The Buried Past – Chapter 9

*Scene 01* 9:35 (Laura and Christie)

Laura and Christie rode side by side over the hill and down into the valley beyond.

Laura had been quiet for the first half-hour of the ride.

“I guess you think I’m being a selfish coward about this,” she spoke low, looking at the road ahead, “Leaving you and all the others and abandoning whatever is going on here.  Just a big baby, or something.”

Christie smiled and turned slightly to her, “Laura, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Laura.  You can ask me what I think and give me a chance to answer, or you can go on thinking you can guess what someone else is thinking.  But you know what I’ve found out?”

“What is that?”

“You will get a whole lot farther by asking, rather than assuming.  And you might find out that most people are not thinking as many negative thoughts as you might assume they are.  It is okay to be direct.  I didn’t come with you because I thought you needed mothering.”

“No?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Because I knew you need someone to just be your friend.”

Laura was silent for several minutes after.  Christie could not see her face, but she suspected the girl was trying to keep the tears from showing.

Finally, she spoke up.

“I don’t have many friends.”

“You seem to be a fairly attractive girl.  What about boyfriends?”

“Well, not really.  Boys are kinda…  You know.  Goofy, immature, full of themselves and interested in…well, that.”

Christie snorted, “Yep.  They are.”

“I just don’t think there is all that much in their head.  They just want girls to be all into them, and I just can’t find myself doing that. I’m not sure how to say this, but I sorta need to find out if I am enough without one.”

“What about your girlfriends?  Is there anyone you can talk to?  Trust or rely on back there?”

“I’m not…,” she sighed, “well, y’know, popular or anything.  Girls can be mean, too.”

“Yes, they can.”

“Besides, I don’t want to end up like my mom.  My dad was her crush in high school.  She had no other life but him, and he treated her like dirt.  But she was pretty once, and it must’ve fed his ego, cause he married her and they went to parties and had this supposedly fabulous social life until she got pregnant with me.  I was their killjoy.  Momma blamed me for dad losing interest in her.  But I didn’t ask to be born.  Wish I hadn’t been.  Dad started coming home late.  Usually drunk.  I think he hated me for being there.  If that was gonna be my future, I wanted no part of it.  I just wanted to grow up and get out of there as fast as I could.”

“Wow,” Christie said, “That is so sad.  I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It’s not your problem.  I guess it is just my rotten luck.  Didn’t mean to dump it on you.  I just thought if you knew, you might realize that I am not going back because I like it better there.  It is just that I’ve got to work it out for myself.  I am not a baby.  I’ve been through enough hard stuff.  I’m learning the rules there, and I don’t know what the rules are here.”

“None of us really do, Laura.  Sometimes we just go along trying to figure them all out by ourselves.”

Laura was silent once more.  Somehow that resigned admission left her feeling all alone again.  Still she was grateful for the company.

“So what about you?” Laura asked, “What is your life like back in the…you know…Surface World?”

The two women had descended into the interceding valley, passing the hill that hid the old bungalow where they had sheltered two days prior.

“Oh.  I am a mom.  Have two kids.  Both of them grown now.  Boy and girl.  Well, I should say a young man and young lady, but it kinda feels like missing time saying that.  They grew up so fast.  Too soon.”

“What about their dad?”

“Uh.  He’s…” Christie sighed, “Kinda out of the picture.  Not a subject I prefer to dwell on.”

“Sorry,” Laura shrugged.

“Don’t be.  It’s kinda like you said.  Not your problem.”

The road twisted downward into a declivity, which had a footpath running alongside a shallow brook which fed into a larger stream.

“Hey, wanna check on that man that we saw the other night?  See if he’s okay?”

Christie slowed her trotting horse and turned it toward the trampled path.

Laura hesitated, “You don’t think we might run into another troll or anything do you?”

“We’ll be quick.  Just in and out.”

The wind through the valley began to pick up, rustling leaves, sighing through the tall grasses along the banks of the stream.

The overcast sky began to darken with the threat of rain.

“It’s getting cold out here.  I wonder if he’ll have the fire going.”

As they rode down further, the purling water of the stream began to shear off into spray as the strengthening gusts blew across its surface.  By the time they reached the wild, untended garden, they knew that this place was not the same as when they had left it.

Both of the women dismounted and led their horses cautiously up to the weathered front of the cabin.  Dried vines covered its face, and hid the doorway under the mass and tangle.

Laura wrapped herself with her free arm and stood close to the mare, “How did he get in there?”  She gripped the reins tighter, ready to swing back up into the saddle.

“I don’t know. There must be some other way in. Let’s go around to the window.”

Christie walked through the tall grass, rounding the corner of the hovel.  Laura waited out front.

“What can you see?”

Christie answered from the side, “Not much.  The panes are so dusty and there is no fire inside like we saw the other night. I still don’t see how the man got in there and out unless there is another passage under the hill.”

“He probably wants to be left alone.  I think we should go.”

Christie came back around from the curved corner of the cabin, and her horse snorted uneasily, waving it and angling.

“Woah, girl. Easy there.”

“Think she smells something?”

“Not sure.  I think she’s nervous about the change in the weather.  Those clouds are stacking up,” Christie nodded towards the eastern horizon, “A storm’s coming.”

Large building swells of bluish-white and grey mounted up over the brow of the hill that led down to the beach.

“What will we do?” nervousness threaded Laura’s voice and lifted its pitch.

“We’ve got to take cover until it blows over.  The hill there will block some of it if it’s a seaborne storm.  Looks like we don’t have much choice.  We either turn back and try to outrun it and go back to the others at the Inn, or we hunker down here.”

Thunder crackled and the darkened hillside lit up under the strobing flash of lightning. The lines of light etched and splintered through the building cloudbank.

“I am scared.”

“Me too, honey,” Christie responded, watching the sky pensively.

“Me too,” she said again, quieter and more to herself than to Laura.

*Scene 02* 8:41 (Shadowing the Women)

Two observers scanned the rise leading down to the village of Crowe.  They had ridden around the outskirts of the town up from the wheat field bearing the sunken scar and had spotted the two women riding down the road toward the eastern sea.

A large, powerfully-built man, had watched them carefully, wondering what could have given these two women the fearless daring to travel alone in country claimed and patrolled by the brutal Xarmnian Overwatch.  To his left, a masked figure, with a much smaller frame, armed with a longbow, sat astride a dark horse with shoulders back, spine straight, signifying the confidence and the proud-bearing of one in leadership.  Though the masked figure did not exude the latent brute strength of the former, its qualities of poise and inner strength seemed to be an attribute to which the more powerful man gave deference.

“What do you think?” the man asked quietly.

“Something is up.  Women do not travel uncovered in Xarmnian claimed country alone, so these two must be strangers here,” the masked figure spoke and the timbre of the voice behind the covering was female.  “How well I know,” she added thoughtfully, fingering the cloth mask that covered her own face.  “And we are already spread thin as it is.”

Her head tilted, pondering, and then, at last, she raised it, squaring her shoulders back, signifying that she had reached a decision.

“Stay out of sight, but follow them.  See where they go.  I have instructed Garrett and the others meet us at the armory.  The family are a safe distance away by now, but the Overwatch is too close.  They will be expecting to meet with the tracker teams they lost to the digging monster.  When they don’t show, they will search for them, and spread out.  Possibly torture the people in the nearby towns for answers they cannot provide.  This area is about to be lit up.  And if those two are caught unawares…”

There was nothing more to be said.  Both could soberly imagine the brutality that the Xarmnians were capable of from the confirmed atrocities already done.

“Where will you go?” the man asked.

“If Begglar, Nell and Dominic have not left by now, this is the time to do so.  I promised Corimanth.”

“What concerns you and he with the affairs of that Inn keeper?”

The masked woman, known only in open country by her title ‘Storm Hawk’, regarded him a moment, and then answered quietly, “Nell is Corimanth’s sister.  He has charged me to look out for them.  Begglar and I once rode together when I first came, but he did not go then by the name he bears today.”

“Why then do you work through agents to receive reports of them. Why not visit them directly?”

“It is too dangerous for us to be seen together.  Xarmni has a long memory.  We have worked at arm’s link only, through Shimri as the local town contact for the Underground.  Begglar’s situation does not fit with the man they expect him to be, so he blends in under their noses.  Their Xarmnian arrogance makes them blind, and it is fitting that it works to our advantage.”

“Were you two once…?”

“No,” she interrupted, “It was never like that. Nothing like that.”

She cleared her thoat, stiffening in mild irritation, then continued.

“I will join the other Lehi in gathering Begglar’s horses. If what Shimri says is true, members of my world may have already arrived in the Mid-World, and they will not be made welcome.  Every seven years since they learned of our arrival they have watched the coastline.  But they cannot spare enough to watch it all.  And they fear the fogs.”

“So I am to follow these women?  For how long?”

The figure scanned the darkening sky.  “Just long enough to get a sense of why they may be headed towards the sea.  There is a sea storm gathering to the east.  If you cannot stay ahead of it, turn back.  Do not follow them into it.  I have a feeling if we saw them, there may be others interested in their naïve journey as well. I do not wear this mask for comfort you know.”

The man chuckled, “And it is a pity too.  You are quite fetching, young lady.”

“And it is best that you cannot see my response to that rather forward observation! I am a married woman, you know.  Happily so.”

“Then why have you not returned to the Surface World?  To him?”

“That is another story which I am still piecing together.  If I had had my choice, I would have left here years before.  But one must be in the moments in which they find themselves.  To do the good they can while there still is light enough to do it.”

The man pondered those words and nodded, “I am sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

“It is forgiven,” Stork Hawk returned, “Have you tracked those Harpies?”

