The Gift

by Bryan M. Litfin

  “I think it’s time for me to go to Roma,” Teo said at last. “I can’t avoid it anymore.”

  “What about Anastasia?”

  Teo sighed. “I guess she’ll return to Ulmbartia with Vanita.”

  “Will she be safe there?”

  “I’m not sure, and that’s my biggest problem. I feel the need to stay and watch out for her, yet I have to go to Roma. I can’t be in two places at once! What am I supposed to do?”

  “You have to follow your calling, Teofil. Deus has a role ordained for you. You’re a man of action. You remind me of the Old Testament heroes like David or Samson or Josué. Few men in the world have the abilities you have. Don’t squander that gift.”

  “I consider it a compliment to be compared to David,” Teo acknowledged. “He was a brave fighter surrounded by mighty men. Remember when he wanted a drink of water and his soldiers ran into the enemy’s camp to get it for him? Now that’s courage.”

  Sol nodded. “And he showed that same kind of courage when he faced the giant with a couple of stones and a sling.”

  “What a story that was! I remember seeing that scene carved on the Overseer’s temple in the Forbidden Zone. I didn’t recognize it at the time.” Teo sipped his wine and stared into the distance. “But the truth is, I don’t feel adequate to follow in the footsteps of heroes like that. What if I fail?”

  “I’ve noticed that Deus often turns our failures into his victories.”

  “So you’re saying I should take a risk.”

  “Deus can be trusted, can he not?”

  “Yes. I believe that with all my heart. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be pain along the way.”

  “Can you handle that?”

  “There are things I could handle and things I couldn’t.” Teo exhaled a heavy sigh. “Alright, I’ll make some inquiries around the dock. Maybe I can find passage to Roma. I promised Anastasia I’d find the New Testament, so I have to try. But I’m bound by another oath as well.”

  “An oath to protect?”

  “Yes—an oath to protect something I’m not prepared to give up. I can only pray I’m never asked to.”

  Lustful thoughts filled the mind of Dohj Cristof, and he had no interest in chasing them away. Instead he reveled in them, letting his imagination run wild. His fantasies were extravagant in their sensuality and detailed in their lewdness. One woman was the focus of Cristof’s obsessive desire: the exotic beauty from over the northern mountains, Anastasia of Chiveis. His need for her was irrational, stoked by many hours of mental indulgence and aggravated by her inaccessibility to him. As the guest of a powerful and respected Ulmbartian duke, Anastasia could not be had for the taking like a housemaid or courtesan. She had to be treated with the deference due to the highborn. Cristof found that maddening.

  The dohj stood at the window in his briefing room, his hands clasped behind his back. He shifted his feet uncomfortably, feeling inflamed with lust, yet unable to do anything about it at the moment. A knock sounded on the door, and Cristof hurried to take a seat at the large cherrywood table in the center of the room. “Come in,” he barked, knowing the irritation in his voice was unwarranted. The director of intelligence was only doing his job.

  A tall, spare man with graying temples strode into the room along with two younger aides. All were elegantly dressed. “Greetings, Your Highness,” said the director, laying a satchel on the table as he sat down. “We have some disturbing matters to discuss with you.”

  “Not so disturbing that you can’t handle them, I trust.”

  The director glanced up and stared at the dohj from underneath his eyebrows. “Some matters are more complicated than others,” he said ominously.

  “Let’s get on with it then.” Cristof was in no mood for stalling.

  The director took a deep breath. “Your Highness, we have reason to believe the Exterminati have issued a death mark on certain persons within our borders. Or perhaps they intend kidnapping and torture. Either way it’s illegal.”

  The announcement made Cristof wince. The black-robed shamans gave him a shiver of revulsion every time he noticed them creeping around the streets. He understood they were necessary to rid Likuria of defective people, yet he preferred to have no direct dealings with them. Their blend of secrecy and occult power scared him.

