In private?" Timothy Dunlow asked.

  Tommy Dunlow pointed at a room to their right. "In there."

  "What is this?" their mother asked.

  Oliver looked at her, coming to the understanding that, for the moment, all of these adults were deferring to him as if Father Winthrop himself were standing there. "I apologize, Mrs. Dunlow. I am permitted to discuss this message in private with your two sons. That is all I can say on the matter."

  "Well, well," said old Dunlow, leading Oliver and his sons toward the room to the right, a room that had no table to dine on, no beds to sleep in, only chairs for sitting and shelves for displaying more ancient artifacts than Oliver had ever seen in a private home. He tried to keep his awe to himself as he struggled to maintain his diminutive imitation of Father Winthrop.

  Once Oliver and the two twins were inside, Old Dunlow closed the door behind them.

  Tommy Dunlow motioned Oliver toward a chair covered with leather over some kind of cushion, and Oliver sat, going to great effort to hide his nervousness. The only padded chair he'd ever sat in was Father Winthrop's when no one was around to catch him doing it. He'd heard stories of how the wealthy would sometimes sit in their comfortable padded chairs for hours, doing nothing but talking, or maybe watching the clouds through their windows.

  What would it be like to
have time to do simply nothing? No chores? No punishments? No one telling you what to do?

  Both Tommy and Timmy took seats in identical chairs across from Oliver.

  Tommy said, "May we have the message now?"

  "Of course." Oliver held it out toward them.

  Timmy took it. "Can you tell us who it is from?"

  Shaking his head, Oliver said, "No, I cannot. I apologize for that, but my instructions were explicit on this point." Oliver wondered if he'd used that word, explicit, correctly. He'd only heard it used twice before, both times when Minister Beck was talking down to Father Winthrop.

  Tommy unfolded the message and started to read. He grew very uncomfortable. When he finished, he nudged his brother and silently passed the note over. Timmy read it, and a similarly uncomfortable expression came over his silent face.

  Oliver took a gamble to learn the message's content. "Do you have any questions?"

  "Yes," Tommy said, irritation rising in his voice. "Who sent this?"

  Trying to keep his confidence, Oliver said sternly, "I told you I can't answer that question."

  Timmy turned to Tommy, shaking his head, "This is one of General Blackthorn's machinations. He wants to have our tongues for his box."

  That confused Oliver. What Timmy Dunlow had just said made no sense. He reached into his overstuffed pocket and worked the fat coin purse out. The muted jingle of coins in the leather purse caught the twins' attention. The noticeable sum in the heavy little pouch was enough to catch anyone's eye.

  Silently, Oliver held the purse out.

  Both Timmy and Tommy stared at it.

  "Take it," said Oliver. "The sender offered it as a token of his sincerity. It is yours, whether you toss that message into the fire and take no further action, or if you send a return message. If you burn that one and tell me to go, this is the last we will communicate on this subject. The sender also told me to say exactly this: He understands your antipathy for the person to whom the message refers. He trusts that your antipathy, plus these coins, will be sufficient to earn your silence on this matter, should you choose not to pursue it further."