by Ivory Autumn
Andrew knew it was his job to warn the people of their peril, before it was too late.
The time had come. It could not be delayed any longer. Andrew’s horse jerked to a stop, and stood in the center of the city, its great body heaving from the massive weight it had just carried. The chest of unsaid words puffed in windy gusts through the cracks in its wood as if gasping, begging for air, for a voice, for a chance to finally speak.
Andrew’s band of slaves fought to hold off the great mass of soldiers that crowded in around them. The clash of swords and weapons was deafening. But above the noise of battle, the droning, weary, mournful tones of the unopened chest rose.
Andrew stood on the wagon, his face dirty, his eyes filled with a keen, perceptive light. Within the crowd more soldiers came marching, trying to silence Andrew’s men, trying to drown out what they might say, before they ever got a chance to speak.
They could not hold out for long. No. The city of Copious was too strong. Andrew and his army may have been able to enter the city, but they would not get out unless something drastic happened.
Andrew scanned the faces of the people who stood afar watching the scene. They looked indifferent, like a stubborn pool of water that refused to reflect light because they believed there to be no sun.
“Listen!” Andrew shouted. He raised his brilliant sword flashing its light so all could see. “LISTEN!”
His words rippled through the crowd, piercing and powerful. Gradually, all the fighting ceased. All eyes were directed towards him and his magnificent sword. The crowd hushed. All grew quiet except for the sound of the throbbing chest.
Andrew set his jaw and glared out over the mass of people. “Do you not hear it? The throb of the words you have left unheard, and not said. There, do you not hear them, pounding to get free? You have tried to silence my men before they would speak. Would you not hear what we have to say before you shut out the good you might hear?”
“What good could you speak?” A mocking voice of a soldier growled. “You are nothing but a band of vagabonds, as worthless as the clothes you wear!”
Andrew clenched his fists and breathed deeply, trying to calm the anger he felt surging through him. “Look around you! Do you not see yourselves? Your leaders are corrupt! Your moment of finery is but borrowed. Your people have given your weapons away for food. Your leaders have stolen your firstborn---they control you in ways that you know not because you are not willing to see, not willing to listen. You are blinded by the lies, even though the truth is standing in front of you. My army of freed slaves is now freer than you will ever be. These are some of your own, your children, and relatives. Your leaders have lied to you. Their promise of education, of security for those freedoms taken, has only been your slavery, not liberation like you supposed. ”
“Our leaders are just!” voices in the crowd shouted. “These slaves, as you call them, must have been upstarts and usurpers who deserved such treatment. Else you would have not entered our city so violently.”
“Listen to yourselves!” Andrew cried, his voice grinding against his throat as he tried to be heard above the roar of the people. “Why is it that you cannot see that the very same people that say they will protect you are the ones who inflict the most harm? You have given strength to a power that never would have gotten hold on this earth had you not been so eager, so willing to believe a lie, and to give yourselves and your liberties away for mere favors!”
The crowd stirred with anger. Shouts rang out. Soldiers ran through the streets. Voices howled, shouting out for the silence of Andrew’s traitorous words. Andrew’s men rallied around him, ready to protect him if need be.
Andrew’s face shone with sweat. His eyes were filled with anger. He could not believe the hardness of the people, their unwillingness to listen, to see the truth. He had destroyed The Shade’s, Trees, and defeated The Drought, yet the people still would not listen. Perhaps darkness had too great a hold upon their hearts, for them to be moved. Perhaps only slaves could be freed because they had lost everything.
“Listen!” Andrew shouted. “Listen to me!”
The crowd was wild with anger. Swords clashed, and people screamed. The crowd would not be silenced.
Andrew knew that if he did not act fast, the people would tear his men apart. He stared down at the chest of unsaid words that sat in the back of the wagon. With each moment, the chest bulged and cracked, pregnant with the unsaid words these people had not allowed to be spoken or heard. The chest started to shudder and tremble, groaning under the weight of words it carried. Suddenly, the wagon wheels cracked and collapsed, causing the chest to fall out onto the ground.