“Two disappeared into the tree line on the crest near Begglar’s Inn.  I suspect they are observing them, but one cannot be too careful.  It is hard to know where their loyalties lay.  Some have been seen consorting with Xarmni, but that could be mere rumor.  The monster in the deep woods to the north keeps a tight rein upon his kind.  They have always despised humankind and kept to the wilds.”

“A truth I learned a hard lesson from…and still bear those scars.  These are not the kinds from my old life.  This avian mix of bird and man is unnatural. Perhaps these blendings only occur here in the Mid-World, but there were engineered chimeras in the labs of The Surface World.  Abominable experiments done.  If they could but see these tormented and violent creatures…crazed by their disordered minds which do not follow instinctive natural patterns or behaviors…” Storm Hawk trailed off, realizing again her projection of her own assumptions were clouding her judgement.  She returned with, “I suspect the vestiges of human vices that remain in them do not sit well with blend of the instinctive animal.”

“These beings have been present here from of old.  They are not newly come from your world,” the man observed, watching the storm clouds gather ahead.

“As I told you, time here and time there are not necessarily linked.  The Walker and I had long talks about that.  It is why I am free to do here what needs to be done with you and the others.  My husband will experience no time lost, while I am present here. I expect to be able to go back to him in the moment I departed. If these women are from where I suspect they came from, I think they are going back to an Oculus.  It would be good to know where it landed.  I miss my husband and something or someone else, that I cannot quite bring to mind.  The fog walls took it from me.”

“I will do what needs to be done. Don’t let it trouble you further,” the man gripped the reins of his mount, about to urge the horse into duty, but he paused, and looked back at Storm Hawk. “We will miss you, my lady.  The Lehi riders were your idea.  It has been an honor serving with you.”

“Meet us in Azragoth in three days. Go, quickly.  Stay safe.”

*Scene 03* 6:11 (The Testing Place)

The horses pulling the wagon champ their bits and hesitate, stepping from side to side, as Begglar urges them forward with a flick of the tracers.  The beasts smell the lingering touch of death and decay.  They are wary and restless.  Their eyes roll in uneasiness.  At last, the horses stop, unwilling to go any further.

The large hill is festooned with broken rock, scree. The area is littered with bone fragments, white ashes and a dark, rich and blackened soil beneath, yet green patches of grass peek through and then climb the steep hill to its crest.  The thick thorn bushes surrounding the bottom of the rise are new to me.  I never remembered them being there before.  The hill is aerated by the pecks and stabs of the beaks of the birds.  Fertilized by them, and seeded as well.  A spray of white flowers covers its domed brow, here and there.  Most likely edelweiss.  I vaguely remember coming here in the days before, but this…

“Surely, this is not the same place?”

Begglar gestured towards the thick brush at the bottom.

“The briar bushes were brought in to discourage travelers from approaching the hill. There is one way through them, but it is narrow, and we must go up single file.  A veritable crown of thorns, it is. It’s been hard keeping the local flocks of sheep away from it. If a lamb gets tangled up in those thickets, a shepherd is going to bloody himself, getting it out of there.”

Nothing in my memory could have prepared me for this stark change.  I sit there transfixed and amazed, horrified and bewildered, yet strangely feeling a certain inexplicable solemn sort of sobered peace.

Begglar dismounts the buckboard, and he and his son help their wife and mother down to the rocky ground.  He turns to me and says, “Are ya comin’ or no?”

In a strange sort of dazed feeling, I find myself on the ground standing next to him, not sure exactly when I rose or remembering climbing down from the wagon once again.

Everyone there could sense it.  Terrible deeds had been done at this site.  This abattoir of martyrdom should have been attenuated with melancholy and despair.  Instead, it stirred a sense of awe and tragic wonder in me.  Beckoning my soul to feel something that the surviving people of these lands had lost.

Hope.

Nell and their son, Dominic led the way through the thorny path, winding this way and that taking care to keep us from the long, wicked thorns that clawed and waved angrily at us along the path.  We were led up to a gathering of rocks and pebbles near the sharp incline of the largest hill.  Dominic began to remove large covering slate stones and dig through the pile of rocks and several of the others baled in to assist.

Something within, me felt like Abraham must have ascending Mount Moriah, on his way to take the life of his son in sacrifice to the One who called him ‘Friend’.  This was a place of testing.  A place where others’ faith had been seen or shattered.  A place that would reveal to me and those I was called to lead what sort of man I really was.

And I was terrified.

Begglar stood to my left, and just out of my eye line.  When he spoke quietly to me, I was slightly startled.

“How well, do you trust these friends of yours?”

I cleared my throat. “I don’t know them yet,” I answered. “I haven’t pressed them to give me their names or asked much about them.  So far, I’ve just had to trust that they were called to be here for a reason. I’m just trusting in that.”

Begglar raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at me.

“Aye,” he said nodding slightly, “and how well do they know you?  Have you told them yet?”

I cleared my throat again, this time to cover my annoyance at the general drift of his line of questioning.

As I started to walk down to the others I answered his question…kind of.

“All will be made clear to them soon.  First things first.  We need to see The Marker.”

This was my fear.  I could not ask them who they were, without allowing them to ask me who or what I was.  But deep down, I knew I had no other choice. This place would test me before them, just as it had those martyred here under the cruel hand of the Xarmnians.

*Scene 04* 7:05 (Shimri’s Reflections)

Shimri, a short man of about sixty seasons, stood contemplating the pinkish hue blushing upon the distant hill road that led up to Begglar’s Inn.  His home had served as a temporary shelter for the family Begglar had brought to him through the fog, three nights prior.  The place was obscured by trees from the main road, but its evening lights could still be glimpsed through the darkness from the upper corner window of Begglar’s Inn.  Signal lights, that Begglar and he had worked out together to alert each other in dire times such as these.

The moonpath he and Begglar and young Dominic had constructed together, between their two houses had taken several years to put in place, going to and fro back from the shores of the eastern sea.  The man had been a veritable wealth of sea lore and knowledge.  A vital resource for allowing the resistence to continue as it had and thrive despite the late increase in Xarmni’s militant presence.  Xarmnian ire and its more directed efforts of breaking the back of resistence had been focused primarily on the shorelines of the great fjords lake chain country near Cascale, but as setbacks increased they detected more pockets of resistence shifting more towards the eastern highlands.

Perhaps, it had been too foolish to have Storm Hawk and her raiders operating with increasing frequency so far from the western lands.  Xarmni had noticed the shift, and had become interested in its direction and proximity to the buried Stone they hated so much.

“Out of the east will come your Champion.  Out of the east, your Soverign King.” A statement of promise that he and the others in The Resistence had once used in secret greeting among there own, to comfort each other, as the seeds of war began to rise from the grounds of the Mid-World.

A verse from the inscriptions on the Ancient Stone rose again to Shimri’s mind that he had contemplated with curiosity of late.

“But tidings out of the east and out of the north shall trouble him: therefore he shall go forth with great fury to destroy, and utterly to make away many.” [Daniel 11:44 KJV]

Xarmni would come again.  And their considerations of the shift in resistance activities might lead their minds to reflect on their most miserable defeat in the buried town of death and disease, the merchant city of Azragoth, just over twenty years ago, which they had mischaracterized as a decisive victory.  Though their losses were great and severe, and their forces fled the battlefield in terror of contagion, it was almost laughable how they twisted historical accounts to make themselves the victor in every outcome.

Still, he was saddened to hear that Begglar and Nell were finally leaving.  The Inn had been a fixture of the town of Crowe and had always been a place of welcome from before Xarmni had extended its reach.  From the early days when Begglar opened his bakery and strategically placed it at the top of the hill, everyone in the small town below awakened to the heavenly smell of freshly baked bread wafting down the hill from Begglar’s ovens.  Travelers coming from the southern road were willing to make the effort to walk through town and up the hill to the top, just to sample the wares from Begglar’s bakery.  The Inn had originally built as a dining hall, but was expanded to offer ten rooms to traveling lodgers, in addition to the main living quarters and the stables and barns needed to service the Inn and its supporting stock.  The bakery merely shifted to the large kitchen servicing the Inn.

Now no aromatic scents decended from the hillside.  No sounds of scurrying chickens, no mooing of their cows impatiently awaiting their milking time, no nickering or exuberant whinnying of their horses waiting to be unstabled and released to a pasture run.  No glimmer of the sun’s rays peeked over the upper brow of the hillside shedding light upon the gray morning.  Only the rise of the stacking clouds, slightly illumined and reddened by the veiled sun buried in the sky behind it gave a semblance of what the day might bring.

“Red sky in the morning…sailor take warning,” Shimri muttered as he looked to the vacated hill where his longtime friend once lived.

A compatriot took him out of his dire contemplation of the ominous scene, and asked him again. “What do we do with this Xarmnian?”

“Has Mikai been taken back to his mom?”

“Yes. The Storm Hawk and her riders saw to that personally.  They informed his widow, Dora, and left provisions for her and the boy.”

“Did you extend our offer to take them to Azragoth?  We could still get word to Garrett and the other Lehi.”

“Dora said their leaving suddenly might draw further suspicion.  When the Xarmnian hunters come, she could not bear the thought of not being there to stand with her friends and family.  She and Mikai want to stay and do anything they can to help us.  She said they need to do this.  To be able to do something to see to it that Xarmnian evil does not easily visit violence on other families as well.”

“I wish there more people were of her mindset.  You’ve done well, Johanan.”

“What about the Xarmnian? He is beligerent. We have had to keep three men to watch him. He cannot be trusted.”

“You are correct. Confine him in the shed with the troll we caught yesterday.”

“They’ll kill each other.”

