Thomas felt buffeted from either side, but his friends hadn’t finished.
“Think about the music,” Nathaniel said. “Would you lose it—not only what existed in the past, but all yet to be composed?”
Thomas stared at his boot tops and answered in a whisper. “I’d save the music if I could, but I wouldn’t sacrifice my friends for it.” He turned to Orah. “This isn’t one of our games in the woods.”
Orah reached behind her and traced the letters in the plaque on the landing. Her fingers lingered over the phrase, potential for greatness. “I understand, Thomas. Sometimes, I wish we’d never come here too. How much simpler to stay in the dark.”
The breeze whistling through the empty buildings stilled as if stopping to listen. The three sat in silence for several minutes before Thomas tried one last time. “Can we really change anything? What if choosing this path makes no difference and costs us our lives?”
Orah twisted her mouth into a grimace as if she’d eaten something sour. “We’re not back in school, and I have no right answers. With the keepmasters’ help, the plan can work. How much of a difference will we make? I can’t say for sure, and it’s true, we may suffer for it.”
“Well, I think we have little chance. The three of us are as unlikely to overthrow the Temple as—”
“If we have any chance,” Nathaniel said, “we need to try, or the damage caused by the Temple may never be reversed.”
Orah leaned closer, feeding off Nathaniel’s energy. Her eyes narrowed and her voice deepened. “‘Beware the stray thought.’ Why do the vicars preach these words? Because what they call darkness is freedom. They feared its attraction and taught us as children to shun it.”
Thomas studied them as they spoke, their faces beaming with zeal, their minds made up. He waited until Orah finished before posing his final question, the one he’d saved all day, the only one that mattered.
“Tell me this: if I say no, will you leave me here? I’m sure you’ve considered it, because you consider all possibilities. You both want this. Will you abandon me if I don’t go along?”
Orah’s frown etched wrinkles on her chin and around her eyes, making her look older than her years. “You’re right, Thomas. I’d considered leaving you, but... I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I believe in our cause but won’t do this without you.”
Thomas squinted up at the sky as she spoke. The warm breeze had broken up the chevrons of clouds, no longer arrows pointing home but random puffs like the fleeting hopes of man. When she finished, he tucked his legs under him and bounced up, stretched his arms over his head, and forced a yawn.
Then, he shuffled the toes of his boots to the edge of the plaque in the stone and invited his friends to join him. “Time for the Pact.”
“You agree?” Orah said.
He eased into a grin. “You and Nathaniel... always such dreamers. Nothing ever mattered that much to me. I’m not the one to change the world, but now we’re in a situation with no good end. You’re my friends, and if you need to start this revolution, I’ll go along. I just had to know if you’d leave me.”
“If we all agree,” Orah said, “then why the Pact?”
“To seal our friendship.”
Orah and Nathaniel formed a circle with him around the golden words. Each covered their heart, reached into the center and clasped wrists as if they’d never let go.
PART FOUR – HEROES
“The hero is one who kindles a great light in the world, who sets up blazing torches in the dark streets of life for men to see by.” ~ Felix Adler
Chapter 33 – Fearsome Odds
The temple tree loomed in the night, more than double the height of the surrounding evergreens, silhouetted against the stars. Beyond its unnatural height, its branches sprouted too evenly, and its boughs gleamed too green. Clearly made by man, yet for fear of the vicars, no child of light had questioned its purpose for a thousand years.
This made the sixth tree they’d encountered since emerging from the wilderness. At each, Orah had located the metal plate at its base but left it intact. Nathaniel and Thomas were itching to disable their first tree, but she held them off. From the helpers, she’d learned the gray friars monitored communications and would instantly detect a failure. If she disabled each tree in sequence, the deacons would eventually find them. Better a random approach.
Seekers no more, they were now the hunted, and to survive meant taking a devious approach. She’d devised the plan before leaving the keep: carry light-weight, dehydrated food to avoid relying on others—better to be self-sufficient; travel at night and rest in the forest by day—better to be unseen; plot an erratic course using the maps they’d found—better to be unpredictable.
Best of all, while researching the trees, she’d discovered a device that let her listen to Temple communications. Once within range of the first tower, the mechanism had crackled to life. Whatever words flew around, she could hear.
The conversations dismayed her. That which had awed her in Bradford impressed her no more. The chatter was cynical and bureaucratic, not the discourse of holy men. But once the seekers posted their first message, the words flying through the air would change, talking mostly about them. Until then, she’d eavesdrop on the vicars when she could—better to know your enemy.
The plan was straightforward. She’d printed three hundred copies of each message and divided the pages equally among them. The reason remained unspoken, but all understood why—so the mission could go on as long as any one of them survived.
She chose a region of several hundred villages, sufficient to make the pattern hard to predict but dense enough to form a front against the vicars. They’d meander rather than follow a straight line, never posting at two towns in a row. Few felt love for the Temple, and the messages would be burning tinder to dry wood. Sympathetic individuals would fan the brushfire, and once the flames of rebellion had engulfed the region, the seekers would muster the resources to protect the keep and teach others.