Andrew scrambled to the chest to steady it.
The chest throbbed with muffled noises, the lock holding it shut jangled with anticipation.
“Silence that traitor!” Soldiers shouted. “Silence him! Silence them all!”
“No!” Andrew roared, his voice loud and angry. “Because you will not listen, because what you have not said, and refused to say, and hear, because of what you have left unspoken, I will MAKE you listen! But not to my words, but to your own! I will make you listen to the unsaid words you and your leaders have not spoken, but should have. The things you all should have said long ago. Things you should have spoken out for, but were too afraid to speak when you could have been heard. I will make you hear the voices you have drowned out by your own deafness. I will make you hear the cries of those in torment that no one would hear. I will make you hear voices of the downtrodden, the helpless, those without a voice, those whom you have condemned to death without a trial. Those slaves whom you have sacrificed in order to save yourselves. To the voices of the aged, the words stolen from infants, and patriots whose unheard words cry up from the dust against you. This day you will hear, and LISTEN!”
In a fit of anger, Andrew raised his sword and brought it down with a great force upon the lock holding the chest shut.
The lock broke in a flash of sparks. The people cried out and backed away in fear. The lid flew open in a flood of noise and wind and blinding light. The noise that burst from the chest exploded over the crowd, knocking Andrew back. Words, whispers, shouts, cries, laments, haunting notes of music. The words had been so compacted within the chest that now they swirled through the air, thick like clouds of smoke, visible to the human eye, vapors of light. Some words were long, some twisted, others were jagged, some were sharp, some soft, others rigid and bumpy, but all were very forceful. Like a choir of saintly monks, their avid voices, chorused through the air. Some soloed out, others rang together, woeful and full of sorrow. Words that spoke things that were hard to hear, hard to believe, hard to speak. But there was no shutting them out now. The words cut through the air sharper than any knife, quicker than an arrow, consuming, and as savage as a hot fire. They pierced the heart and penetrated ears where previously, only small holes had been for receiving frivolous words. Some people in the crowd screamed and covered their ears. Others ran from the very words that they had never said, but should have. The words spilled out of the chest like a fountain of water rolling through the crowd, submerging them in words. Wonderful, frightening, words---true words. These words spread out across the land, penetrating walls, breaking barriers, shattering silence, accusing the guilty, condemning the wicked, bending knees, raising heads, while causing others to turn away in shame, causing thoughtless hearts to wonder.
The words cut through the crowd, bringing down the strong and those bent on harming Andrew and his men.
Soldier, saint, sinner, man, woman, child, feeble, old, young---none were spared. All were brought low in an instant. Fear, wonder, embarrassment, shame, alertness, wakefulness, a stark realization to the reality of where their city stood, and every other emotion coursed freely through the streets. The words flooded through the crowd, leaving none untouched.
Words flowed around Andrew. They pulsed and swirled. He heard voices, whispers, shouts, and cries of people whose voices he did not recognize. Yet h
e understood their meaning. Several words floated around his head, like wispy butterflies.
“Andrew,” the words cried. “Hurry, time is running out!” the sounds of the words were soft, and vivid, like a ghost from the past. “Look to the sky, everything is graying already.” A chill of fear gripped Andrew.
Andrew looked up. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, at first. The brilliant words had cut through the shrouded streets and opened a layer of yellow, warm, beautiful light which poured down over the city. In that one moment he could see the brilliant blue sky, the yellow sun, the white puffy clouds. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed how gray and dismal everything really was, how the blues, yellows, and even the light had become so diluted. That seam of light was beautiful, unpolluted, and pure. The words had cut through the shroud just enough for him, and those watching, to see how gray everything really had become, how polluted, how dirty they themselves really were. They had been living in a graying world, polluted one lie at time, they had not known how dirty they had become, before now.