“If they do, that is one less miscreant that we have to watch over. Either way, I expect the one that survives will be more inclined to cooperate afterwards.”

*Scene 05* 8:39 (Entering the Abattoir)

Buried under the skirting pile of stones was a clever sort of levered locking mechanism that released a hidden counter-weight and caused one of the larger rocks at the base of the hill to pivot outward, revealing a slight declining tunnel behind it.  The tunnel angled down slightly and then leveled off, revealing a rocky entrance to the passages under the hillside.

The passage was dark, low and narrow, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow completely all who dared enter.

My mind briefly drifted to the words of Dante Alighieri, in Inferno, Canto III, and the inscription over the entrance to “The Gate of Hell”:

“Through me, you go to the grief wracked city; Through me, you go to everlasting pain; Through me, you go a pass among lost souls. Justice inspired my exalted Creator: I am a creature of the Holiest Power, of Wisdom in the Highest and of Primal Love. Nothing, till I was made, was made, only eternal beings. And I endure eternally. Abandon all Hope — Ye Who Enter Here“

The crowd gathered around the open passage.

“You want us to go in there?” one of the young men asked.

“It seems to be the only way to get to The Marker Stone,” I answered, “We all need to go in.”

“All of us?!” a young girl with dark hair looked at me with wide eyes.

“Yes, we…”

“I’m not. I can’t. I won’t!” the young girl balked, backing away from the dark entrance.

The tall blonde woman, who had been identified to me as Cheryl, came to the girl’s aid and turned an accusatory glare at me.

“Surely, you are not going to make the young ones go into that death hole, are you?  What kind of a man are you, frightening children like this?”

Others had begun to gather around us and it appeared that the situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Miray had scrambled down from the buckboard and pushed through the gathering.

“Well, I’m going in there, Mr. Brian!” she said coming to my side and taking my hand. “I’m not a baby!”

The dark-haired girl seethed and was about to lunge at Miray, but Nell intervened before she could advance.

“Perhaps, I should keep the young ones out here, Mister…,” he eyes shifted questioningly to her husband and Begglar supplied.

“O’Brian.  Mister O’Brian,” he said, with the slightest hint of a green glimmer in his dancing eyes, barely masking his mirth in doing so.

I gave him a withering glare, but his Blarney guard was already up and beaming at me.

Seeing no help from Begglar, I raised my hands placatingly, “Look, I had no idea it had been buried. When I was here last, we could walk up to it…”

“Aye,” Begglar interjected, “Tis of a truth, he speaks.  But O’Brian’s been a bit tardy in his return, so the Xarmnians fetched us to hide their embarrassment.”

I glared openly at his, and he feigned innocence, and then winked at me.

Irish blarney, indeed.

“But ye no be worryin’ yer little bonnet, lassie!  She’s as safe as a mother’s bosom.”

Nell raised an eyebrow at that, and Begglar blushed, rubbing his hand over his forehead, “Beggin’ your pardon, Sweet Lamb.”

“I’ll keep the girls out here with me.  Dom will guide you all with the light, until it is not needed.  Run along now.”

Cheryl, glanced from Nell to the dark-haired girl and said, “Perhaps, I’d better…”

Nell interrupted her, “Perhaps you’d better follow, lass.  There is a bit of importance to why you’re here in there.  T’would be a shame if you missed out, because of the bairns.  Go along now.”

Miray tugged at me, “But I don’t want to stay out here.  Becca’s going to get me.”

“I’ll see to it that they behave themselves,” Nell assured me.  “I’ve parted my share of roughhousing brawlers in my time, O’Brian.  Mind you that.  We run an Inn with rough customers.  Be fine.”

Miray looked from me to Nell and then back at me for assurances.  I nodded consent to Nell, and Miray’s brow creased in disappointment, but she conceded.  Becca eyed Miray as she climbed back up into the bed of the wagon, and then her defiant stare fixed on me as she raised her chin in an air of contempt.  Miray peeked over the side rail panel of the wagon and stuck her tongue out at Becca, but ducked down behind it when the girl wheeled sensing my gaze shift toward Miray, as I tried to hide a small grin.

In the meantime, a torch was lit and Begglar’s son, Dominic held it forth, leading us through the small narrow aperture into the very heart of an abyss.

Many hesitate at the doorway.  Looking to me for some sort of assurances, but I can give them none.  This walk into the heart of the hill requires courage that I barely have, at most, a tenuous grasp on.  There is a small ante-chamber inside.  Its walls formed of an assemblage of rock fitted together, yet uncut and unmortared.  The compression and weight of the rock and earthen mound above held it in place.  Every once in awhile, we saw through the rock the more grisly mortise pieces of crushed skulls and bones joining the earthen worked hill, but the air was dry within and had the musty smell of lime about it.  The torchlight flickers but continued to burn, casting jumping shadows with every step and movement into the recesses of the hill.  Great stone monoliths leaned and supported and distributed the crushing weight above, forming a sort of triangular ceiling in some parts of the tunnel and a domed barrel vault in others.  The passages were cramped and angular, working a sort of zig-zag pattern further into the interior.

Feeling a bit anxious and claustrophobic, I pressed pass Dominic, feeling a sort of disoriented panic to find the way to the center quickly so that we could hasten our exit back out.  And then I saw it…

Just up ahead.  I had progressed beyond the torches, my eyes not fully acclimated to the dark, but still I could see it distinctly.

Beyond me, about twenty feet or so, the passage took a hard turn to the right, and the interior was glowing of its own light.

I did not realize I had stopped until the others pushed behind me into the narrow passage.  I glanced at Dominic, and he smiled knowingly, glad at last to share the mystery his family must have had to keep secret for many years now.

We proceeded cautiously forward, yet in awe of this strange illumination, fearful, yet desirous to see the source of it.  Begglar crowed forward and together we entered the central main chamber.

Before us there stood over fifteen to twenty feet tall a large black stone with golden letters engraved and shining brightly upon its polished black surface.  The rest of our party entered and gathered about us in amazement gazing up at the ancient burning letters shining and illuminating the cavern around it.

*Scene 06* 1:56 (Xarmnian Hunters)

In the distance, six lightly-armored Xarmnian horsemen topped the hill of the highland mesa and found the winding road leading up to The Inn in the small village of Crowe.  They had tracked the family of four, two adults and two children up through the western pass, winding up through the woods just as the light snow started falling.  It had been of some annoyance to them that the tracks were being covered by the snowy blanket, but they were certain this fleeing family would not get too far ahead without seeking shelter.  The children were small and frail.  They wouldn’t last as the temperatures dropped and the wet and cold seeped into their ragged clothing.  If these were fool-hardy enough to go much farther, they might be overtaken before the snow-filled in their evidence of passage.

The little troublesome scribbler would never make trouble again.  And his children, if they survived, would be given the curative Elixir that their father refused to write favorably of.

They were perplexed when the advanced company of trackers did not return to their gathering place, but be that as it may, they suspected where both the family and their compatriots might converge.  The Inn at the hilltop, overlooking the small township.  The man they had marked and given leave to oversees their stock and provide them service whenever they were in the vicinity.  He and his woman.  The woman they had decided should be watched.  There was something familiar about her.  A resistence that still gleamed in her eyes, whenever they had come to call.  That was why they had sent the Trolls.

Trolls which never reported back.

And they were coming to find out why.

*Scene 07* 14:30 (The Marker Stone)

In the illumined chamber of the Hill of Skulls the golden letters seemed to swim and dance before our eyes, moving in sparkling light that warmed and cooled us at the same time.

“This is what you all needed to see,” I muttered, but my words carried and seem to circulate around the chamber walls.

“What is this?” a tall man in our company asked.

“This is The Marker Stone.  It is the fulcrum of all that exists here.  The mystery of this land.  Both its spine and its heart.”

The letters continued to shift and curve, and pit and straighten, almost as if the text written were the pulse of the heart of the stone.

One of the members of our team, a middle-aged, Middle eastern man moved forward and his eyes widened,  “This text is in Pharsi.”

Another moved foward, and examined the moving letters and contradicted him, “No, this is an ancient language.  I see Greek letters.”

A woman shook her head vigorously, “Ahh, you loco gringos. The is espanol!”

I spoke up, “Actually, you all are correct. And anyone who speaks or reads any language in a native language will be able to read these words in their first language or any language that is intelligible to them.”

“How is this possible?” a young woman asked.

“To answer that, you need to know that this very stone is transcendent.  It occupies spaces both in this Mid-World, and in the world we came from, the world we all share in common: The Surface World.”

Reluctantly, all eyes turned towards me briefly, and then their gaze shifted back to the The Marker Stone.

“This Stone is a monument here, but also an oracle of legend and prophecy.  In our world, it appears in two instances recorded in the Ancient Text of our faith, the Holy Scriptures.  If you read closely you will find that most of the text that appears here on the stone are also passages from that very same source.  One particular passage is very telling indeed.  What you may not be able to see from here is the crown of the stone has seven faces on it, and at the top of each face is an eye.”

“That’s creepy,” a teen girl remarked.

“It is how I recognized this stone when reading about it in the Ancient Text,” I countered.

“What passage are you referring to?” the tall man asked.

“In the book of Zechariah the third chapter at verses eight and nine, The One calls Zechariah’s attention to a high priest whose name is Joshua, and tells him to pay close attention to the imagery and symbol he is about to show him.  It is a messianic prophecy of One who is to come who will be called The Branch.  The prophecy says this:

Hear now, Joshua the high priest, thou and thy fellows that sit before thee — for they are men of portent — for behold, I will bring forth my servant the Branch. For behold, the stone that I have laid before Joshua — upon one stone are seven eyes; behold, I will engrave the graving thereof, saith Jehovah of hosts, and I will remove the iniquity of this land in one day. [Zechariah 3:8-9 DBY]”

“So that was the stone with the seven eyes?” one asked.

