“You are most gracious, lady,” replied the priest with a bow. He sat them down in wicker chairs beneath a blue canopy and declared, “We will drink wine and eat bread in memory of our Saviour, and we will roast a lamb to make this day a day to remember always.”
The little priest and his wife beetled off to finish the preparations and summon the guests, leaving Giles and Haven alone for a moment. Giles, glowing with pride at his new bride, saw her eyes tear up and became concerned. “Why sad, my love?”
“I am not sad, husband,” replied Haven, dabbing her eyes with a corner of her sleeve. “It is just the thought that we shall never see our families again.”
“My dear sweet wife,” replied Giles, “since that is not to be, we shall simply have to make a family of our own.” He raised her hand to his lips and drank in the sight of her. “And what a fine and handsome family it will be.”
On What Happens Next
AN ESSAY BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
The telling of any story must, inevitably, come to an end—although the story itself goes on. This tale is no different.
However, readers, for one reason or another, will have formed attachments to various characters and will no doubt have questions regarding those characters. The impulse to know What Happened Next can be very strong—an itch that, unless scratched, can become an affliction. After all, if the characters have lived within the pages of the book, then those lives continue and our involvement may seem arbitrarily, almost cruelly, cut off when the pages run out.
Whilst I cannot prolong this particular story, I am nevertheless in a position to relate a few details of which I am aware, and which might be of interest to the reader:
The Zetetics continue to operate, primarily out of Damascus, where in happier times it was this author’s privilege to walk down The Street Called Straight—following in the footsteps of one who heard the audible voice of God—and to visit the faithful few who keep the archives of the Society. Should you or anyone else care to call in at 22 Hanania Street, you will find a welcome in a place where travellers may meet and discuss adventures, or browse the rare volumes in the genizah, or ruminate about the grounds of reality and our place in the universe. The quest now is for understanding, and most of all for wisdom. Through oppression, conflict, wars and the atrocities of war, still the Zetetic Society stands firm—owing in large part, no doubt, to the formidable and unshakeable Mrs. Peelstick, who seems never to age, and to her colleague and ally, Brendan Hanno, whose steady hand on the tiller steers the society through the roughest waters. Of course, endless cups of strong mint tea continue to be served to all and sundry who find, however unexpectedly, that they have landed on the step outside that shiny black-lacquered door.
You will recall that the Burley Men—Tav, Con, Dex, and Mal—were exiled for their crimes and forbidden to return to Prague; and, after Burleigh’s conversion, they could expect no further employment there in any case. Happily, the long, dreary weeks spent in the Rathaus gaol and Engelbert’s kindly ministrations were not lost on any of them, and although the gang broke up, each was not only chastened by his imprisonment but was inspired by Etzel’s generosity, compassion, and gentle, forgiving spirit. You may not believe it if I tell you that Marcus Taverner became a devout follower of Luther and eventually a pastor in a Nonconformist church in a remote corner of the Duchy of Pomerania in what is now northeastern Germany. Malcolm Dawes settled down in the cosy Pinzgau Valley in Austria where, after a stint as a labouring farmhand, he was able to obtain a little land on the shady side of the valley and thus became a farmer himself—not a very good farmer, it must be said, but he managed to eke out an honest living by distilling the local Vogelbeeren into the regionally famous medicinal schnapps—and, with the help of the strict Austrian social mores and a robust farmwife to guide him, his criminal past slowly receded into distant memory. Dexter Parrot and Connie Wilkes became itinerant tinkers travelling the villages of Bavaria; owing to their expertise with knives and simple tools, they went on to build a modest trade as blacksmiths in Rosenheim. Of course, we know by now that there is no such thing as coincidence, but it is interesting to note that their little forge was only a stone’s throw from the Stiffelbeam Bakery owned by Engelbert’s family, where they became regular customers, often receiving news of their former benefactor in Prague.
Douglas Flinders-Petrie’s end has been narrated in full within these pages. But no one knows what became of Snipe, that feral youth whose misfortune it was to be taken under the wing of the last and least of the Flinders-Petrie line. Douglas only used the boy, imparting to him no useful skills nor any worthwhile education during the time that they travelled the cosmos together. It is presumed—and evidence would seem to support the conclusion—that poor Snipe became one of those bandit outcasts who roamed the wild Italian hill country, living off the land and robbing travellers passing through the lonelier stretches of the countryside. These bandits, or briganti, much feared throughout history, are celebrated in folklore and song in cultures the world over. Thus, Snipe may well have gained a smattering of status as a cultural curiosity.
Gianni spent the next few years contemplating what actually happened at the Spirit Well when the questors plunged through the Bone House portal. His experience of that deeply mysterious event led him to research the role of conscious intention in a multiverse environment, for which he devised experiments to test the effect of human free will on natural phenomena—a hot topic in quantum physics circles. He later persuaded Tony Clarke to work with him on what became known as Coincidence Theory—which states, to put it in layman’s terms, that there is no such thing.
