“Is that you, Isaiah?”
Isaiah knew his father’s voice, saw his familiar blue and black checkered flannel shirt as he stepped into the moonlight. He flung himself at his father with arms wide open. His father reciprocated. The hug felt so solid and real beneath him, it was difficult to stop. When they mutually let go, Isaiah asked hopefully, “Uncle Barrett has finally come to his senses and let you go?”
“No, I escaped.”
“How?”
“No time to explain. I want you to go home and...”
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “Dad, you need to get out of town.”
“It’s the evening before the Summer Solstice. Leaving Galatia now would be like the captain leaving the Titanic right before it hit the iceberg.”
“You do know that the Titanic sunk and the captain drowned with it.”
“I’m just saying come hell, high water, iceberg, or a thousand armies—I plan to fight for Galatia until my dying breath.”
“If Feenie and her coven have their way, your last breath will come soon. They want to crown Barrett king over your dead body. But, Dad, I’m working on a plan to stop them. Please, just give me a few hours and let me do this for you.”
“You must follow your conscience, son. As I must follow mine.”
Worried that he might be seeing his father for the last time, he tried to find the words to express all the gratitude and love he had failed to show over the years, but the old-fashioned school bell began to toll in the distance, signaling that time had run out.
Isaiah choked out, “Be careful, Dad.”
His father kissed him on both cheeks and ran off down the alley. Isaiah tried to follow, but lost sight of him among the two and three-story shops lining the street. It looked like half the town had gathered in Moore Park. Hundreds of poles had been shoved into the ground to support glass oil lamps. The smell of kerosene and a sickening sweet musk filled the air, making his head swim. Thousands of people, many of them still in their pajamas, had come out to the park for the meeting
On the platform where Phoenix Rising had put on a free rock concert a month ago, two huge steaming pots, like witches’ cauldrons from a gruesome fairy tale, were hissing and boiling. Mull and Feenie stood nearby as the shapes of faces, animals, stars and arcane symbols appeared in the steam.
Magus Mull stood on the stage, hands raised, a green light arcing between his palms. Hypnotizing, Isaiah thought, unable to pull his eyes away as the light turned into a black cloud spinning higher over the stage. A thin tornado, its height impossible to determine as its top portion disappeared into the dark sky, rotated on the platform. It made a high-pitched whistling sound as it bent one way, and then the other, like a hula dancer.
“Magus Mull has the power of the wind at his fingertips,” Feenie told the crowd. “Unlike the charisma, magic is an ancient art, disciplined and dependable. And our dear friend is willing to use it to help the Galatians defeat their enemies.”
“Releseyu!” Magus cried out.
The sickening sweet odor became stronger. Isaiah tasted it at the back of his throat. His worries of the day seemed less important now. As the magic tornado left the platform to tear the leaves off a copse of trees, Feenie’s words began to make sense. If the Galatians had that kind of power, the Western Alliance would think twice about attacking them. Oil lamps flickered, then extinguished as the funnel whirled past them, pulling poles out of the ground. Imagine what something like that could do if it ripped through an army. A surge of hope went through him.
“This is true magic, my friends,” Barrett told the crowd. “We can make a tornado a hundred times the size of this one. And this is only a glimpse of the power at our disposal, if only you will open yourselves to the magic.”
“I’m open to anything that will help us win the war,” a man called out in the crowd. People clapped their approval.
“That is the reply I expected from such an intelligent people,” Feenie said. “Recall the law of the conservation of energy: that nothing can be created or destroyed; it can only be changed from one form into another. And so it is with magic. In order to cast a spell capable of crushing an army, energy must be transferred from one form to another.” She paused for effect as the crowd murmured in hopeful expectation. “Which means that in order for my husband to save Galatia, you must offer him a sacrifice.”
“Tell us, Barrett?” a voice called from the crowd. “How will you save us?”
“On my command, the magic users among us will cast a spell to melt the flesh from the bones of our enemies. But there are a lot of soldiers out there, which means we need to transfer a large amount of energy.”
