Steelheart (15 page)

Short lengths of log, each laid side by side with the next, had been used to construct a rough and ready road. The ice that formed a crust on the surface of the marsh, and filled the gaps between the tree trunks, snapped, crackled, and popped as the pilgrims passed over them, warning resident wildlife of their arrival.

Fliers, their numbers vastly reduced by the neverending winter, took flight now and then, wings beating on the frigid air.

There were other sounds too, like the crack of suddenly shattered ice, the chitter of an unseen animal, and the thud of Zid footfalls.

Bridges, many of which were enhanced by fanciful carvings, connected the islands. They grew steadily larger until an especially handsome span loomed ahead. Crono signaled for a halt, and the pilgrims gathered to receive instruction.

"Serenity lies just over the bridge. I have an errand to run—but you may proceed to the far side of the village where huts have been prepared for your use. Remember to store your grain in a warm, dry place."

The priest allowed his eye to roam the faces before him, spotted Solly's earnest gaze, and speared the youth with a long, bony finger. "Solly will lead you to the huts, take charge of the grain, and act in my place. Obey his orders as you would mine."

With that Crono was gone, leaving Solly to take charge.

Surprised by this turn of events, but determined to do a good job, Solly waved the pilgrims forward. "Come on, everybody! You heard Father Crono—we're almost there."

It was an innocent statement, no different from dozens uttered by Crono each day, but Crono was Crono, and Solly was Solly. A number of pilgrims took offense and started to grumble. And not just grumble, but speak loudly enough for Solly to hear.

"Who does he think he is?" a female demanded. "A bishop?"

"They're like that in Harmony," a male replied scornfully, "always flirting with the Devil."

"You may be more right than you know," a second female put in. "Mother Orlono's cousin is a friend of my daughter's. She says the loud-mouthed lad brought a plow to life. It could talk and quote the rotes. Father Crono ordered the elders to destroy the device as soon as we left."

The words came as a terrible blow to Solly, who believed his improvements had been blessed, and would help the village. Had the female lied? The part about the plow was absurd—but the rest rang true. Especially to the extent that it explained the heretofore unexplainable—why
he
had been granted a place in the pilgrimage and at no expense to his family. Brother Parly and the Elders had conspired to get rid of him.

Head down, shame riding his shoulders, the youth crossed the bridge. He had failed his parents, failed the village, and been sent away. Life would never be the same.

Father Crono paused by the side of the road, watched Solly wave the pilgrims forward, and knew how they would react. A smile rippled the length of his mouth. One of the best ways to treat an infection is to cauterize the wound. The results weren't especially pretty—but the patient would survive—and live to glorify God.

Satisfied that he had done the right thing, Crono stepped onto a swaybacked plank, and followed it toward a distant hut. Mother Zeleena was waiting ... and so was her news.

 

The hut occupied low ground—as befitted the status of those who dwelt within. It was cozy, though, and attractive, not because of luck or sharp dealing, but because of hard, unremitting work. The family sat in their usual places, with firelight on their faces and shadows dancing the walls.

Dara listened to the sound of metal grating on wood as her father carved a new vent plug, the rasp of reeds as her mother repaired a fish trap, and the occasional
pop
as a superheated rog nut exploded deep within the friendly embers.

This was to be Dara's last evening with her parents, for a while at least, depending on what the future might hold. The very idea of the abortion filled the youngster with fear—but what could she do? Most of her friends would become pregnant at approximately eighteen years of age, an event that would signal their entry into adulthood and readiness for marriage. The ceremony would occur two months later, the relationship would be conjugated, and the fetus would be "quickened." It was a process that most if not all young females looked forward to.

The only problem was that Dara was sixteen—and too young for a pregnancy. Not in biological terms perhaps, but culturally, since it was well known that early pregnancies were the work of the Devil, and his way of introducing one of his demons into the physical world. The answer was an abortion, which would not only be painful but potentially fatal, since so many things could go wrong.