When they reached the temple tree, Orah removed her pack and entered the woods. Nathaniel and Thomas lingered behind, exhausted from the night’s travel, and she let them assume another idle inspection, biding her time and building suspense.
“What’re you dawdling for?” she said at last. “This is the one.”
Nathaniel eyes shone in the dark. “Do you mean—?”
“Come on, Nathaniel.” Thomas raced toward her. “You wanted a revolution. Now’s the time.”
They located the plate at the base of the tree, fastened, like the others, by screws at the corners.
Orah asked Thomas for his pocketknife, but he refused. “You made the plans. I get to take off the plate.”
She relented.
Thomas knelt and probed in the dark with his fingernails for the groove, then slotted his blade and twisted. The well-maintained screws gave with little effort. As he eased the last one out, she grasped the plate and yanked it free.
A black wire snaked up from the ground, exactly as the helper had described. While she admired her find, Thomas grabbed the wire and began sawing with his knife.
“Stop.” She thrust a forearm into his chest, and he fell backward.
He rubbed the spot where she’d struck him and picked dried leaves off his tunic. “What did you do that for?”
“I just saved your life, Thomas. You forgot that cutting the wire can kill you.”
While he scrambled back as if the wire might attack him, Orah rummaged through her pack and removed two items: the listening device, and the cutting tool provided by the helpers. The latter looked like scissors, but with a green coating on the handle. She turned on the device and listened to the familiar crackling noise, broken by remarks from faceless vicars. Then she picked up the tool.
Nathaniel grabbed her wrist. “I thought you said it can kill you.”
“The helper promised the coating on this tool would protect me.”
“Maybe I should do it instead.”
She smiled at him. “The last time you tried to save me, you nearly became a vicar.”
Before he could protest, she snipped the wire. At once, the crackling ceased.
***
No moon rose the next night, and thick clouds obliterated the stars. Orah stood watch at the edge of a nameless town, waiting for the last candle in a farmhouse window to be snuffed out. She’d insisted on going herself, but her friends had objected.
Instead, Thomas had picked three stones from the side of the road, all of similar shape, but one white like the Temple stone used to limit family size. He placed them in his pocket and rattled them around. “The one who gets the ‘only child’ stone goes first. Afterwards, we take turns.”
One by one, they selected. In the dim light, she had trouble seeing who picked the white stone, but Nathaniel’s swagger made it clear.
She grimaced as she handed him the four messages. “You be careful. Tread softly on those big feet and remember the one about the darkness goes on the deacon’s post. Put the others where you see fit, but be quick.”
Then she rose on her toes and gave him a kiss.
“What’s that for?”
“For luck.”
He nodded and headed to town, but she worried luck was a false companion. Even if it came in abundance, it would eventually run out.
***
The old farmer made a habit of going out for a morning stroll. He’d trek the fifteen minutes to the village center, where he’d circle the commons ten times before returning home for breakfast. By the time he finished, his right hip throbbed, but the exercise kept him spry.
On this day, a bulletin glared at him from the post by the common house. Notices never appeared before midday—the deacons who lived in town slept late, and no one was in a rush to read Temple news. He’d always stayed faithful to the light but refused to break stride for the vicar’s nonsense.
At this hour, few people milled about. Like him, some enjoyed their sunrise stroll, and other unfortunates, like the baker, had work demanding an early start. Most ignored the bulletin, placing no import on its early arrival.
As he circled around, he counted those who bypassed the paper on the pole. He’d tallied up to six before the apprentice to the furniture maker stopped to read.
Oddly, the boy lingered, not only reading the document, but studying its every word. The farmer watched from a distance as the young man pulled others over. All clustered around and stared at the bulletin. Soon, a crowd had gathered. Despite the early hour, a lively exchange ensued.
On his ninth pass, the farmer stopped, curious to hear what they said. Their heated words became clear.
“This one’s not from the Temple.”
“It must be. Where else does such lettering come from?”
The old farmer nudged his way through the crowd. His eyesight had grown weak, and he needed to come near to read the words. The others jostled him so much he almost gave up, but then a path cleared. He turned to find a deacon hustling toward him, finishing dressing as he went. The image of the adoring family basking in the rays of the sun lay wrinkled on his half-buttoned tunic.
The deacon stared at the post while a second caught up. “What’s wrong?”
The first deacon whispered to his friend, “Did you put this up?”
“Not me. Maybe one of the others?”
“I thought bulletins were your job.”
“I said not me. What’s the problem? Seems like a proper one.”
The first deacon rubbed his jaw-line beard. “Dunno. Words ain’t right.”
“Should we take it down?”
Despite the morning chill, sweat beaded on the first deacon’s brow. “Dunno. Never seen anything like it. We should check with the vicar.”
The other agreed and the two ran off.
The old farmer chuckled to himself. He’d waited many years to see deacons so flustered. When he turned back to the post, the pathway remained open, so he stepped closer before the crowd filled in.