  Cristof mustered the will to appear kingly. “Turning a blind eye to murder and secret abductions are not part of our agreement with Lord Borja,” he said.

  The mention of Borja’s name prompted a memory of the obese man’s visit to Likuria. Several years ago he had arrived unexpectedly from distant Roma, exuding evil spirits like sweat from his pores. Cristof knew the dark arts of the Exterminati gave them access to powers that were not of this world. The dohj had been only too willing to grant the shamans the legal right to remove Defectives from Likuria—anything to get Borja to leave the realm. The official policy toward the Exterminati had been one of tolerance and avoidance ever since. However, if they started overstepping their limits with unauthorized killings of non-Defectives, Cristof would have to take action. If he dared.

  Opening his satchel, the director removed two crumpled documents that looked like charcoal drawings. “Our intelligence suggests three individuals have been targeted by the Exterminati. Portraits like these have been distributed among the shamans to help them locate the targets. These persons are slated to be killed, or possibly tortured and sold into slavery.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The shamans pride themselves on having eyes everywhere, but they aren’t the only ones with informants. We have our own sources. Many a household slave can be bought off. They have nothing to lose.”

  “So who are the targets?” the dohj demanded. “Quit playing games and explain yourself.”

  “One of them is an unknown Ulmbartian who is not important to us. The other two are currently living in our realm. I have their portraits here. The female will be of concern to you, I believe.” The director of intelligence handed the two wrinkled drawings to an aide, who brought them to the dohj and laid them on the table. They were smudged and torn, yet the faint images of a man and woman remained. Cristof bent over the picture of the woman and let his gaze focus on it.

  His eyes widened. He sucked in his breath and gripped the edge of the table with both hands. What’s going on here? Cristof wanted to speak, to ask lucid questions and receive easy answers, but he couldn’t think coherently enough to put his thoughts into sequence, much less utter any words. All he knew for certain was that Anastasia was in mortal peril.

  “We do not know why Anastasia and Teofil of Chiveis have been targeted,” the director said, filling the awkward silence. “If it were a matter of their being defective, they would be subject to legal removal. However, since they have been singled out for kidnapping or assassination, we suspect there is something else at work here.”

  “I think I know what it is,” Cristof said quietly.

  The director signaled to the aide on his left, who brought out a quill and a blank piece of parchment for note taking. “Go on, Your Highness,” the director said.

  “Anastasia believes in a single god. When I first heard about it, I feigned interest and played along because . . .” The dohj paused. “Never mind that—it’s beside the point. The pertinent facts are that Anastasia and her peasant friend have brought a new religion to our land from over the mountains.”

  “He is the other target,” the director observed, pointing toward the second charcoal drawing. “He has taken up residence here since last summer.”

  “I met him once. An arrogant boy, that one.”

  The director pursed his lips, waiting a moment before speaking. “Your Highness, there are numerous gods in the world. Many of our citizens express devotion to one superstition or another, and the Exterminati do not get exercised about that. With all due respect, I’m not sure your hypothesis about Anastasia’s religion is correct.”

  Cristof grimaced. “At first I thought
it was harmless too. But the more I learned about what she believes, the more concerned I became. I tried to hush her up, but she wouldn’t be quiet.”

  “A deity hardly seems a sufficient reason for a death mark.”

  “Trust me, this god of hers is plenty sufficient. He’s not some petty inhabitant of a vast pantheon. This god—Deu, she calls him—claims to be the Creator of all. His religion is presented as the only true one, and he allows no competitors. Anastasia says all other gods must be cast aside.”

  “Hmm. Very interesting.” The director made sure the aide had recorded the information, then turned back to the dohj. “Rest assured, we will investigate the matter fully. It is all the more important in light of the naval report I received yesterday.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “A foreign ship was spotted entering our waters. A black caravel. Lord Borja’s lieutenant—the so-called Iron Shield—is heading our way again.”

  Cristof spat an expletive. The news made him feel panicky. “Is he coming here for Anastasia?”

