by William Hawk
William, where are you? a voice asked.
It was Grace. Again.
I shot to my feet and stared at the wall, sweat at my temples and lips pursed tight. That wasn’t my imagination. She was here again, guiding me. I quickly went to the wall. In that instant, I realized that I hadn’t physically touched any of the symbols yet. I guess I was afraid of damaging the relic or intruding on something holy and sacred, as Cy had seemed to think. Or maybe I was afraid of what I would get myself into.
I felt myself reach out and touch the wall—and a pulse of energy swept through my body, knocking the breath out of me and sending me three steps backward. When I’d recovered, I looked at the wall where my fingers had touched, and I was shocked at what I saw. There were two little figures, each with their right hand extended. On each hand was a mark.
It was the same mark that I had on my hand.
The word William had been etched near one figure. It hadn’t been there before. Beneath the other was the word Grace. That hadn’t been there either.
Between them, I watched two more words slowly etch themselves into the rock.
Find me.
It was too much. I suddenly felt the urge to get out. I scrambled back through the tunnel, got to my feet, and ran out of the cave. I could hear Cy shouting behind me. I didn’t care.
This was too much.
CHAPTER EIGHT
William’s mother stood over the pot of soup in the kitchen. She had just finished adding the chicken, vegetables, broth, spices. Now there was nothing left for her to do but wait for everything to come together.
The same as she was doing for her son.
They hadn’t heard a word from William. They had heard all about what he’d done—the incident in the sporting goods store, the bus ride, and the silence ever since. Sheriff Winters, Julia’s father, had come and spoken with them. They’d been unable to find him.
At first, they had gone driving aimlessly, putting up missing signs at gas stations, convenience stores, post offices. They had canvassed the area for fifty miles in every direction. Nothing came of it. It was as though William had simply vanished off the face of the earth.
Now her husband had withdrawn into his workspace in the garage. He was in there for hours every night. When she asked what he was working on, he said it was a project for William. It was something William had asked for, maybe something that had to do with his disappearance. He refused to say any more. William’s mother was just as clueless as everybody else.
She felt the tears starting to come. It was the fourth time today. She let them come, because nothing was going to stop them, not until there was some resolution, knowing if William was either alive or dead.
The doorbell rang. She reached for a paper towel and wiped her cheeks. She checked her face in the bathroom mirror before heading to the front door.
She saw a boy about William’s age, a strange boy, in a navy-blue pinstripe suit with dress shoes that glinted in the light over the doorway. He wore a crooked grin, like he had never smiled before and was faking it.
“Carolyn Hawk?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“My name is John Patience. I’m a friend of William’s from school, and I have some good news about your son.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Let me get my husband. Can you wait just one second?”
The grin grew tighter. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” William’s mother unlocked the clasp. When she turned around she felt as though she had been punched in the back, and when she reached behind, her back was wet.
That was strange, she thought. When she looked at her hand, it was covered in blood.
CHAPTER NINE
I woke up the next morning and heard Cy grumbling and talking to himself in the middle of the cardboard room. He was pointing to some symbols that were up above the ten identifying marks and mumbling to himself.
“Cy,” I said.
“Yes, William.”
I paused. “This place is really getting to me.”
“I figured as much,” he said.
“None of this can be true. You drugged my oatmeal.”
He grinned. “Oh, it’s real, and I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. Sonny and I uncovered it, but neither of us could fit inside, and neither of us trusted anybody else enough to confide in. Then you showed up. Not a coincidence.”
I stretched out. “So how would you describe the Hall of Knowledge in one sentence?”
“The Hall of Knowledge is a repository for the ever-changing knowledge of the ten brothers.”
“Which are representative of civilizations.”
“Yes. My ancestors spoke of it. They described how every full moon the brothers changed the symbols. In that way, the brothers can share advances and rely on one another.”
I liked the way he kept saying brothers when what he meant was civilizations. But this wasn’t the time to admire his metaphors.
Cy continued: “The big pitfall however is that it’s become more difficult for the brothers to communicate. The more each brother turns inward, neglecting the other brothers, the harder it is to do so.”
I couldn’t hold back my story any longer. “I touched the wall, Cy.”
“And?”
“And it formed my name. And another name.”
“Whose?”
I continued the story, telling him about how Grace came to me in the hall.
He was silent, then said, “The wall needs to be touched in a certain way to access this knowledge. The mind has to be open, the fruit ripe. It seems that you have all that. It is what opened up your mind to the possibility of what this chamber can do. Come outside. I have something else to tell you.”
I groaned and pulled on my pants. The day was rainy and overcast, and we stood together in the middle of the pine grove. He faced me. His expression was serious.
“I know that you find me mysterious,” he said.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I haven’t been direct with you because I was trying to figure out what level you were at. But now I know.” He paused. “You’re a Change Agent.”