“It is more than that.  Who is it that will be engraving upon the stone with the seven eyes?”

I heard several gasp. “You mean that…?”

“This Marker Stone is in many places at once.  It is not just here in this reality, but in every reality where a person have trusted in and given their heart to the message that they read upon the Stone.”

“Are you saying God Himself is writing these golden letters?” Cheryl asked.

“It is the only explanation that fits,” I replied.  “The letters are words written that transcend every tongue every spoken by mankind.  When the apostles preached God’s message to a mixed crowd of international travelers upon the day of Pentecost, every person heard the words in their native language.  When the book of John refers to The Word being made flesh, he was speaking of The Branch that is paired with this stone’s imagery in the book of Zechariah.  This Stone is the sources of all power here in the Mid-World, but it is both feared and reviled by many of the occupants of this land.  The crown and the virtue stones that hold this land’s future are connected with this Stone monolith and the power it represents.  The temporary kingdoms of this world fear this Stone.  But it is this Stone’s prophecy which will free it ultimately to become the land of healing it was intended to be.”

I then turned to the golden letters that, to my sight formed into the letters of my English alphabet.

“Here read the words of the Prophecy of The Marker:

“Do not fret because of evildoers, Be not envious toward wrongdoers. For they will wither quickly like the grass And fade like the green herb. Trust in the LORD and do good; Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD, Trust also in Him, and He will do it. He will bring forth your righteousness as the light And your judgment as the noonday. Rest in the LORD and wait patiently for Him; Do not fret because of him who prospers in his way, Because of the man who carries out wicked schemes. Cease from anger and forsake wrath; Do not fret; it leads only to evildoing. For evildoers will be cut off, But those who wait for the LORD, they will inherit the land. Yet a little while and the wicked man will be no more; And you will look carefully for his place and he will not be there. But the humble will inherit the land And will delight themselves in abundant prosperity. The wicked plots against the righteous And gnashes at him with his teeth. The Lord laughs at him, For He sees his day is coming. The wicked have drawn the sword and bent their bow To cast down the afflicted and the needy, To slay those who are upright in conduct. Their sword will enter their own heart, And their bows will be broken. Better is the little of the righteous Than the abundance of many wicked. For the arms of the wicked will be broken, But the LORD sustains the righteous. The LORD knows the days of the blameless, And their inheritance will be forever. They will not be ashamed in the time of evil, And in the days of famine they will have abundance. But the wicked will perish; And the enemies of the LORD will be like the glory of the pastures, They vanish–like smoke they vanish away. The wicked borrows and does not pay back, But the righteous is gracious and gives. For those blessed by Him will inherit the land, But those cursed by Him will be cut off. The steps of a man are established by the LORD, And He delights in his way. When he falls, he will not be hurled headlong, Because the LORD is the One who holds his hand. I have been young and now I am old, Yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken Or his descendants begging bread. All day long he is gracious and lends, And his descendants are a blessing. Depart from evil and do good, So you will abide forever. For the LORD loves justice And does not forsake His godly ones; They are preserved forever, But the descendants of the wicked will be cut off. The righteous will inherit the land And dwell in it forever. The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, And his tongue speaks justice. The law of his God is in his heart; His steps do not slip. The wicked spies upon the righteous And seeks to kill him. The LORD will not leave him in his hand Or let him be condemned when he is judged. Wait for the LORD and keep His way, And He will exalt you to inherit the land; When the wicked are cut off, you will see it. I have seen a wicked, violent man Spreading himself like a luxuriant tree in its native soil. Then he passed away, and lo, he was no more; I sought for him, but he could not be found. Mark the blameless man, and behold the upright; For the man of peace will have a posterity. But transgressors will be altogether destroyed; The posterity of the wicked will be cut off. But the salvation of the righteous is from the LORD; He is their strength in time of trouble. The LORD helps them and delivers them; He delivers them from the wicked and saves them, Because they take refuge in Him. [Psalm 37:1-40 NASB]

 If these truths be not upheld, your lands will be ravaged and its peoples suffer for a time, but you have been granted this day a remedy and a hope for the fulfillment of this future promise and prophesy.

“Behold, a king will reign righteously And princes will rule justly. Each will be like a refuge from the wind And a shelter from the storm, Like streams of water in a dry country, Like the shade of a huge rock in a parched land. Then the eyes of those who see will not be blinded, And the ears of those who hear will listen. The mind of the hasty will discern the truth, And the tongue of the stammerers will hasten to speak clearly. No longer will the fool be called noble, Or the rogue be spoken of as generous. For a fool speaks nonsense, And his heart inclines toward wickedness: To practice ungodliness and to speak error against the LORD, To keep the hungry person unsatisfied And to withhold drink from the thirsty. As for a rogue, his weapons are evil; He devises wicked schemes To destroy the afflicted with slander, Even though the needy one speaks what is right. But the noble man devises noble plans; And by noble plans he stands. Rise up, you women who are at ease, And hear my voice; Give ear to my word, You complacent daughters. Within a year and a few days You will be troubled, O complacent daughters; For the vintage is ended, And the fruit gathering will not come. Tremble, you women who are at ease; Be troubled, you complacent daughters; Strip, undress and put sackcloth on your waist, Beat your breasts for the pleasant fields, for the fruitful vine, For the land of my people in which thorns and briars shall come up; Yea, for all the joyful houses and for the jubilant city. Because the palace has been abandoned, the populated city forsaken. Hill and watch-tower have become caves forever, A delight for wild donkeys, a pasture for flocks; Until the Spirit is poured out upon us from on high, And the wilderness becomes a fertile field, And the fertile field is considered as a forest. Then justice will dwell in the wilderness And righteousness will abide in the fertile field. And the work of righteousness will be peace, And the service of righteousness, quietness and confidence forever. Then my people will live in a peaceful habitation, And in secure dwellings and in undisturbed resting places; And it will hail when the forest comes down, And the city will be utterly laid low. How blessed will you be, you who sow beside all waters, Who let out freely the ox and the donkey.”

[Isaiah 32:1-20 NASB]

Do not abandon Hope.  When the time is right, and Evil has had its season, the Truth of these words will be made manifest and will come to you to bring you Salvation from the wicked oppressors and powers unseen that rule and reign over these lands.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the men of old gained approval. [Hebrews 11:1-2 NASB]

Keep the Faith.  Though the darkness is deep, the morning is coming.

*Scene 08* 1:57 (Hindered)

Deep below the rising hill, in a burrowed chamber of pitch-blackness, the monstrous creature that had breached the worlds and had entered the Mid-World following the Surface Worlders, raged and thrashed in the darkness. Rocks and debris crackled and chinked as its massive body cut and scraped along the tunnel it had made. Its furious forward digging had come to an end. Its powerful ramming and thrusts, and iron-like claws had no effect on the rising curve of stone that now blocked its path. It had reached the accursed land horn.  The anchor that could neither be uprooted nor torn asunder.  It would have to surface and expose itself to the light.  And doing so would risk giving an awareness to the one it pursued.

Its tenuous hold upon the one called to lead, the one it pursued from between the world of the Surface and this Mid-World was growing weaker.  It sensed that the other who had barely slipped through its grasp on the beach was becoming more of a problem.

“The child,” its voice rumbled from below, each word accompanied by a flash of electric light arcing from within a pool of striated blue, lit up the darkness, silhouetting a massive horned-head bristling with silver spikes.

“You must hinder the child.”

Above, a quiet voice answered the distant beast rumbling its commands from below, “I know. I shall.”

The repondent whispered voice was aged and tremulous, characteristically that of an older woman.

*Scene 09* 5:46 (Being Read)

Standing in the hush of the Golden Letters we watched as the text splintered into personal messages to each of us.  It was then that, incredibly, I realized that we weren’t just reading the words that appeared upon the face of the Stone, but that the Stone itself was reading us and communicating to us.  It had been so long, I had forgotten.

My imagining of the words of Dante over the portal of Hell to “Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Enter Here” had been met with The Stone’s response “Do not abandon Hope”–followed by the Ancient Text’s reminder of what Faith is.  That message was personal to me. And clarifying.

I had thought that our role here was to be observers only.  To take note and measure the journey and the stories we encountered in our travels, to somehow find the virtue stone and complete the quest I had betrayed.  I had thought this journey required stealth and secrecy.  To raise no alarm as we kept to the shadows and stole back what was lost to the horned monster in the dark forest.

To avoid Xarmian entanglements.  To avoid the piracy and smuggling that had once been necessary to aid and assist those willing to resist the subversive kingdoms that were vying for the power and place that the Stone once held in the cultural center of this Mid-World.

But I was wrong.  Passivity may seem to be a safe course in a world filled with dangers, but it is not what we were called here for, and deep down I knew it.  Felt it.

Something was already alerted to our entry into The Mid-World.  Something deep and dark.  Angry and threatening.  It follows us, in every step we make forward, though it moves in large part unseen.

But with the encounter of the Troll, I knew that was not where it would end.  As vile and as cruel as that creature was, it failure to report back to whomever it served would bring others.

The Mid-World was a war zone.  And I knew that we may be forced into the fight to gain our passage through it.

