I opened my mouth to tell all, to destroy that king, his king, my king, with a mere whisper, with dark, secret betrayal—but he reached out, touched one large, dusty, scarred finger to my lips, and said, “Quiet, boy.”
Then he turned and continued down the path.
I followed him as though I were in a dream, and we drew near to the city gates. I could see the guards flanking the entrance. I could be silent no longer.
“Uriah, I must tell you—”
“Quiet,” he said again, his voice softer this time. “I thank you for what you are trying to do.”
“You must know that—”
He stopped and turned to face me. Again, that finger against my lips.
“O God,” he prayed, “please show this man what you have shown to me.”
And then, before I could protest, before I could sidle out of the way, he moved his finger and pressed it to my forehead.
Color and sound exploded, the sun leapt back into the sky overhead, and I turned to follow the sound of wailing and many footprints.
I saw behind me on the path fifty men and women coming my way from Jerusalem, their feet bare, their cloaks covering their faces. In the lead was David, our bright merry king, weeping openly, sun and tears and despair wrecking his visage. Donkeys followed, laden with supplies, and I heard the low, frightened whisper of “Absalom,” repeated again and again.
I did not understand what I was seeing, but my heart felt like it had ripped in two at the sight of David’s sadness. I tried to tear my garments, but I couldn’t move. The group bore down on me until my eyes widened and I shrieked, afraid to be trampled. But the vision moved through me without touching me and I knew it was not real. At least, not yet.
The road was empty for just a moment before another group passed in the same direction, this one mounted on horses with jingling tack flashing in the sun. A man like David in his youth passed on a magnificent white horse. And behind marched many people of Israel who muttered “David” in a low voice and shouted “Absalom!” in a loud one.
The wave swept over me like the last one and the road was silent again for a heavy, fraught moment.
Then sounds came from the opposite direction and I turned my head to see people I recognized from both of the earlier visions laughing and dancing and striking the tambourine and leading David on the same magnificent white horse from the direction of Jericho back toward Jerusalem. But tears streaked David’s face, and the youth—Absalom?—was not among them.
There was another pause after this group swept past me, and my mind escaped from the horror and terror of what I was seeing long enough to think for a moment. Was this why Uriah was going to his death? Did it somehow, in a way God only knew, atone for David’s sin in taking Bathsheba for his own? If the vision showed an uprising, a civil war among the people of Israel, would Uriah’s sacrifice somehow let the majestic king return in triumph, having reunited his kingdom, when he might otherwise have failed?
Behind me, toward Jerusalem, the royal fanfare faded. Instead, from Jericho came the tramp of a few feet and the lilt of conversation. A small group came into view, and I thought for a moment I might be out of the vision and back into my own time and place. But their clothing was strangely different from our own, their accent rounder than ours. Were they foreigners? Or just from far in the future?
A man strode in front. He had a pleasing enough voice, I supposed, as he spun a story about a man attacked by bandits on this very road and the priests who refused to help him, but I could otherwise find no reason for the deference and honor the men and women following him seemed to show. He was of average stature and average beauty, nothing like the pageantry and glitter of gold and red that had come by in the previous visions. His sandaled feet were dusty and his tunic was closer in hue to the road he trod than to David’s royal purple.
But then he looked at me.
His story continued without a pause, telling of a kind-hearted foreigner who helped the wounded man, but I barely understood the meaning of the words. For under the man’s mild brown gaze, his voice shifted. It seemed suddenly as though it were formed from streams of liquid from two opposing cups mixing together as they fell, anguish and joy in equal measure forming a distinct, rich shade. His hands held both hurt and healing in their palms, and glory kissed his brow. He smiled at me—me, the shade lurking in the corner of his vision—and I saw the echoes of David’s merry dance, and Bathsheba’s quiet grace. I saw too the weight, the obedience, the duty that sat on Uriah’s shoulders. My heart lifted, my lips parted to shout with unabashed joy—
And the vision ended. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was emblazoned with reds and blues. I found myself kneeling on the dust of the road, Uriah kneeling across from me, his finger still pressed to my brow. I looked into his eyes for a long moment. My words failed me.
He smiled at me, the dumbstruck poet, but the smile was kind. He got to his feet. He offered me his strong, callused hand. I took it, and he pulled me up.
“I serve my King,” he repeated in a low voice. He did not mean David.
I blinked at him.
“Elienai,” he said.
“Yes?” I answered, stupidly.
“I need my message back.” He held out mine to me, with its prattle about donkeys and raisins. Slowly, reluctantly, I held out his, the life-changing, life-ending, world-changing one, to him. He took it and wrapped it in cloth and put it in his satchel.
Then he clapped me on the shoulder, turned on his heel, and walked toward his future.
I stood there for an hour, watching him fade into the distance, and ignored the strange looks from the guards at the gate and the rustle of the spiked trees and the scuttling hops of the jerboa emerging from their burrows. Nearby, a fox paused on a rock, its enormous ears turned toward me, but I only watched Uriah. When his figure had disappeared into the oncoming twilight, I took a deep breath and turned to carry out my duty.
