One Great Year (11 page)

“Hurry!” Marcus urged, suddenly desperate to get himself and Theron safely on a boat. All around them the noise was deafening. Great trees were whipped like blades of grass, and they heard the loud crack and snap of breaking wood. Things were getting worse by the minute. Marcus and Theron were soaked to the skin now. As they neared the wharf, Marcus wondered if the structure could survive the anger and chop of the surf that was pounding it. He wondered how they could possibly get away safely. It was then that Marcus saw them: a steady stream speckled against the stormy darkness. All around him were drenched, determined Emissaries making their individual treks to the boats.

“A premonition,” he heard over and over as they neared one another. Marcus briefly wondered that he had not shared the vision, but knew that he hadn't needed it. He had witnessed the hideous reality, not some directive hallucination.

Ahead he could see Brown Elder and Red Elder frantically loading the boats, and he wondered where the other Elders were at that critical moment. Marcus was determined to tell White Elder what he had witnessed in the cavern before he embarked. Hunched against the towering tidal spray and burning wind, the horde of students jumped as a blinding flash tore open the angry sky and a lightning strike met the earth with a violent blow. Fire erupted instantly in a perfect line, separating the city and buildings from the beach and wharf. The ground began to shake, first gently like a mother soothing her child, but quickly becoming a violent rocking force.

A deafening thunderclap rolled, and calm rapidly became chaos as the citizens of Atitala panicked. A wall of fire rose magically, shielding the fleeing Emissaries from the frightened throng of Atitalans surging to join them at the water's edge.

“There is no fear in death. Remember, you are eternal,” a familiar female voice rang out. “This is a time of transition and transcendence. Join as One,” she continued, somehow audible above the violent wind and thunder. Marcus searched the landscape to find the source of the ministry and there, on the wrong side of the wall of fire, he saw White Elder.

The good leader was calling the faithful people of Atitala to her, soothing them and leading them in prayer. Marcus knew that he would never have a chance to inform White Elder of what he had witnessed, but he knew it didn't matter as he saw the buildings beginning to buckle and sway in the distance. The Earth's floor shifted and moaned as if a beast alive, and Marcus knew that it was.

White Elder stood calmly, hands and face lifted to the pouring sky, surrounded by a jumbled mass of men, women, and children. All of them meditating and praying, a steady beat and hum, glowing in the light of the massive fire that was unquenched by the torrential rains. Above them the Grid became visible, beautiful against the punishing sky.

Not all of The Atitalans chose to unite; some embraced their fear. The departing Emissaries were horrified to see many of their fellow citizens running desperately into the vicious fire, burning, screaming, unable to make it through and dying a most horrible death. They pushed, scratched, and screamed trying to overcome the storm, the tremors, and the fire and to make it to the loading boats. The Emissaries were helpless and distraught but continued purposefully to board the waiting vessels.

Marcus and Theron were getting close to the wharf when another voice cut through the roaring night.

“Help me!” it called. “Someone please help me!” Marcus heard the shouting. He and Theron were only a hundred yards from one of the launch points. Most of the massive reed boats had already departed. The ground continued to bend and shift; wind and rain beat down on the Emissaries. The waves crashed, pounding and rocking the boats.

“Help me please!” the voice called again. Marcus looked back just as Grey Elder, limping, broke through the tall grass. There were only moments left; he had to decide. Theron drove forward through the storm, and it was certain that she would meet their destination. They were only ten yards from the gangplank.

“Please, Marcus, help me!” Grey Elder called, limping faster toward the wharf. Theron trudged on, nearly there, and Marcus made up his mind. He let go of Theron's hand.

“I'll be right back, go on!” he said. She understood and lowered her head against the weather. He turned and sprinted back the hundred yards across the shaking ground to help the older man. He wrapped his arm under Grey Elder's own, and they turned back toward the boats. Theron stood on the bow of the ship, beaten by the rain, wind, and spray. She turned just in time to see them lift the gangplank, struggling in the brutal conditions to pull it in.

“No!” she shouted, running to stop them. “You have to wait, he's coming!” Her voice was lost in the storm and the reed boat was pulling away. Theron heard a voice, a powerful reminder within her that told her to remember her purpose, but her connection to Marcus was too overpowering and she was determined to stay with him. She instinctively sprinted to jump the three-foot gap over the water back to the wharf. She knew there was another boat; she and Marcus would take the last boat. Just as she leapt, a strong arm swung out to stop her. She was held from behind by the waist while she struggled.

“Let me go! I have to go back!” she shouted, but the grip was relentless and the gap between the wharf and the boat grew—five, twenty, a hundred yards—and a wave lifted and carried them beyond chance.

Marcus watched from the shore, running and fully carrying Grey Elder. The boat had pulled away and he had seen his Theron, first waiting and then running to come back to him. He had watched as she had collapsed, the boat too far to reach. Helghul held her snugly, not loosening his grip as she fell helplessly to her knees. From behind her he smiled triumphantly as Marcus charged the dock, releasing Grey Elder. Helghul watched his rival, who stood on the shore shouting, railing, arms outstretched uselessly reaching to sea, but his pain and anger were lost in the night.

Marcus watched as Theron's ship was tossed and carried farther away. He howled in anguish, and his heart exploded to pieces in his chest.

“I am so sorry, my son,” Grey Elder said. Marcus couldn't hear him, couldn't see, and couldn't fathom anything but his blinding pain.

She's gone! I've lost her
, he thought, unable to stem the tide of his grief. Grey Elder realized he must act quickly.

“This is the last boat, Marcus; you can find Theron when we reach our destination. We have to get on the boat, Marcus!” He continued to say his name and reassure him. “If she is on a ship you can find her when we land! Marcus, this is your only hope!” he bellowed. Grey Elder needed Marcus.