Sometimes when it comes down to it, you must be willing to do whatever it costs to uphold the good. To preserve and protect and defend it even if it cost you the ultimate sacrifice to do it. The Ancient text says:

35 And He said to them, “When I sent you out without money belt and bag and sandals, you did not lack anything, did you?” They said, “No, nothing.” 36 And He said to them, “But now, whoever has a money belt is to take it along, likewise also a bag, and whoever has no sword is to sell his coat and buy one. 37 “For I tell you that this which is written must be fulfilled in Me, ‘AND HE WAS NUMBERED WITH TRANSGRESSORS’; for that which refers to Me has its fulfillment.” [Luke 22:35-37 NASB]

Some journeys require only simple provisions. And others may require a sword.

Beforehand we needed only simple provisions, but now it’s different.

The weight of that knowledge threatened to keep me silent, but that would be unfair.  I could feel the warmth of The Stone arising within me.  A taste of something sweet arose in my mouth, which I knew would be bitter in telling and consumption of it.

“We are going to need to learn to fight.  We will need more than just food and supplies.  We will need weapons and armor.”

I had spoken of this to Begglar, and as I glance toward him, he nodded in agreement.

“I had expected as much.  We have a hidden cache from collected over time from the armory and I think you’ll find all that we need.”  He then added, “The lassies took the only two traveling stock I have on hand besides these wagon horses.  We will need more horses, and the only supply in the area are from the soldier’s stables, but that place is heavily guarded.  I have made contacts with the Lehi riders working with the resistance.  They have agreed to cover for us if we move towards the stables and will fight for us to subdue the guards, but so far no overt action has ever been taken on that stockade or its paddocks.  If the Lehi move against it, Xarmni will learn of it.  They will know the resistance still has a presence here in the outerlands.”

“What are you saying?”

“So far, my family and I have only assisted you in your plans, which would merit us a severe reprimand, if found out.  But what we’re about to do, in Xarmnian minds rises to the level of treason for which there is but one penalty. Death for me and my family. If we do this, I need to know that you are committed to seeing this through.”

The others began to assure him of their sincerity, but Begglar shook his head. “I wasn’t talking to you folks. I was talking to him.”

And in case there was doubt in anyone’s mind, his finger was pointing straight at me.

*Scene 10* 2:30 (Conspirators)

Two figures lingered in the darkness, outside of the chamber ahead that housed The Marker Stone.

They refrained from moving towards the innermost chamber when they saw the golden light shining around the dark corner of the buried corridor.

Three days they had waited on the beachhead of the eastern sea. Three days while the Occulus had swirled hundreds of yards from the sea shore.  Light bending around its vertical ring. Sea foam rising from the swelling sea then spraying outward as the water eclipsed its ominous threshing wheel of turning.  Before the hired mercenary had delivered them to the site, they had not understood the danger of their mission, nor what these interloping Surface Worlders might be like.  Their job had only been to see and observe and report back to the factions within the underground network of The Resistance.  To blend in and act as one of them for as long as that might last.  Once their duty was done, their families would be taken to a safe place beyond Xarmnian reach.

It was agreed among the more cautious faction of the Resistance that “The Stone quests” were dangerous.  They offered Mid-Worlders only a fool’s hope, but exacted a dangerous toll.  Outsiders could not be trusted with the pursuit of legends, however mysterious the Ancient Stone might be.

“Tobias was afraid of this,” a male voice in the darkness said in a low whisper, “This Mister O’Brian will bring the Xarmnians down on our heads.”

“What are we to do?” a female voice responded.

“We cannot let them stir them up,” the male said, urgency rising in his tone, “If we see an opportunity to slow this group down, we take it.  It may be harsh, but what is a stake is far too dangerous to let these Surface Worlders meddle in it and them return to their own world and leave us with the consequences.”

“How will we know when the time is right?”

“We wait and go along.  There will be something. We just have to watch for it.”

*Scene 11* 16:15 (Storm Shelter)

“We’ve gotta take cover,” Christie said as the wind rose in strength, gusting down into the valley, whipping through the bulrushes growing wild along the nearby stream.

“What’ll we do with the horses?” Laura asked, trying to raise her voice over the hiss of the wind.

Christie gestured ahead, “Follow me.  I noticed a structure around the bend when we were leaving the other day.  This vine-covered cabin is just part of this homestead.  That old ruined garden had to have been plowed, rather than just hoe cut. These rural places almost always have at least one or two cows or goats. There’ll have to be a place for where they were kept.”

Laura and Christie gathered their reigns and led their antsy horses around the hill-cut cabin, past the grotto where they had camped a few days before into a cruck house structure built into the hill-recess.  The long, open-front enclosure appeared to be the crumbling remains of an old sod-bricked stable patched with waddle and daub plaster with a dusty manger and a series of open troughs and short stalls for feeding a small group of livestock.  It was clear the rudimentary stable had not housed a domesticated animal in many years.  The straw was dried and grey and crumbled under the feet of the horses as the two women led them into the stalls, but it was still dry in there and formed a crude windbreak from the storm gathering strength outside.

Old boards, with blackened patches of dry-rot, creaked and clattered with an irregular staccato as the wind whistled through the breaks and gaps in the plastered wall and woven thatch.  An old crossbeam cut from a dried log creaked and groaned as the atmosphere grew heavy and seemed to press down on the old arthritic skeleton of the structure.   The horses neighed and rumbled their displeasure, and the women rubbed them, trying to soothe them as best they could.

“Woah. Woah, easy girl,” they whispered.

“Give them something to eat. They’re scared. We’ve gotta keep ’em calm. Can’t have them running off in the storm. There should be something in the packs.”

Christie busied herself with getting the horses into the stalls turning them away from the flash of the storm outside and pulling the old gate slats through the stall-fence support beams to keep them secure.  The structure was old and if the horses spooked they were more than capable of getting out.

Begglar and Nell had provided the women with an oat bag for each of their horses and gave them a pouch of a kind of molasses and grain baked biscuits to reward them with a treat the horses were particularly fond of.

“I’m scared too,” Laura said, digging through the saddle bags, at last locating the wrapped horse biscuits.

Thunder rumbled and cracked in explosive concussions, punctuated with blinding flashes that paled all surfaces inside and outside the cruck house stable. The horses twitched, and their felt skin trembled, as the girls stroked their muzzles and hand fed them the hard biscuits, speaking soothing and soft words to them.  Somehow the action of calming the animals, helped calm them as well, in spite of the storm.

“How long do you think it’ll be before that storm passes?” Laura asked, trying not to raise her voice in such a way that would affect the horses.

Christie squinted out at the darkening sky and blowing bits of grass and straw as they whipped by carried by the gusts that shuddered the bones of the structure sheltering them and their animals.

“I don’t know, but that wind is moving pretty fast. I can smell the salt in the wet air, so I am sure this is coming from the sea beyond those hills. Whoever built this stable has neglected it a long time, but it was smart to build it in the brow of the hill. I don’t think it would have lasted this long, if it hadn’t been. Especially, if these kinds of storms are common.”

“What do you think happened to the man we saw the other night? The one in the cabin,” Laura clarified.

“I really don’t know. That cabin does not look like it has been lived in for an awfully long time. He could have been a squatter, sheltering for the night. O’Brian didn’t seem too concerned about him. In fact, he seemed to want to change the subject, every time one of us brought him up.”

“Do you think he knew him? Perhaps recognized him from sometime before?”

“Not sure. We really don’t know that much about Mr. O’Brian. There seems to be many things he’s keeping back from us. Perhaps he has his reasons. But I really don’t like it when men keep too many secrets.”

“Yeah,” Laura agreed, thoughtfully considering her personal experiences with men other than the mysterious and inscrutable, Mr. O’Brian.

The air had grown moist as drops of rain began to unpack themselves from the roiling dark clouds and plink and hiss as they fell. A mist arose from the distant river, creating a low-lying fog that spread along the ground and crawled up the riverbanks weaving its way into the tall grass. Fat drops of rain fell through the patchworked ceiling, spattering the women in their hair and running rivulets down their cheeks and neck as they tried to talk through the pelting hiss. Anything to take their mind off the raging storm.

Christie adjusted the horse’s bridle, removing the bit so the animal could eat.

“So tell me about what life is like for you, back…y’know.”

Laura sighed.

“Not much different than many others, I guess. Broken home, parents divorced. O’Brian didn’t tell you any of this?”

“Nope. And I didn’t ask. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you wouldn’t want my hearing it from others. Besides, didn’t we just say O’Brian was a secretive man?”

Laura laughed, “Yeah, I guess we did. I just wasn’t sure he was a man to keep my secrets.”

“Well, I guess we can’t fault him for doing that, can we?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m not pressing you to tell me anything, understand,” Christie said, “Just whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“Oh, I know,” Laura shrugged, “Guess there is not much else to do except wait out this storm.”

“Might as well.”

“Well, here goes, but remember, you asked for it.”

“That’s alright. Shoot, I’ve always been a good listener. You’ll see.”

“Well, my mom and dad, from what I heard, used to be socialites. Dad had been quite successful back in the days before I came along. Mom was the eye-candy. Shopping, fancy cocktail parties, social bee, y’know the type. Daddy had always been the stronger of my two-parent household. The dominant and ambitious one, gregarious to a fault, often funny, mostly a good-natured leader in the family, before the job loss, and long days following seemingly endless unemployment and the subsequent drinking changed him.

“I had often wondered what life would have been like if I had gone with my father that night he left us for “the floozy”. Before mom began to fall again into the final footsteps dad had taken the last leadership in. The path towards chemical dependency, the social drinking that became the hidden alcoholism, and ultimately the breakdown and utter devastation of our once traditionally-modeled family.

“Mom took longer at it, but she grew to resent and later despised me. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year.

“I think if I had gone with him that night, I wouldn’t be such a timid and fearful person as I am now. I might’ve even chosen to stay here with you guys, in spite of the troll.

She laughed hollowly.