As theorists, the two garnered many supporters in addition to the usual detractors; the former were by far the more numerous, however, and Gianni, as befitting the last in a long line of scientist-priests, was eventually awarded the Nobel Prize for physics, which he shared with his long-time colleague and collaborator J. Anthony Clarke III. The two friends made memorable speeches that were glowingly reported in all the major news media. Unfortunately, about six months after receiving the prize, Gianni disappeared, and his whereabouts remain a mystery to be solved: whatever became of Gianni Becarria? All was not lost, however, for his research was taken up by a brilliant scientist in São Paulo by the name of João Cristo, who rose to sudden prominence from nowhere and whose intuitive understanding of Becarria’s foundational work led him to further discoveries that sparked research into space-time shifts, possibility and probability theory, and the development of models for alternate and converging realities.
Speaking of time and space, neither allows us to relate what happened to so many others who came into contact with the individuals whose stories have been recounted in this series. No doubt some were extinguished in one reality only to survive in another; although that is speculation, and even Gianni’s paradigm-shifting work does not fully account for this—at least, so far.
All that remains to be said is that as this manuscript was in revision, a major financial group broke ground for its international headquarters in the City of London on the site of an old guesthouse. As required by law, archaeologists were brought in to identify and recover any items of importance before permanent foundations were laid. The archaeologists did their survey and cleared the site for construction, but missed one interesting and noteworthy piece: a silver spoon with a large teardrop-shaped bowl and a figure of the apostle Peter. This item was discovered by a construction worker, who slipped it into his pocket just moments before eight metric tons of concrete were poured into a trench. When the popular television program Antiques Roadshow came to south London a few months ago, that construction worker decided to see if his find had any value. He stood for hours in a slow-moving queue at Dulwich College before receiving the good news that the spoon dated from the mid-1660s and was typically carried by the professional classes when dining in one of the many chophouses and dinner clubs that were popping up in the city at the time. Deemed “unique of its kind” and “of consi
derable interest to collectors and museum curators,” it was given a provisional value of £13,000–£17,500, and thus became one of those Roadshow items that, as the saying goes, “came in a bus, but went home in a taxi.” The lucky workman put the artefact up for auction at Sotheby’s in London and donated the greater share of the proceeds to the Coram Trust, a charitable body providing a range of support services for orphaned and abandoned children. Burleigh, that inveterate trader in collectible artefacts, would no doubt have approved.
Stephen R. Lawhead
Oxford, 2014
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to the many experts, editors, friends, and advisors with whom I have traveled and consulted during the research and writing of the Bright Empires series. Each has provided much-needed inspiration, guidance, and correction, and they all have my sincere appreciation:
Wael El-Aidy
Allen Arnold
Clare Backhouse
Daniele Basile
Sabine Biskup
Amanda Bostic
Hailey Johnson Burgess
Bettina Heynes
Andrew Hodder-Williams
Danuta Kluz
Matthew Knell
Drake Lawhead
Ross Lawhead
Scott and Kelli Lawhead
Suzannah Lipscomb
Nabile Mallah
LB Norton
Michael and Martina Potts
Richard Rodriguez
Sam Segler
Jessica Tinker
Adrian Woodford
AN EXCERPT FROM
Hood
Prologue
The pig was young and wary, a yearling boar timidly testing the wind for strange scents as it ventured out into the honey-coloured light of a fast-fading day. Bran ap Brychan, Prince of Elfael, had spent the entire day stalking the greenwood for a suitable prize, and he meant to have this one.
Eight years old and the king’s sole heir, he knew well enough that he would never be allowed to go out into the forest alone. So rather than seek permission, he had simply taken his bow and four arrows early that morning and stolen from the caer unnoticed. This hunt, like the young boar, was dedicated to his mother, the queen.
She loved the hunt and gloried in the wild beauty and visceral excitement of the chase. Even when she did not ride herself, she would ready a welcome for the hunters with a saddle cup and music, leading the women in song. “Don’t be afraid,” she told Bran when, as a toddling boy, he had been dazzled and a little frightened by the noise and revelry. “We belong to the land. Look, Bran!” She lifted a slender hand toward the hills and the forest rising like a living rampart beyond. “All that you see is the work of our Lord’s hand. We rejoice in his provision.”
Stricken with a wasting fever, Queen Rhian had been sick most of the summer, and in his childish imaginings, Bran had determined that if he could present her with a stag or a boar that he had brought down all by himself, she would laugh and sing as she always did, and she would feel better. She would be well again.
All it would take was a little more patience and . . .
Still as stone, he waited in the deepening shadow. The young boar stepped nearer, its small pointed ears erect and proud. It took another step and stopped to sample the tender shoots of a mallow plant. Bran, an arrow already nocked to the string, pressed the bow forward, feeling the tension in his shoulder and back just the way Iwan said he should. “Do not aim the arrow,” the older youth had instructed him. “Just think it to the mark. Send it on your thought, and if your thought is true, so, too, will fly the arrow.”
Pressing the bow to the limit of his strength, he took a steadying breath and released the string, feeling the sharp tingle on his fingertips. The arrow blazed across the distance, striking the young pig low in the chest behind the front legs. Startled, it flicked its tail rigid, and turned to bolt into the wood . . . but two steps later its legs tangled; it stumbled and went down. The stricken creature squealed once and tried to rise, then subsided, dead where it fell.