Mighty Uriah, when death comes for you, I hope its embrace is sweeter than the loveliest woman’s. I hope that you go to your grave seeing the smile of that brown-eyed man who may not be your descendant, but who understands, as you do, the duty of a warrior.
Acknowledgements
This book (yes, this one, right here, in your hand!) would not have been possible without the help of many fine folks.
First, thank you to the intrepid pho and editors—Cary Kempston, Eliza Ridgeway, Jess Ehlers, Stacey Kang, Jane Ridgeway, and Laura Hansen. You made it through multiple rounds of these stories with grace and aplomb, and your suggestions made my wacky ideas so much better. I think celebratory burgers are in order!
Thanks also to other friends who put on their beta reader hats for me, including but not limited to Maggie Kimball, Holly Brauchli, Terry Reed, Carly Schuster, Katy Peaslee, David Breuer, Mary Morrison, Cori Esdorn, Violet Qu, Justin Graham, Justin Guluarte, Kristen Widman, and Carole Pierce. You guys are the bee’s knees.
Whole palettes of thanks to Erika Steiskal, who creates the beautiful covers and maps for my novels, and again to Katy Peaslee, who drew the Kaine Academy chapter header illustrations.
Many, many thanks are due to my patient family members, who not only read my work but also put up with having a real live writer in the family. Gram, Kali, Mom and Dad Rowe, and Mom and Dad Kempston, your love and support makes my heart all warm and glowy. Thank you.
To Cary and Jedi, thank you for snuggles, slugabed Saturdays, endless episodes of We Bare Bears, your willingness to be seen with me in public, and your patience with me when I jump up and down a lot after finishing a draft. Your love for me and my love for you is the battlesong that beats in my veins. Little Sprout, we can’t wait for you to join us!
And finally, I thank God for the opportunities I have to write, for the beautiful stories that inspire me, for the wonderful people that surround me, and for His everlasting love and grace.
Coming Soon by Megan Kempston Zie Harris, Autumn Munro, and Hal Hayes are back for more a
dventure in these sequels to The Forest Spell.
The Mountain Horde
Halloween can be spooky—especially at Kaine Academy.
It all starts when Hal receives an eerie addition to his regular book shipment. Then, he and Autumn overhear a suspicious conversation between a fellow teacher and a shadowy figure. And to top it all off, Zie has to contend with the inexplicable mood swings of someone she thought was a friend.
Will Hip Hop disown Zie if she reveals she plays D&D? Will Autumn’s upcoming geology field trip be sabotaged by nefarious plans or student hijinks? Will Hal and Autumn survive the mandatory teacher Halloween party?
There’s only one way to find out!
The Christmas Caper
It’s Christmas at Kaine Academy—but even over winter break, the adventures don’t stop.
When Zie Harris gets an A+ in homeroom, she knows something’s seriously wrong with her teacher, Hal Hayes. With the help of Autumn Munro, Hip Hop, and a few other friends, she’ll have to track down her homeroom teacher and save him from whatever mess he’s gotten himself into, no matter what it takes.
Even if it involves reindeer jousting.
Don’t miss your next adventure!
Sign up to get email updates when Megan has new novels and stories out!
Also by Megan Kempston
The Forest Spell
Kaine Academy is a lot of things: prestigious, expensive, well-situated in the beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains… but it’s definitely not normal.
When Zie Harris starts the year as a sophomore transfer—and the school’s only half-elf—she knows she’s in for adventure. She just assumed it would involve more studying and less actual danger.
Autumn Munro and Hal Hayes, meanwhile, have their hands full trying to manage classrooms full of teenage werewolves (and hedgewitches, wizards, and battlemages).
When Zie finds evidence of dark magic in the forest, things get complicated. Soon Zie, Autumn, and Hal must band together with an ornery chickadee, a loquacious squirrel, and trees of all shapes and sizes to try to save themselves, the school, and possibly the world.
No pressure or anything.
“A fun, fast read that takes you into the woods a world away from your own high school experience. Teenager Zie is figuring out who she is and how she fits in… Meanwhile her teachers remind us that the grownups haven’t figured it all out yet, either.”
—Eliza Ridgeway, Los Altos Town Crier
About the Author Megan Kempston is a library assistant high school English teacher journalist food blogger personal chef producer copy editor product manager writer! (Woot!) She thinks writing in the third person is sort of weird, even in fiction, but she’s trying to be all professional and stuff, so please be patient with her. She’s really (really really) thrilled that you stopped by, and if you stopped by in real life, she’d feed you tea and cookies and sit you down on the couch by the woodstove with a fluffy English Shepherd named Jedi and her latest chapters to read.
Megan counts herself super lucky to live in the beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains of California with her very patient husband and with Jedi, plus about 8 billion physical books and only a slightly smaller number of Kindles, computers, and other devices.
Learn more at her website, MeganKempston.com.
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