He nodded slowly at first, then faster. The paper had the look of a Temple bulletin, but with one difference. For the first time in his seventy-six years, he was reading an original thought.
***
The arch vicar scanned the faces around the table. Conferences with the grand vicar were routine, scheduled every Monday morning, and the broadcasts were uneventful to the point of boredom. Some of the vicars scribbled on notepads as the old man droned on. Others brought books to read.
Today was different, not a Monday, and the grand vicar had called this meeting in haste. Over the past few days, rumors had spread that the Temple was under attack.
The box on the table hummed while the grand vicar stated the facts. Blasphemous notices had appeared in twelve towns, possibly more, the messages printed to look like Temple bulletins. Somehow, the perpetrators had gained access to sacred technology. They’d even figured out how to disrupt communications. In response, he’d mobilized all assets, dispatching repair crews to the damaged towers and ordering the gray friars to localize the heretical activity. As yet, no pattern had emerged.
The arch vicar trembled at the threat to his Temple but also recognized an opportunity. He’d made the decision to release the young people, and their disappearance had left a black mark on his record. Now, the chance for redemption.
A hand shot up at the end of the table. The young monsignor always managed to have a question.
No time for politics. The arch vicar nodded and pressed the button.
“Holiness, how have the people reacted to these messages?”
A long pause. Had they disrupted the main communication line as well? When the voice returned, the grand vicar’s answer chilled.
“The people have begun to pass this heresy on to their neighbors and question Temple authority. We must stop these enemies of the light. I’ve authorized the use of rapid transportation and other means at our disposal, clandestine or otherwise. All clergy have a responsibility to end this desecration before the darkness spreads.”
Blood rushed to the arch vicar’s cheeks. He’d believed in his plan for Nathaniel and his friends, but they’d turned out to be more resourceful than expected. The feisty old prisoner who had died that summer became placid after Nathaniel’s departure, a sure sign he’d passed on the secret. The deacons had tracked them for weeks—everything going according to the plan... until suddenly they’d disappeared.
The arch vicar had guided his life with a dual purpose: to prevent the darkness from returning, and to rise up the hierarchy and one day become grand vicar. Now the two might converge. He’d atone for his mistake. The three had made clever use of stolen technology, but no one could master the secrets in so short a time. He’d spent years acquiring such knowledge.
Time to wield that knowledge against them.
***
The Vicar of Bradford bounded down the steps to meet his morning class, a favorite group of children between six and eight. Any of them might someday have replaced him as keeper, but that need had passed. The Seekers had come, and from the news burning up the network, they’d found the keep.
He ruffled a few heads before signaling them to follow. As he strode up the first step, one of them tugged at his robe.
“What is it, Richard?”
Richard regarded him with huge brown eyes from under a mop of untamed hair. He crooked his tiny finger and beckoned the vicar to bend low so he could whisper in his ear.
The child grasped his cheeks to make sure he stayed close and told him the story. That morning, when he went outside to fetch water for his mother, a pretty lady had appeared from behind a tree. She gave him a paper bag and made him swear to do two things: tell no one, and give the bag to the vicar of Bradford the instant he saw him. She promised he’d be rewarded with a sweet.
The vicar accepted the package from the child, unfolded the tightly-rolled top and checked inside. As he suspected, four scrolls nestled within, each with a surface like glass. A note lay next to them.
&
nbsp; He waved the children to proceed to their class, all except the little messenger. When they were gone, he grasped the note from the bag and read the three handwritten words: Just in case.
He glanced to the horizon and then beamed at the expectant face of the boy, who with the blessing of the light might someday become anything he desired. But as vicar and keeper, he had one final task. He reached into his tunic pocket, pulled out a fistful of sweets, and dropped them into the cupped hands of the child.
Chapter 34 – Eyes of Fire
Nathaniel roused before his friends in a clearing deep in the woods. How odd to nod off beneath a dazzling sun and wake as the darkness falls. He stretched his long arms overhead in a yawn. After days of dashing from place to place, at least he’d slept well.
He glanced about, trying to get his bearings. The day before, they’d traveled south and posted in a village at midnight, before racing off to the east. Last night, they’d switched to the west and avoided towns altogether. With so many twists and turns, hurries and delays, no wonder they’d dodged the deacons.
Orah had been brilliant.
He turned to watch her sleep. Her spirited heart beat calmly now, leaving her at rest. As a strand of hair fell softly across her cheek, a cruel vision crept into his mind—Orah wasting away in a teaching cell. Had she agreed to this venture for him?
The more they posted, the more likely they’d be caught. The chatter on the listening device now filled the air with their exploits. Every vicar and deacon in the world was searching for them. The race had begun—would the people rise up before the seekers of truth were silenced?
Nathaniel brushed the hair from her face.
She stirred and rolled toward him. Her eyelids fluttered and opened. She met his gaze, and her lips parted. “What are you staring at, Nathaniel?”
Once he’d have turned away embarrassed, but now he refused to flinch. “At you, my best friend. I’m staring at you.”
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