“Daddy always said, ‘Life deals you blows, little-girl.‘ He always called me “little-girl” when he had what he thought of as fatherly wisdom to impart.

“‘Life’ll deal you blows, Little-girl. But you got to see ’em as opportunities to get what is yours. If it hits you. You hit back harder. Turn the situation around. Get what is yours to get out of it, and walk away like you don’t care. You gotta toughen up, pumpkin. Suck those tears in. Don’t give’em an in to see that they rattled you.’

“But all that was before. When life dealt him a blow, he failed to take the advice he’d given me.  It is easier to tell a child what to do than to show a child what should be done.

“Dad and I still talk on the phone from time to time. He always calls on my birthday, so somewhere inside, I think he still cares about me.”

She took a breath, and huffed, “I can forgive the horrible things he said.”

“It was just the alcohol talkin’,” she forced an embarrassed laugh, feeling the need to give it a, somewhat, mitigating explanation.

“I know that now,” she added in a whisper, barely audible.

She sighed heavily and looked over at Christie, “I think I would have been better off if I’d gone with him that night. It was rough having them splitting up like that, but mom’s turning was worse somehow. She was jealous of me, I think. Wishing she’d aborted me.”

Then with a note of bitterness, added, “Said so, often enough.” Staring vacantly off, “And she was often cold sober when she said that.”

A long silence followed and then, Laura continued.

“Mom took a long time to get over what happened. She tried working but never could stick with a job long enough. I went to work after school and on weekends. Didn’t make much, but we managed to barely squeak by. I think mom, resented me even more after that. I coulda let her starve for being such a..”

Laura blushed, refraining from saying the word that she would normally have spit out, but sighed and said, nonchalantly, “I’d catch her going into my purse to get money at night. I pretended I didn’t know what she was doing. Faked ignorance. Waiting for the second until I could legally rent my own place and get away. She was clearly drinking up the money she stole, but it kept her outta my hair. She drank in private, thinking I didn’t know.”

Christie had been following Laura’s story but also watching the storm outside of the stable. It had not abated and was only growing stronger.  The temperature was dropping and she could feel the pressure rising.  She knew if they waited too much longer the storm would worsen and they might be trapped without the opportunity to stay warm or dry.  She could wait no longer, but she did not want to alarm Laura.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can you hold that thought for a moment and do me a favor?” Christie asked.

“Sure,” Laura nodded.

“Keep the horses company while I check out the cabin. Y’know to see if there is a light in the window.”

“You’re going out there?!” Laura’s voice rose in alarm, and the horse wagged its head from side to side, responding to her tone.

“Shhh!” Christie warned, “I am just going to check the cabin. I’ll be back in a minute. If the man showed up, perhaps he will give us some shelter ’til this passes. If not, there might be something we could use inside to start a fire in the fireplace. Get dry and warm up a bit.”

“Don’t be long, please.”

Christie smiled at her and nodded as she rose to leave, “I won’t. Keep the horses calm as you can.”

“Christie!” Laura called, stopping her.

“What?” she turned, her hand on the stable posts, bracing herself before plunging out in the driving winds and pelting rain.

“Thank you for coming with me. I know you didn’t have to. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here and I got caught out in all this alone.”

She nodded at Laura reassuringly, and said, “Be right back.”

Christie dove into the wind and felt the sharp tingling impacts of horizontal rain. Each of the myriad darts of water pinning her T-Shirt to her body and saturating her blue jeans with drilling cold. Grit and straw blew into her face raking against her skin as she tried to move against the gusts that threatened to blow her over.

This might be a bad idea, she thought as she fought and stumbled her way forward, trying to lean against the gale and block her face from the stinging wet. But she had to try. If there was any help or supplies to be had, it might be found in the cabin at the far end of the small hill.

There was no sign that the storm was abating anytime soon. From the look and feel of it, it seemed to be gathering strength which did not bode well for the long hours ahead. The time to check the cabin was now or lose any opportunity until the storm passed over.

As she trudged past the grotto, leaning forward, fighting through the gale force winds, she raised her eyes, sheltering them with her hands to look ahead and not lose her bearings.

What met her gaze was a disturbing, nightmarish sight: Things that appeared to be long tendrils stretched out from the front of the cabin, twisting in the wind like the grasping fury of an angry squid attacking some invisible boat of fishermen. Not sure what she was seeing was real, she froze for two heartbeats, and then swiftly ducked back into the alcove.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, almost drowning out the sounds of the screeching winds. Her breathing was suddenly labored, coming in short gasps, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

Calm yourself, she struggled against the rising panic, It’s dark and stormy and the wind and rain make things appear not as they seem.

Closing her eyes, she counted quietly until her breathing deepened and came in more regular intervals. She gathered her courage and leaned out again, the wind pulling mercilessly at her long blonde hair.

Though she had tried to convince herself that what she thought she saw could not be, she knew that, in this strange place that Mister O’Brian referred to as The Mid-World, she had no degree of certainty anymore.

Laura was right. It would be hard staying here much longer if one did not understand more of the rules.

*Scene 12* 5:05 (As the Crowe Flies)

Further away, beneath the influence of the storm witnessed from a distance, wind-driven rain and a sleet-and-snow mix pelted the mounted Xarmnian patrol as they imperiously rode into the town of Crowe.  They had tracked the deserters to the edge of this little hamlet but were fairly confident that the general townsfolk would have shunned the man, his wife, and their children for the sake of their own. All except the Innkeeper and his wife. Their loyalty to the House of Xarm and their personal sense of self-preservation was still in doubt. They had given the man certain tolerances because of his past assistance, but it was known that the man was hiding something.  And that he had a son of age that had been overlooked for conscription into their armies.  The boy was very much alive, despite what the old man said to the contrary, but he had been useful to them so they did not press him further upon the matter.  But should the man be harboring these fugitives, all tolerance would be forgotten, and the dealings with him and his family would be severe indeed.

The Overwatch riders were dressed in molded and scraped-hide armor joined over a thick brigandine vest.  They wore thick woolen pants, sewn together with strips of tanned and molded hides, and their calves and feet were also bound and strapped with molded leather pieces joined in the form of crude boot wear.  The dark dried hides of their hardened helms and the furred edges of their cowled headgear, hid the glowering faces of the cruel men as they rode boldly through the muddied street, unimpeded.  Dark cloaks gathered, knotted, and affixed to the metal epaulets flowed from their thick brigandines,  draping their shoulders, and blanketing the tail and flanks of the powerful black horses upon which they rose.  Great gauntlets covered their hands as they rested one upon the hilt of a sword, sheathed along their hip and the other upon the pommel of their saddles, fisted with the reins guiding their mounts.

On prior occasions when the Overwatch had collected tribute from the village of Crowe, they would rouse the townsfolk from their thatched holes and expect them to present themselves for the inspection.  They made intimidating sport of any who they chose and hungrily looked over the women and young girls as if examining possible market-fare for an upcoming meal.

The humble and meager hovels made of rough-hewn timber and weathered shiplap barely concealed the cowering townsfolk as they peeked out from the shadows watching the dreaded riders waiting for the call that would force them out to stand shivering in the worsening weather. But no such call came.

Desperate to avoid being been sighted by the men, but conflicted and betrayed by their own morbid curiosity, then men watched these monsters approach and ride by their homes, each step away evoking an almost palpable relief, but also a growing sense of uncertainty.  This was unlike the Xarmnian Overwatch.

This time they merely rode silently through the gray main street, passed the town center, and then onward up the hill to the Inn where their Troll agent was last sighted.

The men and women of Crowe knew better than to show their faces, while the Overwatch rode their streets.  Their children were nowhere present, either behind the crack of a door or the pane of a fractured window, for the parents feared they would be snatched and taken back to the dark stone city if ever seen.  The last child these cruel men had taken had been casually pitched down a deep well, while their parents begged the heartless men to be allowed to let down the rope and dipping pail to save them.  The couple was held under the blade of a sword until the child ceased splashing and struggling and finally drowned.

When the dark horsemen approached the courtyard where the Inn lay, they called out to occupants they expected to be inside.  When no response came and no movement stirred from within, the lead rider dismounted, unsheathed his sword and strode angrily toward the doorway of the Inn.
“The old fool will bleed for this,” he growled, “Check the barn and stables.  Kill anything there that dares to draw breath.”

*Scene 13* 26:21 (Names Upon The Stone)

A wall of skulls gazed hollow and vacantly at me bathed in the shimmering golden light of the illumined words.  Before me the members of my Surface World travelers stood looking expectantly, unaware of the grisly wall behind them.  Begglar gazed at me unwavering, his visage stern and warning me not to succumb to fear or evasion.

I knew I could no longer escape what I had hidden and buried in shame and denial.  Not in this place.  The site of the Ancient Marker, now buried under a mound of martyrdom was not a place where lies persisted.  The judgment of the dead witnesses, represented in the bone-mortared wall, put me on the stand before their martyrdom.  Despite this, I felt the fear and shame rising within me, threatening to strangle my words from ever leaving my throat or crossing the threshold of my tongue and lips.

But with the fear and dread came the words of the Ancient Text again in my memory from Exodus 4:11–the words The One spoke to Moses when he too attempted to evade God’s calling and cloak himself in his own human inability.

An inner voice resonated within me asking, “Who gave human being’s their mouths?”

Backlit by the resonant letters, feeling the words surge through me live a wave passing out of The Marker Stone I suddenly felt the urge to remove my shoes, for the ground upon which I stood was the sacred abattoir of much slaughter.

“A blood more precious than these, has equipped you to bear My message. Sacraments and acts of abeyance profit little if you do not bare your feet on the Holy Ground I have cleansed within the Temple of your own Heart. Give ear to My Words. Your past deeds must be released into Me, by open confession.”