“I’m a what, now?”
“A person that has the potential for bringing good change. We’re all Change Agents, actually. There are three levels. Let me explain.”
Cy collected six pine cones. He picked up the first pine cone. “Change Agent 1 is an ordinary person. Most humans are at this level. They will not influence evil on their planet, but they will also only inspire minor amounts of good. C.A. 1s have no real discernable powers and do not remember the parallax except in short, unexplainable spurts – if at all.”
Then Cy picked up the group of two pine cones. “A Change Agent 2. They have some powers and are expected to work toward moderate levels of good. They can sense other Change Agents, but they don’t communicate telepathically or control others’ emotions. They also remember the parallax.”
“I’m still confused.”
Cy waved it off. “Later.” Then he picked up the group of three pine cones. They filled his hands. “Then we have Change Agent 3. These unique individuals are designated with an ability to achieve the highest level of skill on their planet and obtain full memory of the parallax. These individuals work toward significant good. They can share thoughts with each other telepathically and exude emotions on others.”
He fixed his eyes on me. “Based on what happened in the cave, tell me which one you seem to be.”
I gulped. “A C.A. 3?”
Cy nodded. “Before you go getting a big head, you should know something else. C.A.3s are highly susceptible to falling into evil.” He dropped all the pine cones onto the ground. I looked at his empty hands. “That’s what we call a C.A. 0.”
“Change Agent 0.”
He nodded. “A C.A. 0 has turned his back on all that is good. For example, Adolf Hitler was a C.A. 3, but he decided to go down the path of evil. Boom. He fell down to zero.”
He clapped an arm across my shoulders. “I felt this from you from the moment I picked you up on the road. In fact, something was telling me to drive on that road that night.”
“I don’t think I’m meant for big things.”
“Oh, you are. Just got to accept that, William.”
I decided to change the subject. “What about you? Where are you on that scale?”
“I’m a C.A. 2. So is Sonny. That’s why we’re trying to help you through the transition. We understand better than the C.A. 1s.”
I stepped back with my hand against my forehead. This hurricane of revelations needed to stop. I’d seen movies—I don’t know, like Spiderman—where some average schmo gets superpowers and is supposed to fight evil. Was I another Peter Parker? That was the stuff that serious nut jobs thought. Was I now a serious nut job?
Cy spoke up again. “Now, the last surprise for the day.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve been looking at the symbols all night, matching up lunar with celestial cycles, and the ancestors helped me understand that a significant date is coming up.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
“What’s going to happen?”
He grew concerned and stroked his chin. “I’m not exactly sure. My guess is that something is going to enter this Hall of Knowledge and change the columns. The walls act kind of like a billboard. They get changed every so often, but I don’t know exactly what gets changed or why.”
It sounded a little crazy to me. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
He just gave me a little shake of his head, indicating no. That was no surprise. His cheeks were looking very drawn, his chunky butt seemed to have vanished, and his potbelly wasn’t quite so pot anymore.
Then he clapped his hands together. “So that gives us three days to draw the rest of the walls. If I’m right about this date, we need to record as much as we can before Saturday. Let’s go!”
In the cave, I got inside the inner sanctum and set up the lights and looked around. I didn’t have the papers yet—they were on the trolley behind me—but nothing seemed amiss.
At the other end of the tunnel, Cy said, “Is there anything that looks different to you?
“No, not yet.”
“Good, that means my math was right. Get to work!”
For the next three days, I eagerly produced page after page of the walls. I worked feverishly, making sure not to disturb any symbols. Every half hour, like some Renaissance artisan in the service of some greater project, I put my finished sketches onto the pan, with the square neatly labeled in the upper left corner, and shouted to Cy to pull it down the tunnel.
I drew not just the ten columns, but also the hundreds of other seemingly random symbols that decorated the walls. It may have been my exhaustion, but somehow I began to understand the symbols—and the stories that Cy had shared with me finally became more understandable. It was evident to me that the forces of darkness were impacting civilizations evermore strongly, causing them to turn in upon themselves, stunting their inhabitants’ souls.
As I scribbled furiously, I occasionally heard her calling me.
William, find me.
I will, Grace, I answered.
By Friday, I had completed everything. Meanwhile, Cy had developed the enthusiasm of a little kid. He’d mounted the missing pieces on the wall of the replica room, not even stopping for meals. I watched him analyzing my handiwork, wondering how long it would be before he had another epiphany.
“I’m off to bed,” I said.
“Me too,” said Cy, “just as soon as I study this a bit more.”
“What can we expect tomorrow?” I asked.
He smiled mysteriously. “Let’s leave it until then.”
As I fell asleep, he was still staring at the replicated walls.
CHAPTER TEN
Deputy Hanson found Sheriff Winters filling his coffee cup at the beverage station in the office, about to dump creamer in. Hanson couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen, and his stomach churned.