“We need a very special kind of energy that only your humanity can provide us,” Mull chimed in. “But anything to save your families—right?”
“Right! Right! Right!” the crowd chanted.
“But first we must inoculate ourselves against the flesh melting spell.” Feenie ladled the contents of one of the cauldrons into a golden goblet. “So, come one, come all, and drink in the Ambrosia of Glonare!”
Isaiah stood at the back edge of the crowd, thoughts clouded, but grasping at the hope that victory could be theirs. The crowd surged forward, eager to sip from the gleaming vessel that beautiful Feenie was freely offering.
Isaiah muscled his way through the crowd to reach the front of the line.
But the image of his aunt, uncle, and Mull screwing in his father’s office flashed in his head. How could he reconcile his hatred for them with the elation they had built inside of him now?
“Stop this madness. You’re all being drugged by Devil’s Breath!” a woman yelled from somewhere nearby He looked around to see Dr. Katrina Sweet holding a scarf over her nose. “I can smell it in the steam. Don’t breathe the steam!”
How could anyone not breathe it in when the vapor covered the whole park?
A man in a blue and black checked flannel shirt approached the platform. Guards went to intercept him, but he held up a palm and they bounced away as if he were surrounded by a force field.
“It’s Red Wakeland!” someone shouted. A murmur swept through the crowd.
Aunt Feenie’s head jerked around in surprise. Her face morphed into contempt as the mayor climbed the steps to the platform. Boos and cheers rang out from the crowd.
“We love you, Red!” a woman yelled encouragement.
“Sock it to ‘em, mayor. Get these wannabes off the stage!”
“Listen to me, my people,” Dad said, holding up a hand for everyone to be quiet. “What Barrett, Feenie and their wicked companion have failed to tell you is that the price of magic is always more than you can afford. Do not step onto the trail they have mapped out for you, because it leads straight to hell. As the ancient prophets foretold, persons or nations that place theirs faith in witches and warlocks will earn the wrath of God.”
“Galatian guns combined with my magic will win this war,” Mull said with a sneer. “Not fasting and prayers to your invisible god.”
“Guns and Magic,” Feenie said, holding up her fist to the crowd. “Guns and Magic!”
Another woman on the platform shouted in reply. “Give us guns, and give us magic, but rid us of Red Wakeland and his useless god once and for all!”
“The power you’ve seen here today is delusion,” Red said. “Those who use it are the pawns of demons. Follow them to your own destruction. Or trust in God and be saved!”
“Let Red become the sacrifice that wastes the flesh of our enemies!” Feenie shouted.
“Kill Red! Kill Red!” rose up from the crowd.
Fear for his father’s life sobered Isaiah in an instant. He fought to get to the platform, but the crowd was too thick.
“Have you people lost your goddamn minds?” Nathan Steelsun’s voice rose over the crowd. “Even if you think he’s the worst leader ever, Red doesn’t deserve to die!”
Fists began to fly. People were pushing each other.
“Stop this madness
,” a woman yelled. “Let Red go!”
Caught in a rush for the platform, Isaiah suddenly came face-to-face with a beautiful brunette with dark eyes, Belle Winters, his ex-fiancé. They had parted last year on bad terms and hadn’t spoken since. Unsure about who’s side Belle had chosen, Barrett or Red’s, Isaiah froze. Would she rat him out?
“Isaiah,” she gasped, then clamped a hand over own mouth. “Oh, my, gosh. You have to get of here.”
She reached for him, but the crowd surged again, seperating him from Belle.
“Suspenoth, abernoth, Red Wakeland, enorsedo!” Magus Mull shouted.
About a third of the crowd collapsed just like that, ending the brawl. Were they dead or passed out—Isaiah didn’t know. When he looked up again, he was horrified to see that his father was in the custody of the sheriff’s goons. They were coiling a thick rope around his body. Helplessly bound, they hoisted Isaiah’s father above their heads.
The crowd followed in procession as the goons carried the mayor through the park and down the street. A woman grabbed Isaiah by the arm, eyes narrowing in accusation.