  “Possibly. We believe he attempted an abduction already. His ship was near Camoly at the same time as your yacht, and several eyewitnesses saw Teofil of Chiveis there as well. One of your cabin maids reported seeing two men climbing the hull. The physical description of the intruder in Anastasia’s room would match a large man like the Iron Shield. Later that night a local doctor treated a knife wound to Teofil’s chest. The evidence suggests he may have thwarted an attack on Anastasia. Both of them appear to be in grave danger.”

  Cristof leaned on the table, holding his forehead in his hands. “I don’t care what happens to the soldier,” he muttered, “but we have to find a way to protect Anastasia. She needs me! She’s so delicate, and . . . and . . . innocent!” He banged his fist on the table. “By the gods, that makes her enticing! I’ll go mad if I don’t get to . . .” The dohj’s words trailed off into an inarticulate groan.

  The director kept his tone professional. “Protecting the woman will be difficult, Your Highness. The Exterminati are experts when it comes to such matters. Only the kind of continuous protection afforded to the royal family by bodyguards would be sufficient.”

  The room was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, Dohj Cristof raised his head, gazing into the distance with a blank stare.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, that’s the answer.”

  “What is, Your Highness?”

  Cristof did not respond as a plan began to crystallize in his mind. A slight smile came to him, and he moistened his lips with his tongue as he thought it over. At last he focused his gaze on the man seated across the table from him.

  “She must join the royal family,” Cristof said.

  The day the shamans came was rainy and cold.

  Sol was returning to the cottage from the covered market at Nuo Genov, carrying his groceries in a basket. Since it was late in the third month, a few sailors had begun to trickle into port again, and Teofil had gone to the waterfront to see what he could learn from them about Roma. Sol was looking forward to a cup of hot tea and a quiet afternoon alone. But it was not to be.

  They came in a fury, four men in black robes with garrotes in their hands. Sol tried to flee into the forest, but the attackers quickly overtook him. Though he kicked and struggled as they grabbed him, they were too strong to resist. He felt a wire close around his neck, cutting off his ability to breathe. Sol clawed at it, but the wire dug into his flesh, and he could not pry it away.

  A shaman with a red armband approached him. “You made it easy for us, old man,” he said in a friendly tone that obscured his evil intent. “By coming here where you are unknown, you made secrecy less needful for us. It will give us a wider array of choices when we torture you.”

  Sol’s need to breathe was overwhelming. He thrashed against his attackers, but the man with the garrote did not release his grip. Sol had played breath-holding games as a boy, which always ended when the awful feeling of having no air in the lungs became unbearable and was followed by a grateful gasp. Now that urgent moment had long since passed, and still there was no air. Sol felt himself grow dizzy. His desperate pain dissolved into a peaceful acquiescence. His body went limp, and then the world went black.

  Consciousness did not return easily to Sol. For a long time he remained in a delirious state, only dimly aware of what was happening around him. Some periods were blacker than others, but at no time did Sol completely wake up. At last he managed to shake the fog from his brain and claw his way back to reality. He moaned and tried to push himself up but found that his hands were tied behind his back. A sharp toe kicked him in the ribs. He lay still.

  After a while Sol realized he was lying in the bottom of a boat. The slap of the oars on the water told him he was being rowed out to sea. A gentle rain continued to fall, pattering softly onto his back. The boat stopped, and a thick rope was slipped under his armpits. Sol was hoisted into the air and dumped on the deck of a large ship. Thick-soled boots stood before his nose as he lay on his belly with his hands bound. Sol craned his neck and glanced up. It was the shaman with the red armband.

  “Follower of the Enemy,” the shaman cried, “you belong to me now. Relinquish all hope that your false god will save you.”

  “Where am I?” Sol asked weakly.

  “You are being exterminated, Sol of Ulmbartia. The days ahead will be filled with torment. We will find a quiet place to go ashore, where you will be interrogated until you have told us the full extent of your heretical activities. Until then, I will have that pleasure to look forward to, and you will have that agony to dread.” The remark elicited snickers from the other shamans standing around the deck.