Still, horrible though an abortion might be, the other possibility was even worse. The resident monk, a fanatic known as Brother Org, was on a neverending hunt for heretics, slackers, and what he referred to as the "Devil's hands," by which he meant anyone who violated the rotes, failed to make tithe, or "played host to the Devil," a clear reference to situations such as hers.

Dara remembered the ceremony two years before, when a fifteen-year-old had been "purged" by fire, and how her screams had served as a counterpoint to Org's rantings and her family's desperate prayers.

The youngster knew that the sights, sounds, and smells she had experienced that night would forever be etched into her memory, and it had changed her perception of the world. It was a more complicated place now, in which the concept of good had many shadings.

Other monks, Brother Parly for example, took a more understanding approach, some going so far as to obtain medical assistance for the girl, or, if less sure of themselves, to at least turn their backs while the family dealt with the situation themselves.

Not Org, though, who saw such pregnancies not only as an affront to his office, but an opportunity to exercise the full extent of his powers.

All of which explained why Dara's mother and father had damned themselves to hell by concocting an elaborate escape plan.

Knowing that Brother Crono was due to pass through their village, they had volunteered their daughter for the pilgrimage, and created the means by which Dara could escape.

Brother Org, eager to deliver as many penitents as possible, had praised the family in church.

Now, with the pilgrims bedded down within Serenity itself, Dara dreaded the dawn. Her mother looked up and smiled. "Don't worry, dear, the whole thing will soon be over, and in the past. Now get some rest. You'll need energy for the journey ahead."

Dara bowed obediently, said her prayers, and went to bed. A bonfire lit her dreams—and the screams were hers.

 

In spite of the fact that Crono had been critical of Brother Parly's tendency toward self indulgence, he was even less fond of Brother Org's wild-eyed fanaticism, and he rose eager to leave.

The pilgrims were assembled by the time Crono arrived, chivied into place by an ever-obedient Solly, who further distanced himself from the flock with every order he gave. The youth had caught on by now, a fact made clear by the resentment in his eye, but was helpless to do anything about it. A realization about which Crono felt no emotions whatsoever. Unwanted growth must be pruned if the plant is to flourish ... and the farmer must make the cut.

The fact that there were five new faces in the group, each carrying a twenty-five-kol bag of dried fish or a bladder of fish oil, spoke well of Org's zeal but raised questions regarding his competency.
Why
were the monk's parishioners so eager to leave Serenity? Because they were filled with religious fire? Or because their monk was a despot?

It was an important question—and one that Crono would pursue with the bishop. Perhaps Org was better suited for a less visible role ... something that would teach the importance of humility.

The priest made a note in his diary, tucked the tablet away, and waved his staff. "You heard Solly! The road awaits! Onward for the glory of God!"

Brother Org looked disappointed, but if anyone else took note of the much-abbreviated morning prayer, there was no sign of it and the march began.

The village prayer caller had been ill for the last few days. He struggled to the top of the pole, croaked as best he could, and wondered if God could hear him.

Ostracized by his peers, and feeling rather sorry for himself, Solly took a position behind the newcomers. Four qualified as oldsters, but the fifth, an attractive female named Dara, was close to his age. She was pretty, to his eye at least, and somewhat mysterious. Why had she undertaken the pilgrimage alone? Especially when most of the youngsters, he being the obvious exception, were accompanied by a grandparent? And why, when setting forth on such a grand adventure, did she look so unremittingly glum?

Mysteries such as those demanded answers, and Solly, who had plenty of time to consider such things, was determined to discover them. He fell into step three pilgrims behind Dara, and waited to see what would happen.

 

The sun arced across the sky, pushed occasional shafts of light down through broken clouds, and settled into the west. Dara had walked the path from Serenity to Faith many times before—hut had never been so weary doing it. It was as if the fetus growing within her abdomen had leached the strength from her body.

Gradually, without meaning to do so, she slipped toward the end of the column and became one of the laggards. In spite of the fact that they were subject to blows from Crono's staff, and complained bitterly when such blows fell, most were unwilling to walk any faster.