A gasp rolled through the crowd. Some covered their eyes because of the light. Others ran from their unsaid words and the words they would not hear. Their words swirled after them, tormenting them. The soldiers that had come to destroy Andrew and his army of slaves cowered before their own unsaid words, like rabbits frightened of wolves that they, themselves, had created. Words from thousands of souls they had silenced before they ever were heard, were theirs to hear and see. The army of impenetrable forces shrank away from the words, and ran, crushed and brought low in an instant. The streets were filled with sounds, voices, noises, shouts from both the unheard words, and those who did not want to hear them. The gathering of people had thinned considerably. Only those who could take the words that they heard, and let them sink into their hearts and mind, stayed. Just as the words had cut a seam through the gray sky, the words caused the countenances of those left standing, to change from a chalky gray, to a healthy color, to a warm human, natural beautiful glow. Whispers, hums, and stray words floated on the air, catching the breeze, like small birds, dancing on the current, cooing like doves.
Andrew peered into the chest. It was empty, except for several small words, lurking in a corner. They looked frightened, almost afraid to come forth. They were very small, and thin, like a handful of white feathers. Andrew lowered his hand into the chest. “Come on,” he encouraged them. “It’s alright. You can come out now.”
The words darted about the chest like a school of fish, startled by any quick movements. Andrew held perfectly still, and gradually the words crept into his hand. The words felt warm, and comfortable. They caused a strange, but very wonderful feeling to flood over him. They made their way up his arm, like an inch worm, slowly at first. Then, folding out their beautiful wings, they fluttered about him.
Andrew smiled as the words twirled around his arm, then rose and swirled around his neck. Surprised by their new freedom, the words burst in a swirl of color and sound, flitting into Andrew’s ear.
The words tickled his ear, and caused him to laugh. Astonished, at what he heard, Andrew’s eyes grew wide. “I love you, Andrew.” The voice was Ivory’s.
Andrew blushed, feeling suddenly very odd. He turned to Ivory who stood only a few feet away. She too had a strange look on her face. Yet she had not spoken directly to him, at least.
They were unsaid, said words.
And perhaps it was better left that way.
Stunned by the outpouring of so many words coming from the chest, Andrew stood and looked over the crowd, shocked by the transformation. Those left were few in numbers compared to what had been, yet those still there were the ones who were not afraid to hear, nor speak the truth. They had awoken. It was as if a light had been turned on inside them. They instantly began helping the poor souls of Andrew’s army who were in need of care, wounded from the battle of the slave camp. Children, women, and old men much too feeble to fight that had been rescued from the slave camp were offered shelter and a place to rest and stay. Men brought forth hidden weapons that they had concealed. In the wake of the words, it was as if a great storm had passed through the city, bringing down the mighty trees with weak roots, testing those who had appeared not as strong on the outside, but whose roots kept them still standing.
Here, at last, moment by moment, the words surged through the city, spreading like fire, purging the land. It seemed that chaos was all that could be seen in the city. But Andrew saw through the chaos. He saw the transformation that was slowly taking place. The words fell onto the ready soil of men’s hearts, gradually bringing about a change. These words spoke powerful things Andrew could never say---things that were formed and fitted like a glove to every individual on earth. Words so powerful that no one could stand before them. They could either hide from them, or embrace them.
There in the streets of Copious the words gleaned the people, threshing hearts, changing them, making old things new, and new things old. One by one, word by word, those who were unafraid came forth ready to face the thing they had helped to create. Here, Andrew stood and watched as the people gathered. A new kind of people. An army humbled and willing to face the things they had so long kept hidden, or neglected.
Here, the voices would spread. Here even in this pompous city full of porcelain people, was a mine of “gems” to be had.