Though deep within its entombment of bloodied earth, under moldering skulls and pillars of rock, the words on the Ancient Marker Stone imbued with persisting Life and Power, undid me, stripping away all I had clung to concerning my own qualifications and abilities.  The only thing left to me was to follow The One’s prompting by openly confessing and acknowledging what I had done twenty-one years before in a previous company of travelers.

Begglar is right.  Though he confessed to me in private, he was not called to lead these The One had brought here, but I was.  With that responsibility, came an even greater accountability and an urgency of the moment was upon me.  Now is the time.

If Begglar moved ahead with us, he would be risking everything to do so.  There would be no going back to living unrecognized under the nose of the Xarmnian Overwatch.  The effrontery of having done so this far would bring particular outrage from the High Council of Xarm, and the Son of Xarm himself.

If memory served, the self-styled monarch of Xarm could not abide ridicule, for it penetrated his own sense of self-worth.  He was held prisoner to perception even as I was and still am.

Begglar and his family would be hunted down, mercilessly tortured, and executed publicly to serve as a brutal example to anyone considering defiance of Xarmnian authority.  The Xarmnians had done it before, much to my shame and nightmarish memory.  It had precipitated my abandonment of this Mid-World and the remaining members of my former company.  In so doing, I thought I was protecting them by leaving them to complete the quest I had betrayed with Jeremiah’s brother, Caleb.

Begglar has counselled me against it, but I could not be persuaded otherwise.  I had believed the threat of The Pan, and in so doing, had enabled his threat to come to fruition.

Begglar deserved an answer.  His courageous risk was standing upon the threshold, to pass through or turn back depending upon my response.

The confines of the burial chamber, for such it was, began to close in around us.  I knew my revelation would shock and disturb several of my traveling companions, and that this might very well be the moment we all parted ways.

Under the glowing light of the mysterious golden letters, I urged everyone else to come into the antechamber where The Marker stood and form a semi-circle around me facing the exposed face of The Stone Marker.  My breathing was growing labored, and I could feel my heartbeat rising and hear the pulse of my blood throbbing in my temples.  I felt something deep underground tug at me with an almost physical force that nearly made my knees buckle.

I cleared my throat and spoke again, “This is the place where confession is made.  This is the place where we must prepare for warfare…and I must confess and tell you truthfully who it is you are traveling with.” I eyed each of them carefully and then continued, “And that the danger that threatens this land is heighted now because of me.  My actions.  Seven from our prior company of fourteen Surface Worlders are now dead because of it.”

“Nine.” Begglar corrected, “And three of them died and are entombed here upon this very spot.  Well, what is left of them is, anyway.  Their skulls are here. Missing their jawbones.”

“And the others?”

“Four have remained here, including myself.  At least that I know of.”

“Why?”

“You very well know why.  Because we have given our names to this quest.  The Stone bears our names upon it, engraved for every Xarmnian and enemy of The Stone and its prophecy to read and hunt for us.  It is the primary reason, I was willing to have this covered up.”

That knowledge sent me reeling.  I felt the fear rising again.

Something powerful and strong seemed to be inside my head twisting and squirming like some alien tentacle frantically seizing upon my thoughts and mind to keep me from doing what I was about to.  Fears and self-doubt assaulted me, warning me, threatening me to keep silent, but I could not.  I had the odd feeling that I was being watched by large eyes from someplace deeper underground, seeing me through both an obsidian eye and a glacier blue eye.  I again smelled the scent of briny salt, and a sickly sweetened odor of decay and something akin to that of rotten fish.  Smells I had recognized upon arriving on the beach, but easily dismissed being under a burial mound of earth, flesh, and bones.  My mind churned with panic and confusion, and my legs felt as if they would no longer hold me up.  The ceiling of the cave seemed to press down upon me, almost crushing me in mind and spirit.

I stood silent, with my back to them for a moment, attempting to gather up the courage but failing.  I swayed on my feet, trying to keep my knees from buckling under me.  I stared up at the illumined letters, knowing that this confession was what I needed as much as anyone else in my company needed from me now.  And in looking upon the letters, the din of my inner turmoil began to fade.

I cleared my throat and turned again to them, “There is a reason, I’ve brought you all here before this hidden monument.  I knew we had to come here before going any further into the Mid-World.  This is the place of beginnings.  I knew you each had to see it to believe, as I once did.”

“The golden words you see upon this buried rock are living words.  They have a power in them and bear a promise to the faithful, and a condemnation to the wicked.”

“When I left this country before, this Marker was not buried as it is now, as we have said.  Rather, it was abandoned and ignored.  According to Begglar, only in more recent years has it become the site of such indignities and slaughter.  This is not because of The Stone itself, but because of the darkness within the inhabitants of this world and ours.  Those who have been made rulers and monarchs here, because the seats of power were left vacant and undefended.”

“What does all this have to do with you?” one of the listeners asked.

“I was originally part of an entrusted company of travelers as you are, tasked with the finding and delivering one of the virtue stones to the crown gate in the high mountains.  The quest failed because of a betrayal and a division of leadership.  When that company fell apart and disbanded, I tried leading a counterforce here in its wake, that was hunted, ambushed, and eventually driven out of this world.  I became discouraged and abandoned the quests entirely and have spent many years away, thinking I would never be allowed to return here and afraid of ever coming back.  For twenty-one years, I was solely absorbed in the affairs of my own life in the Surface World, until a few days ago.”

“The summoning came through to me again, shaking up my life in the Surface World and showing me that I couldn’t remain away from my calling here without it disrupting everything in all worlds.  Nothing lasting can be built without settling the foundational issues of existence.  The reason I have been called back here is because of this,” I gestured to the stone behind me.  “This Rock of Remembrance compels me to complete the journey I committed to back then.  This landmark pillar is called The Marker Stone because it has marked me.  This is the Ebenezer Stone of Creation.  It anchors all existence to it.”

A teen girl interrupted, “What’s an ebby-sneezer?”

One of the other boys answered, “Like Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol,” and a few of them tried to laugh, but the scene and the ethereal light of the letters, made them feel very uncomfortable doing so.

“Ebenezer.  It is a Rock of Remembrance.  A Stone of Help,” I answered quietly, “The Ancient Text speaks of it symbolically, but in this world, we perceive it as a Stone that cannot be marred or destroyed by the hand, tooth or claw of men or beasts.”

“This Indestructible Stone is the reason why these lands of the Mid-World exist.  This Marker Stone holds the key and bears the words of the Prophecy of this Land upon its polished surface.  It is the Axel upon which all wheels turn.  This Stone was also called The Land Horn, because the ancient nomadic people, herdsmen who kept flocks of goats and sheep, who first came to this land symbolized strength and authority using the figure of a ram’s horn.”

“They saw the power of rams, fighting to establish herd dominance and authority, using the striking power of their mighty horns.  When a ram died, they collected the horns of these powerful animals and made blowing instruments from them.  A ram’s horn was given to each family patriarch, and the head of each family would blow through their ram’s horn symbolizing a call of authority to rally their family to come to them and assemble before them for celebrations, feasts and for a call to war when faced with a threat.”

“The power and authority of this land, this Mid-World, was once anchored around communal gatherings at this prominent site upon the highlands.  The Stone itself is foundational to this land.  It is the core stone of every mountain here, and is the same type of stone that forms the mantle of the earth as we know it back in the Surface World.”

“Legends tell that at the base of this Stone, there once were three fist-sized gemstones.  A bluestone of brilliant sapphire lit with a cool inner fire called The Praesporous Stone.  A blood-red stone, like a massive ruby also with a red throbbing fire within called The Cordis Stone and a white pearlescent stone, like a perfect pearl formed from within the heart of the deep sea, called The Fidelis Stone.  At the top of this Marker Stone there once was a massive circlet, woven through with veins of the purest gold, that was almost translucent.  The circlet was a crown, and in it were three concave place-settings intended for the three large stones.  The three gemstones were cast down upon the ground but were intended to be restored back to their place-settings, but mankind lusted after them and longed to keep them for themselves to make themselves powerful, wise, and kings in their own right.  But a mutual distrust, made them agree to leave them here untouched and return to the site each year to see that the agreement was honored.”

“The crown was too large to rest upon the brow of any of them, but the stones were small enough to possess, and from the representative division of each were formed three kingdoms to rule these lands.  The Old Kingdom comprised of the earliest settlers from the Ancient World, the Eastern Kingdom, and the Western Kingdom.  The latter two Kingdoms by a series of conquest and overthrow eventually became what is today known as Xarmni and Capitalia.”

“Also at the base of the Marker stone, just peeking out of the ground around it were twelve conical stones, seemingly formed of both iron and granite.  These were called The Builder Stones, and it was learned that these had incredible power to lift up and tear down massive earthworks.  These were also divided up and taken by the tribal families and were used to clear the land and build the large cities of the Mid-World.  All of this was done over time.  For at the beginning, it was the Words written upon the Stone that held the most fascination to the travelers.  For each person saw them written in their own native language.  The words were a collective charge to the inhabitants of this gifted land, but also contained personal messages to each one who read them.”

“The words that you see here, upon the Marker Stone’s surface, are not always the same, though these words do recur from time to time.”

“The peoples of the ancient times honored this place and The One who had caused this Marker to rise from underneath its grounds.  The Marker is a rib of stone, that extends downward underground at an angle.  It is partially buried in the flesh of this Mid-World, but it is also buried in the flesh of the world from which we all come.  This Rib of Stone represents in a symbolic and real sense the formation of a Bride, for as the Ancient Texts recounts in the story of the first creation how the gift of a suitable companion was given to the first man, in the separation of a rib taken from his side and fashioned into a woman for him to love, honor as the gift of God and to cherish and provide for all of his days.  To be his companion and confidant in life and to join with him in rule over the earth.  The Mid-World is the companion to the physical Surface World–Its echoing existence.  Similar to it but different as well.  This exposed rib of stone represents that same relationship of companionship between the Surface World as we know it and the Mid-World as we are experiencing it now.”