The bladder of fish oil was a particular burden, far worse than she had imagined it would be, and impossible to get rid of. For the tithe, like the grain carried by others, had become the property of the Church, and as such was considered sacred.

The path started upward, the beginning of the long, hard climb into the hills above Faith. Dara felt dizzy, heard the
chink, chink, chink
of Crono's staff, and forced herself forward. It was then, as she waited for the blow to fall, that a hand touched her elbow. The weight of the bladder disappeared, and a voice spoke in her ear. "You look a bit tired ... let me take your arm."

Dara was an independent sort, who didn't
want
any help, but knew she needed it. She sent her eye to the far left-hand side of her face and saw the youth named Solly, the one nobody liked because he nagged them all the time, and was a student of the Devil.

He didn't
look
so bad, though, kind of nice in a rough sort of way, and had saved her from punishment. As for the Devil, well, who was she to criticize? Not with a demon growing in her belly.

Crono bowed politely on his way forward, wondered about Solly's motives, and assumed the worst. The lad fancied the lass and wanted some fun. Or did he? What if Solly were the genuine article? A true vessel of the Church? Such were rare, like gems found in a streambed, but all the more valuable for their scarcity. Time would tell.

Nightfall brought the pilgrims into the village of Faith, a once prosperous place, which in spite of the hard times caused by the weather still managed a cheerful facade, and was larger than Harmony or Serenity.

Having had a chance to rest for awhile, Dara offered herself as a guide. Solly was thrilled, and hurried to accept. He finished Crono's chores, took Dara's arm, and followed where she led.

The priest followed for a while, saw the twosome enter the church, and smiled approvingly. Satisfied with the activity that the youngsters had chosen, and eager to collect the local news, he turned into a side street, whacked a pair of mischievous ten-year-olds, and proceeded on his way.

Solly had never been in a full-fledged church before, and he was awed by its size and the feeling of solemnity that filled the triangular nave.

Of even more importance, however, to him anyway, was the Devil's altar. The youngster's body went through the movements expected of it—but his eye remained on the display. It was a good deal more complex than the one in Harmony, consisting as it did of a black box, a length of metal tubing, a ball-and-socket joint of the same kind that hordu had, another section of tubing, and a U-shaped construct that had no name. There was a click, followed by a whir, and the pincer closed.

Solly gave an exclamation of surprise and jumped back out of the way. Dara, who had seen the whole phenomenon before, stayed where she was. There was a chuckle as the local monk stepped out of the shadows. He was small, wore immaculate robes, and possessed enormous feet. They were bare despite the cold. A smile rippled down his mouth. "That's right, lad .. .jump back... or the Devil will bite."

Solly felt embarrassed, checked to see if Dara had laughed, and saw no indication that she had. Not outwardly, anyway.

They made their way forward, found places on the backless benches, and spent the next fifteen minutes in prayer. Or were supposed to anyway, but Dara was somewhat preoccupied, and Solly couldn't forget what he'd seen. Imagine! An arm that moved on its own! And a grasper.... What if one were able to construct a body to go with it? A body that could plow the fields?

Wondrous possibilities filled Solly's mind, caused his hearts to beat faster, and made his hands twitch. But for what? The Devil's work?

The Zid cross seemed to glow, to summon his eye, and Solly knew the horrible truth. The Devil had his soul—and planned to keep it.

 

A thick blanket of snow had accumulated during the night. It was beautiful to look upon, but hard to walk through, and Crono considered his options. He could hold the group in Faith, waiting for the weather to clear, or ignore conditions and push on through. He knew the first approach was the safest, but it was also the most expensive, and would place additional pressure on the city's already strained resources. Food reserves were growing thinner with each passing month, and the pilgrims were a burden—a fact that the local monk had made abundantly clear.

The priest scanned the sky, thumped the ground with his staff, and made the necessary decision. "Round 'em up, Solly, check their footgear, and secure those packs. The grain belongs to the Lord... and every bag will be accounted for."