“Aren’t you Red Wakeland’s boy?”
He shook his head in denial.
A man shoved him in the chest. “Yeah, it’s the oldest one, I think. What’s your name again?” Too scared to speak, Isaiah shook his head. The man unexpectedly stumbled forward, half-falling onto Isaiah.
“My two left feet strike again,” Belle apologized profusely. “Sorry, mister, I tripped.”
Luke Steelsun yanked the man to his feet and pushed him aside, then offered Isaiah a hand up. Not letting go, he steered Isaiah through the crowd, with Belle at his heel. Once they escaped the mess, Isaiah gratefully shook Luke’s hand.
“Thanks, man.”
“It’s a dangerous night for anyone who supports your father,” Luke said. “Come with Belle and me to a safe place.”
“I can’t,” Isaiah said as he backed away. “There’s something I have to do.”
Isaiah put up the hood of his jacket and melted into the mob, determined to stay near his father. He assumed they were returning him to the jail.
“To the pit!” then crowd began to chant, “To the pit!”
Falling into step, he marched with the crowd toward the Mouth of God, where they gathered around its rim. The mayor was carried to the side opposite of the mouth from Isaiah, who dared to lower his hood in the hopes that his father would see a kind face among the crowd.
“He will give his life, to power the spell, that will save the nation, which he almost destroyed,” Feenie shouted. “Shall we make Red Wakeland our sacrifice?”
“Feed the Mouth!” the people pumped their fists in the air. “Feed the Mouth!”
The wind began to pick up. Clouds rolled in over a full moon. A pattering of rain fell, just enough to wet the ground and dampen everyone’s clothes. His father didn’t struggle—eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer, he prepared to meet the God he loved so much. Magus Mull turned to Barrett, who nodded in approval.
“On the count of three.” Magus lifted his long arm to the moon. “One. Two. Three!”
The citizens of Galatia heaved their mayor into the Mouth of God.
He didn’t make a sound as he disappeared into the bottomless void of darkness.
“No!” Isaiah dove to the edge of the mouth, reaching out in a futile effort to snatch his father from certain death. “Dad!”
Chapter Forty-Four
(Isaiah Wakeland)
The crowd’s hands were all over Isaiah. Punches rained down. Someone reached down to pull him to his feet, using his own body as a shield. Uncle Bryce.
“I didn’t mean for any of this happen, Isaiah,” Uncle Bryce yelled over the chaos. “Not to you—not to Red. You gotta believe me—I had no idea they’d take it this far.”
Isaiah felt like his guts had been hollowed out by a big spoon and replaced by a churning ball of pain. His uncle’s words didn’t quite register. How could the Galatians do this? Was his father still falling into the bowels of the Earth? Or had he hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces? Had the rest of his family heard the news?
“Hurry home. Lock the doors and don’t let anyone in.”
Urged on by Uncle Bryce, Isaiah ran. Torn and blinded by his own blood, he returned to the rope running down the side of the city jail. The strength had been drained out of him. So he relied on the charisma to carry him up. This time he pulled the rope up behind him. Gizmo was already there, waiting for him with his video equipment. When he got a look at Isaiah, his eyes widened.
“What happened to you?”
“They just killed my dad,” Isaiah croaked.
“Wh-wh—what?”
“They threw him into the pit like a piece of garbage.”
“They?”
“Everybody—it was a lynch mob.”
“Are you sure?” Isaiah vented his frustration on one of the speakers, smashing it with a kick. “Hey,” Gizmo yelled in alarm. “That’s irreplaceable!”
“So is my father!” Isaiah sunk to the ground in a heap. “All he ever wanted was to help people and love God. Those sons-of-bitches! I’m glad the Western Alliance is coming. May we all burn in hell!”
Gizmo laid a supportive hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “Do you still want to do this?”
“More than ever.” Sniffling, Isaiah wiped his nose, and looked up at Gizmo. “Let’s hang Feenie, Barrett and Mull with their own damn rope.”