Bran loosed a wild whoop of triumph. The prize was his!
He ran to the pig and put his hand on the animal’s sleek, slightly speckled haunch, feeling the warmth there. “I am sorry, my friend, and I thank you,” he murmured as Iwan had taught him. “I need your life to live.”
It was only when he tried to shoulder his kill that Bran realised his great mistake. The dead weight of the animal was more than he could lift by himself. With a sinking heart, he stood gazing at his glorious prize as tears came to his eyes. It was all for nothing if he could not carry the trophy home in triumph.
Sinking down on the ground beside the warm carcass, Bran put his head in his hands. He could not carry it, and he would not leave it. What was he going to do?
As he sat contemplating his predicament, the sounds of the forest grew loud in his ears: the chatter of a squirrel in a treetop, the busy click and hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the hushed flutter of wings above him, and then . . .
“Bran!”
Bran started at the voice. He glanced around hopefully.
“Here!” he called. “Here! I need help!”
“Go back!” The voice seemed to come from above. He raised his eyes to see a huge black bird watching him from a branch directly over his head.
It was only an old raven. “Shoo!”
“Go back!” said the bird. “Go back!”
“I won’t,” shouted Bran. He reached for a stick on the path, picked it up, drew back, and threw it at the bothersome bird. “Shut up!”
The stick struck the raven’s perch, and the bird flew off with a cry that sounded to Bran like laughter. “Ha, ha, haw! Ha, ha, haw!”
“Stupid bird,” he muttered. Turning again to the young pig beside him, he remembered what he had seen other hunters do with small game. Releasing the string on his bow, he gathered the creature’s short legs and tied the hooves together with the cord. Then, passing the stave through the bound hooves and gripping the stout length of oak in either hand, he tried to lift it. The carcass was still too heavy for him, so he began to drag his prize through the forest, using the bow.
It was slow going, even on the well-worn path, with frequent stops to rub the sweat from his eyes and catch his breath. All the while, the day dwindled around him.
No matter. He would not give up. Clutching the bow stave in his hands, he struggled on, step by step, tugging the young boar along the trail, reaching the edge of the forest as the last gleam of twilight faded across the valley to the west.
“Bran!”
The shout made him jump. It was not a raven this time, but a voice he knew. He turned and looked down the slope toward the valley to see Iwan coming toward him, long legs paring the distance with swift strides.
“Here!” Bran called, waving his aching arms overhead. “Here I am!”
“In the name of all the saints and angels,” the young man said when he came near enough to speak, “what do you think you are doing out here?”
“Hunting,” replied Bran. Indicating his kill with a hunter’s pride, he said, “It strayed in front of my arrow, see?”
“I see,” replied Iwan. Giving the pig a cursory glance, he turned and started away again. “We have to go. It’s late, and everyone is looking for you.”
Bran made no move to follow.
Looking back, Iwan said, “Leave it, Bran! They are searching for you. We must hurry.”
“No,” Bran said. “Not without the boar.” He stooped once more to the carcass, seized the bow stave, and started tugging again.
Iwan returned, took him roughly by the arm, and pulled him away. “Leave the stupid thing!”
“It is for my mother!” the boy shouted, the tears starting hot and quick. As the tears began to fall, he bent his head and repeated more softly, “Please, it is for my mother.”
“Weeping Judas!” Iwan relented with an exasperated sigh. “Come then. We will carry it together.”
Iwan took one end of the bow stav
e, Bran took the other, and between them they lifted the carcass off the ground. The wood bent but did not break, and they started away again—Bran stumbling ever and again in a forlorn effort to keep pace with his long-legged friend.
Night was upon them, the caer but a brooding black eminence on its mound in the centre of the valley, when a party of mounted searchers appeared. “He was hunting,” Iwan informed them. “A hunter does not leave his prize.”
The riders accepted this, and the young boar was quickly secured behind the saddle of one of the horses; Bran and Iwan were taken up behind other riders, and the party rode for the caer. The moment they arrived, Bran slid from the horse and ran to his mother’s chamber behind the hall. “Hurry,” he called. “Bring the boar!”
Queen Rhian’s chamber was lit with candles, and two women stood over her bed when Bran burst in. He ran to her bedside and knelt down. “Mam! See what I brought you!”
She opened her eyes, and recognition came to her. “There you are, my dearling. They said they could not find you.”
“I went hunting,” he announced. “For you.”
“For me,” she whispered. “A fine thing, that. What did you find?”
“Look!” he said proudly as Iwan strode into the room with the pig slung over his shoulders.
“Oh, Bran,” she said, the ghost of a smile touching her dry lips. “Kiss me, my brave hunter.”
He bent his face to hers and felt the heat of her dry lips on his. “Go now. I will sleep a little,” she told him, “and I will dream of your triumph.”
She closed her eyes then, and Bran was led from the room. But she had smiled, and that was worth all the world to him.
Queen Rhian did not waken in the morning. By the next evening she was dead, and Bran never saw his mother smile again. And although he continued to hone his skill with the bow, he lost all interest in the hunt.
The Fatal Tree Page 29