“This place and all you see around you is a manifestation of the meta-physical joining between the physical body and the spirit, a link between the natures of both.  You, I and all of these gathered are here in a realm representative of the human heart and soul of a person who is in this company.  You have heard of a joining of hearts?  Well, this place is a nexus representing that very concept, but as a physical representation of it. Each of you has been called here for a reason. To join together here in this Mid-World plagued with the ravages of blight, warring kingdoms, and philosophies, and very real supernatural monsters bent on destroying this land and subduing it, so that it cannot thrive and allow the promised Kingdom to prevail and manifest itself outward into the physical Surface World from which we have come.”

“The words you see upon this Stone behind me are real and immutable.  They come from an Ancient Text written through fifteen centuries of human history, all compile into one Holy Book that has stood the test of time and has origins from a source outside of time for within it are prophecies given and prophecies fulfilled and prophecies yet to be fulfilled.  The Words you read upon this Stone come from the prophetic passages attributed to King David, the Prophet Isaiah, and the Apostle Paul to the Hebrews.  These words are not bound by the times and situations of earth history but are applicable to all places and times through which we move.  They are messages of guidance from The One Who Created All Things and Places and gives them their being.  And these are the words which I will share with you on our journey forward as they are spoken through my heart and memory.  I did not understand it before when I first came to this land, but these gifts of recalling the Ancient Text words are a gift given to the person given the task of leading a Stone Quest.”

Bathed within the golden light of the letters upon the Marker Stone, I could tell that those in my charge were having a hard time discounting what I was telling them, though I could tell for many it was a struggle.

A woman, seemingly in her early thirties, a brunette with long-shoulder length hair, and large, hazel-eyes that smoldered with the golden hearth fire of the illumined letters, spoke up, “Where are the other stones that were here before?  The large gemstones and crown you spoke of?”

“They were taken,” I replied, quietly, “And the crown was stolen and carried into the mountains far ahead of us.”

“Who stole them?” another man asked.  Speaking louder, with a degree of alarm rising in his voice.

“I will get to that all.  But our focus, right here and now is on finding one of the three gemstones.  They are our part of the quests.  The bluestone, the great sapphire, has already been recovered long ago.  It is called the Praesperos Stone.”

“Praesperos Stone?!” another exclaimed, “What is that?”

“Praesperos comes from the Latin, it can be translated as Hope, but from it also comes our English word Prosper.”

“How do you know that the Praesperos Stone is safe?”

“I did not say it is safe, I only said it was recovered and has been placed where the other two stones belong.”

“And where is that?”

“It is in the Crown of Gold, embedded in a doorway crevice up in the great mountains beyond the Xarmnian empire and its conquered lands.”

“Yeah, but, how do you know it’s there?”

“Because I’ve seen it.  And the Crown bears words of the Promise given when the Hope Stone was placed within the Crown’s setting.  The Words showed up, revealed in the golden letters in the same fashion as you see here.  We memorized them because we did not have much time.  They read:

The Hidden Kingdom is within The Door of Stone.  All who shall come to these lands from among the Surface World must seek first to return the King’s Jewels to the Crown of Life. So that the Land Between them shall be healed, and strongholds of powers, principalities and rulers of darkness be pulled down, and witness the coming Light of The One who longs to dwell with mankind again and establish His Kingdom Without End.

“The Hidden Kingdom – that is what we call Excavatia.  A Kingdom of Hope that must be Excavated, brought out of the Burial Tomb.  It has been buried by rumors, consigned to legend, hindered by wars and power-seekers, immersed in corruption and its promise maligned by the hatred and evil of mankind.”

“But how do you know those words are connected to this Stone?”

“Because they also appear on the other side of the Marker Stone.  The side facing the mountains beyond it.  Along with something else.”

Here I paused, not wanting to say too much, but knowing that I could not prove what I told them unless we had time to dig around the back of the monolith and allow them to see the other side for themselves.  But, unfortunately, that side was buried under tons of dirt, bones, and rock.  Begglar had told me there were some places that could not be covered, and they were still open to the air around the top and that there were places on the Marker where no other stone or timber could be laid against.

At the top of The Marker Stone, under the cairn hill, there were engraved seven representations of eyes.  Almond-shaped symbols that encompassed and encircled the top of the place in which its golden crown once rested.  The seven eyes were representative of the seven oculus portals, said to be within the Mid-World, each pointing outward from the seven faces of the stone.

The side facing the Eastern Horizon of the Mid-World Lands, facing the hills and the distant sea and beachhead from which we had come, also could not be covered as it bore the words of the Ancient Text.

“Can we go back there to see?” a young man asked, “Is there a tunnel around to the back of it?”

Begglar shook his head, “That side is buried.  This was the only side we could not cover.  Nothing set against The Marker’s eastward face stays.  The Stone resists covering on this side, and no darkness hides the letters written there.  Many a man has tried and failed.  That is why we had to build this open chamber and set stone pillars above it to hold a ceiling to bear the weight of the hill.  There is unexplained power in the Stone.  One that even the dark ones fear.”

“What else is on the other side, that you claim bears the message you saw on the Crown in the Mountains?”

“Names,” I said, almost in a whisper.

“What?”

“Names, laddie,” Begglar said, with more volume than I.

“The names of every Surface Worlder, who volunteers to join in the quest for the Crown Stones.”

“We have to volunteer?  I thought the very fact that we were brought here out of our Surface World lives, made us a part of this!” Cheryl spoke up.

Another interjected, “You’re only now telling us we have a chance to withdraw from this, whatever this quest thing is?

Before I could answer another jumped in, amid the rise of murmuring, “Did you volunteer for this? Does your name appear back there?!”

“Yes. Mine and those of us who came before.  Every Surface Worlder who commits themselves to seek to return the King Stones to the Crown in the Mountains, have their names appear on The Stone Marker.  The Stone Marks them.  Engraves their name forever upon its western surface.  Once the committed give their names in response to the Kingdom Calling, their names will appear there…and in the Crown itself.”

“That is why I have been hesitant to ask you all for your names.  I wanted to bring you all to see this Marker first.  You had to know something about what I know, before going further.”

*Scene 14* 4:40 (Brooding)

Nell had waited with the two young girls and the horses.

Young Miray sat in the far back end of the buck board wagon, her legs dangling off the back of the end gate swinging and kicking, humming to herself.

Nell locked the wheel pad lever, but young Becca sat next to her and occasionally swung her leg and shoe at the locking bar, as if she would like to give it a good whack and set it loose, allowing the team to jolt forward and give Miray a quick jolt and tumble off the back of the wagon.

Nell had tried to coax young Miray to come up and sit with her and Becca on the long bench seat at the front of the wagon, and she would teach both the girls how the wagon tracer reins worked, but Miray demurred, stating that she was perfectly happy back in the back.  She preferred boats, and wanted to imagine she was rowing one far away into the sea.

Becca seethed.

“She doesn’t like me,” she growled to Nell.

“Now you don’t know that, dearie,” Nell stated trying to sooth her temper.

“She hates me. She never liked me. Never gave me a chance. She’s a piglet!”

Miray went on humming as if she had not heard a thing, but Becca’s voice had raised to the volume with that last statement so that she would be sure to hear it.

Nell could see right away what Becca was trying to do, but she acted like she did not understand.

“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say.  Especially if you actually want her to like you, Miss Becca.”

“Nuts! Why would I care if a snotty…PIGLET…likes me!  Especially one that dotes along like a little snail after that Mister O’Brian.”

“Now what have ya got agin’, Mister O’Brian, now?” Nell coaxed.

“Nothing except he’s gonna get us all killed.  Bringing us to this…graveyard.  The creep!  He’s like the weird guy that hangs out in the kids’ park.  The kind that watches us play on the swings from the park bench, pretending he is reading something.”

“Now what kind of a talk is that from a wee gerl, I wonder?  What nonsense.”

“Sister, you have a lot to learn.  Where we come from, it’s just another day in the park.  Kids come. Kids go. Some make it home. So get cut up, bitten and buried in the bushes, by creepies like Mister O’Brian.”

Nell found herself at the juncture of a loss for words and in a boiling kettle of shock soup.  The girl was filled with a startling degree of cynicism and bitterness for someone so young.  Even living under the atrocities of the Xarmnians, she had never seen a child so morbid and tactiturn.  What little conversation she had been able to coax out of Becca had been laced with resentment and anger, a paranoia that had no clear explanation or source.

“Has someone tried to hurt you like that…before?” Nell ventured.

“What?! Me?!” Becca recoiled at the thought, “No! Never! Not without getting cut for it!” And something like a small smile played at the ends of her pressed lips, like she was reveling in a hidden thought.

Miray continued to hum, but a bit louder, as if oblivious to the two females who happened to be riding shotgun in her imaginary boat.

Suddenly, Becca turned and shouted, “Why don’t you shut up you little imbecile! You’re not fooling anybody!  I know what you’re doing!”

Miray did not turn but kept on humming as if she hadn’t heard a word.

Becca turned forward and kicked hard at the brake lever, but Nell leaned over and caught the post before it disengaged.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the gleam of a sinister look in the angry girl’s face, and noticed there was something familiar about it.

She had seen that look before.  Only the impression she had was a memory of someone she had know well a long time ago, and the person she was thinking of was not a little girl.