Andrew smiled, feeling goose bumps appear on his arms as wispy words swirled around him, whispering vivid truths that had not been spoken in the streets for over a hundred years.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Heard on the Wind
Lancedon, Coral, Sterling, and Zeechee’s band of men journeyed far from the forest where their paths first met. The unrelenting heat of the drought had suddenly ceased as if someone had turned a switch that caused the heavens to pour down rain and frost. The Drought was at an end, but something else was coming. Something subtle, cunning, and deceptive---darkness perhaps?
In Zeechee and his men, Lancedon had found true friends, and patriots. Their help and friendship was enough to give Lancedon hope that many men just like Zeechee were waiting for someone to follow.
Day by day, though encased in darkness, Lancedon could feel his senses expand. Like a butterfly in the darkest cocoon, his mind had grown wings, and these wings were beginning to take him to places of unknown heights. His wisdom had grown sharper, his judgment keener, his hearing better, his sense of light and darkness more vivid.
Though blind, he knew now that light and darkness was much more than something you saw, or something you didn’t see. He could feel light, just as he could feel the darkness, though he could perceive neither with his human eyes.
Light and darkness carried with it a feeling, a pulse, a spirit of its own. Darkness and light were living, breathing entities that gave wages to those who served them, light unto light, and darkness unto darkness.
Where darkness constricted, light loosened and expanded and grew, gave, and never diminished. Yet for all this, the people chose to hold onto the darkness. They clutched at it as if it would save them, and it clutched back, binding them in fear, and darkness, keeping them from ever stepping outside the prison that the darkness had created for their minds and bodies. It was if the people of the earth had become a different species altogether. Becoming wholly undesirable, something that could not think, trust, or act for themselves. Nor would they question why they held onto this darkness with such desperate-and at times-violent aggression, afraid of anything that threatened the chains that held them in place.
It was as if they were afraid to see the light, afraid to hear the truth, because once they opened their minds, they might look and see the awful place they were in.
Perhaps it was better not to know. Because once you knew, you had to act. And to act is a frightening thing. Yes. It was far better to remain as they were. For in their bonds was a sense of safety, a sense of unity, a sense of direction, even if that direction was heading to an endless abyss they could not see.
Lan
cedon was blind. But he could see that the chains that held the people of the earth were something far more binding than even his blindness. For theirs was a blindness of the soul. It was as if they had forgotten how to feel, forgotten who they were.
Lancedon did not need to see the people to feel their malice. It emanated off them like an unpleasant odor. His senses had grown so keen that he could smell the odor of darkness, and the sickness of the polluted souls that dwelt in the cities and towns they traveled through. It was is if the darkness was starting to concentrate itself so much so that it had form, far more powerful than a shadow.
Lancedon had passed through many towns full of this dark odor---a stench that did not wear off very easily. Most were towns they passed by without stopping at, because of the foul stench that emanated off them. Though no one else in their party could smell this odor, Lancedon could, and it was he who directed them to the places that did not reek of darkness. But even in towns that had not been so polluted, the grip and influence of The Fallen was still there, lingering in the shadows, catching hold and tightening its grip on those who had been conditioned to accept his lies. All had remained unfriendly, hostile, and threatened them by violence. Lancedon’s blindness had indeed been a great stumbling block, especially for those who may have chosen to follow him if he had not been thus handicapped. No one wanted to follow a blind leader, much less a blind leader who spoke of revolting from the very powers they had embraced, and protected.
Lancedon, and those of Zeechee’s men that followed him were growing weary. No towns would have them. The cities cast them out.
They were fugitives, outcasts, wanderers in a land that did not want to hear what they had to say.
Lancedon leaned against a large rock, and inwardly groaned. The night was a welcome boon to the weary day. Though cold and ridden with frost, at least it did not smell of true darkness. His body and his soul felt tired and worn out. They were lone voices crying out to a world that would not hear them. He wondered if it was indeed a pointless cause in which they worked. He and Zeechee’s men had been laughed at, scorned and ridiculed as conspirators, traitors, and bandits. People had agued that if he had indeed been the Heir of Danspire, why hadn’t his people rallied behind him?