They had an excellent view of the square and the crisp white facade of the Building of National Affairs. From their perch on top of the jail, Gizmo and Isaiah watched the evil trio running up the steps to the National Building’s landing. A podium was already set up. Barrett stood behind it as all of Galatia came out to hear his plans for Galatia.
When the crowd filled the square, Barrett cleared his throat and said somberly, “In our darkest hour, my brother has committed suicide, jumping to his death into the Mouth of God.”
Conversation broke out across the crowd. Women were sobbing. A man yelled, “Who cares? We got Barrett.”
“All hail King Barrett!” Feenie shouted, pumping her fist in the air.
“All hail King Barrett!” a smattering of voices shouted out from the gathering.
“Half the town was at the pit?” Gizmo said. “Why are they letting him lie about murdering your father?”
“I don’t know,” Isaiah said. “It’s like the whole world has gone mad.”
A wagon pulled up to the base of the steps. The big steaming cauldrons were in its flatbed. Feenie’s entourage from Windmere, other witches and warlocks no doubt, flanked the wagon, golden goblets at the ready.
“Red’s death was not in vain.” Barrett gripped the podium as if he could barely stand for the grief running through him. What a phony, Isaiah grumbled hatefully. “In given up his life force, Red has given us the energy required for the flesh-wasting spell, saving us all. But each of you will need inoculations against its effects. One sip of Glonare’s Wine is all it takes.”
Isaiah and Gizmo watched the scene unfold from their vantage of the rooftop. Dozens of people had goblets now, and were organizing the Galatians into six separate lines as if they were coming up to drink the Blood of Christ at Holy Communion.
“Roll the tape,” Isaiah said.
Gizmo pressed a couple of buttons.
A huge square of light appeared on the smooth white exterior of the Building of National Affairs. The people in the square watched expectantly, assuming that Barrett had arranged it as part of the show. Feenie, Barrett and Mull were facing the crowd, their backs to the National Building, so they didn’t notice the projection flickering on the concrete wall behind them.
The camera panned across twelve hooded figures gathered around a stone table. A forest at nighttime served as the backdrop. It appeared to be late autumn. Leaves of red and yellow covered the trees rising up from the mossy ground. Tiki torches and lanterns hanging from branches illuminated the smal
l gathering , helping the camera catch everything in detail. Not every face was discernible, but some were exposed enough to recognize. Barrett and Feenie were among them. Bryce, the cameraman, took a few selfies, implicating himself in the events unfolding in the forest. Magus Mull stood at the head of the table, bare chest painted with swirls and strange symbols.
Now that the movie had the crowd’s attention, Isaiah asked Gizmo to flip on the speakers. Screams from the past came back to haunt the living. From their place in front of the National Building, Feenie, Barrett and Mull startled in confusion, realizing only then that the crowd’s attention was focused not on them but on something behind them.
Isaiah was sorry he couldn’t see their facial expressions better when they realized Bryce’s home movie was the main attraction. The scene showed young Sam and Nora Harvey struggling and pleading with their cloaked capturers as they were mercilessly dragged through the forest against their will. The captives were in their undergarments as if they had been pulled out of bed. Both of them had bruised and bloodied faces. Sam managed to wrestle one man to the ground, knocking off his hood.
“That’s John Pressley,” someone down below in the square shouted. “Where did he get off to?”
The video rolled on.
“Please,” Sam pleaded on screen. “Just take me and let Nora go.”
“Why are you doing this to us?” Nora cried, visibly shaking. “What have we done wrong?”
“When you joined our circle, you refused to bow down to the image of Glonare.” Mull said.
“Thou shalt not have strange Gods before Me,” Sam said, as if that were explanation enough. “We just couldn’t do it!”
“Once you were in on our secret,” Feenie said. “You knew what was expected. Now, you will pay the price of disloyalty.”
Sam and Nora were thrown onto the table, where dozens of hands worked furiously to tie them to the table. Mull proceeded to draw on them with the tip of his knife, slicing their skin into swirling designs. “If you will not submit to Glonare, I will do it for you.”
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