  “If I tell you what you want to know, will I be allowed to live?”

  Everyone on the deck broke into uproarious laughter. Sol’s face burned with shame.

  “You will live a few years more,” said the leader of the shamans. “The question is, will you want to? By fleeing to Likuria, you unintentionally extended your life. Had I taken you at Duke Labella’s estate as I intended, you would not have been worth the effort to transport, and you would be dead already. But since you have come here on your own, I can toss you in the hold with the rest of the cargo and perhaps get a few coins for you. And so your life will go on, until day after day of backbreaking labor in the quarries finally claims what I did not. Before that end arrives, you will come to regret this extension of your miserable life.”

  “The quarries, is it?” Sol summoned his last remnants of courage. “Let it be known to all that I don’t fear your quarries, shaman, and I don’t fear death! You may kill my body, but I know the God who will claim my soul on the other side. Your threats of death have no power over me.”

  Sol felt a heavy boot step on the back of his head, grinding his face into the slick boards of the deck.

  “You are mistaken,” the shaman hissed. “There is nothing beyond this world but suffering and despair.”

  The shaman’s oppressive words were spoken with such venom, they seemed undeniable. Sol’s strength collapsed before an onslaught of hopelessness.

  The boot released its pressure, and the shaman barked a command to his men. “Throw this wretch into the hold with the rest of those pathetic mistakes!”

  Sol was picked up and tossed into the seething darkness below.

  CHAPTER

  8

  High on the white roof of the Domo, the Overseer beheld the face of Deus. The Almighty was truly beautiful—a God worthy of worship.

  The Overseer had observed a sleepless vigil through the night. Praying on his knees in the darkness of the ancient cathedral, the Overseer had approached his God with increasing intimacy. He spent the first two hours confessing his sins, allowing the ache in his knees from the hard stone floor to remind him of what sin does to the body of a man. Then he rose stiffly from his kneeling position and seated himself on a stool before a large window whose glass had broken out long ago. Moonlight poured into the church, illumin
ating him in a beam of white translucence. Like a mouse crouching on the forest floor, the Overseer was reduced to a tiny speck inside the cavernous cathedral with its immense pillars of stone. From his seat he chanted his way through the entire psalter:

  Beatus vir qui non abiit in consilio impiorum

  et in via peccatorum non stetit

  in cathedra derisorum non sedit

  sed in lege Domini voluntas eius

  et in lege eius meditabitur die ac nocte. . . .

  The Overseer’s sonorous tones had lulled him into a state of rapture—not sleep, but something infinitely sweeter. The law of the Lord was like a honeycomb in his mouth.

  In the latest part of the night, candles were lit inside the Domo. The nineteen other brothers and sisters of the Universal Communion had arrived from all corners of the Forbidden Zone, dragging their warped bodies to the place that made them whole. There, around the holy table, the Overseer had shared the Sacred Meal with them. Through bread and wine, each believer bound himself anew to the Pierced One. It was a pledge of community and service. Whatever else it was beyond that, the Christiani did not know.

  After the meal, the Overseer began to climb the stairs. He carried a silver crucifix, which he kissed with each upward step out of love for Iesus Christus. The deep spiritual longing of all the Christiani became his urgent prayer: Lead us into truth, O Deus! Show us the fullness of all that is thine! We believe, yet we wish to understand—reveal it to us!

  As he ascended the staircase, the Overseer prayed that the holy Papa might discover the lost Testament and so enlighten the Christiani with the wisdom that had almost died out. It was a bitter loss. Truths had been forgotten that should not have been. During the brutal and chaotic decades following the Ancients’ great war, few believers remained to preserve sound doctrine, and many evil forces worked against it. Now the truth was difficult to find, and to declare it among men was impossible. Only Deus could bring about its return. It was for precisely this grace that the Overseer now prayed.