“Boss, we got a problem at the Hawks’. A big one.”
He sipped his coffee. “What did he do now?”
Hanson tried to keep his hands from shaking. “We gotta get over there.”
Thirty minutes later, Hanson waited as Sheriff Winters stood outside the bedroom, looking at the butchered body of Carolyn Hawk. There was a blood spot on her back and several slashes across her hands and wrists, indicating that she was trying to protect herself when the killer moved in to finish her off.
The sheriff turned to the left. On the floor near the bedroom door was the butchered body of her husband. His wounds were fewer but worse—one deep wound in the abdomen and another across the throat. He probably bled out relatively quickly. The woman, on the other hand, had lived much longer. The brother was at the bottom of the steps, practically decapitated.
Hanson asked what had to be asked. “You think it was the boy?”
“Probably showed up out of the blue, and when the parents got angry, junior hacked them to bits.”
Hanson had asked around quite a bit about the kid lately. No one had a bad word to say about the boy, except the cousin who had his butt whipped in the store. But, Hanson thought, maybe the kid was on the reefer or something.
The sheriff slapped his thigh. “I want every neighbor interviewed, every road covered. I want a hotline set up. William Hawk must be found before he carves anybody else up into mincemeat.”
“We don’t have evidence, do we? I mean, except that he is their kid and that he took off?”
“Well, we can pick him up for assault, then we can find the murder evidence. Okay?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Next morning, as the sun started to peek through the window, I woke up with a start. The cabin was completely silent. No rustling, grumbling, clanging. Typically Cy was about as quiet as a falling stack of crockery in the morning.
He wasn’t here. I walked outside, checked the privy. Nothing. Then I scanned the hillside. Cy was nowhere to be found.
It was possible he went to town, but not likely, since today was Saturday. No, he had gone to the cave without me. That was odd, because all he could do was stand there and look at the mouth of the tunnel.
Or so I’d been led to believe.
I got dressed and went running down the path and made it to the cliff in half the usual time. I let myself down the ropes and was breathing heavily by the time I stepped into the cave.
It was empty, but the rock that covered the tunnel had been pushed aside. That was strange, since I always closed it tight every night when I left. Either someone else had discovered this place—which was not likely—or Cy had done something quite rash.
I had to find out, so I got down on hands and knees and proceeded to slide through the tunnel. I hit the tight midpoint, the part where I always had to suck in my breath, and noticed something odd.
A strip of ripped fabric in the dirt. It was white cotton and appeared to have been part of a T-shirt. Cy had been wearing a white T-shirt when I went to sleep last night.
I crawled even faster through the last part of the tunnel. I saw a strange glowing light inside the Hall of Knowledge, and goose bumps ran up and down my spine. He’d been right about Saturday.
“Cy?” I shouted. “Are you here?”
I emerged into the Hall of Knowledge. The spooky greenish light was hovering near the ceiling like a malevolent mist. Somehow it seemed familiar. Then it vaporized nearly as soon as I entered.
And then I saw Cy.
The Native American was lying on his back in the middle of the space, his body equal distance from each of the four walls. He seemed totally exhausted, almost to the point of being unconscious. I knew he was old, but here he looked positively ancient. I wasn’t sure if it was from the physical exertion of climbing through the tunnel, lack of food, or spiritual battles that he’d waged in here all night while I was asleep back at the cabin.
I
rushed to his side. “Cy, how did you get in here?”
For some strange reason, when he opened his eyes, he had a little grin on his face. He pointed at his stomach. “I didn’t eat. For weeks.”
I thought about that. He had been making excuses about his meals the entire time that I’d known him—saying things like “I already ate” or “I’m not hungry.” All excuses to squeeze himself into this cavern.
Then he put his index finger up and motioned for me to come closer.
“What?” I asked.
“I got the Proof that I needed.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but my mind instantly went back to the glowing light I had just seen.
“What was that light?”
A smile lit up his face. “It was the Great Spirit. It showed me the Proof.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me,” I said, “once I get you out of here.”
“Why? I’m happy here.”
“Because you look really bad.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t want to leave.”
I studied him. His fingernails were chipped and bleeding, his shirt was ripped, his belly scraped, the shallow but raw wounds red with blood. They were ripe for infection. He’d had a heck of a time squeezing in here. Still, he had that silly little grin on his face, like a kid who got caught with his hand in a candy jar. It was clear that this man would not have enough energy to get out on his own power.
“Cy, can you move?”
The old man tried to lift his arm. It fell back onto the rock, limp. “No, not at all.”
I thought about that. Without Cy’s cooperation, there would be no way that I could help him out of that tunnel. I sat back on my heels; I couldn’t let Cy die in here, which is where it looked like things were heading. Then I hit upon a solution.