Robotically Marcus let himself be commanded, and he carried the Elder across the unstable wharf to the last remaining boat. They boarded just in time, and Marcus rushed to the deck, desperately searching the angry black horizon for Theron's vessel. His stomach was churning, and it was growing harder to breathe. Suddenly they rose atop a ten-yard wave and crashed hard against the breaking wharf. He saw another ship like his own in the distance. There on the deck he saw Theron. Another wave lifted them, and just before they fell from sight, Marcus made out Helghul next to her. Even through the dark storm he imagined the smug, gleeful smile on the man's face.

Marcus was out of his mind with grief and concern, but by necessity his thoughts were turned to survival. The ship was rocked by giant waves and slammed as if it would break apart. The winds had grown to hurricane force, and the immense land mass trembled and quaked violently. The ship needed to get away from the land or they would be broken against the rocks, and then he would never be able to protect Theron from Helghul.

The Earth's crust shifted and broke. Fire consumed the great city, and only a few Atitalans still wailed and searched for a way to escape. The smell of sulfur and burned hair and skin was carried on the wind. There were visible dead everywhere—charred and defeated by their attempts to flee, they lay like driftwood in haphazard heaps at the edge of the fire. Even now, Marcus could see the luminescent rainbow glow of the Unity Grid hovering above the land. He silently sent them blessings through his tears. The rain was lit by sparkling orbs above their heads. He could see the ethereal spheres moving and beckoning and knew that they belonged to a higher consciousness, but he had no time to consider them now.

The entire world was in chaos. Atitala creaked and groaned as it was battered and beaten. The land receded away from the last boat. A deafening crack exploded from beneath—displaced by extreme pressure, the ground arched and lifted out of the water on the farthest southern shores. Molten rock glowed red and spewed miles into the air in an awesome show of natural power. Atitala lurched as the Earth's crust shattered under the strain and the northern coast was rocketed hundreds of yards into the punishing black sky. The descent began. Atitala slipped south, first slowly, then at a terrifying speed, displacing millions of gallons of seawater. The Emissaries watched, dumbfounded and devastated, as their homeland crested and submerged before their eyes. The boats would carry the messengers to their destined shores, and they embraced the task before them. It was the dawn of a new Age.

After thirteen days Marcus's ship found land. The Emissaries had been cast like seeds to the wind and, like Marcus, each would land where they were meant to be sown.

After the first seventy-two hours of violent waves and storms, the seas had become friendlier. The conditions on the ship had been tolerable. The Emissaries had meditated, mourned, and discussed what might lie ahead. Marcus had isolated himself, alone with his worry of finding Theron.

The thrill of seeing land in the distance was replaced by horror as they drew closer to shore. In the shallows, the debris became thicker: reed boats, bits of shelters, trees, and bodies, so many bodies. They were huge and bloated, greeting them with hollow stares. The arriving Emissaries were deeply disturbed by the hideous scene.

A former ally of Atitala, Stone-at-Center had been a most sacred site, an example of beauty and function. But now the land was hard to comprehend. Everything was crushed and glistened with water and seaweed. Dead or dying fish, urchins, and all types of sea animals littered the ground. The homes were gone. The floods and earthquakes had wiped out millions of people, even some races and species entirely. Only a small number of people had survived. The only remaining structures were the enormous dock (built from precisely honed slabs, one as large as one hundred forty-four tons) and the walls (cut in intricately connected H-shaped blocks).

As the Emissaries of Atitala arrived, the cleanup and cremation of the decaying bodies and carcasses began. The Emissaries were in a state of constant prayer, and the ground and air around them vibrated with the healing energy.

Marcus frantically disembarked, ignoring the chaos, the sadness, and the stench. He searched the arriving boats and questioned everyone he met. No one had seen Theron.

“Marcus, I need you here,” Grey Elder beckoned from a nearby heap of rubble that had likely once been a temple or school. There were injured and helpless survivors everywhere.

“I still can't find Theron, have you heard anything?” Marcus asked, visibly upset. She was gone, his love, his soulmate. Helghul was with her and she didn't know what he was. Marcus hadn't warned her, and now he had no idea where she was or how to find her.

“There is much to do in rebuilding this sacred land. We need to work together,” Grey Elder reminded, taking a few faltering steps. As he limped, Marcus was reminded that it was the Elder who had unintentionally separated him from Theron by calling for help. The young man struggled silently with his resentment.

“I need to find Theron,” Marcus said predictably. “I need to know she is safe.”

“The Emissaries will all arrive safely if it is meant to be so. You must accept your role here and leave her to hers,” Grey Elder said sympathetically.

“I need to find her. Helghul was with her. He is something less than a man, Grey Elder. I should have told you sooner … I just couldn't speak of it,” Marcus said cryptically.

“What is it you should you have told me?”

“The night of the exodus, there was no time to tell anyone. I followed Helghul into the caverns … I saw a ceremony. Helghul was possessed by something powerfully evil that came up through the ground,” Marcus explained desperately.

“Did you see anything else? Who else was there?” Grey Elder asked in horror.

“There were other students and a cloaked man … that's all I saw … no … there's more. They killed the babies, Elder, the missing babies. They smashed them like pottery against the walls,” Marcus divulged hoarsely. He resisted the overwhelming urge to sob and leaned against the rock ledge behind him for support. Grey Elder reached out to comfort him, but Marcus moved away, certain that the slightest show of tenderness would undo him. Grey Elder understood and kept his distance.

“Did you tell Theron? Does she know what Helghul has done?” Grey Elder asked.

“No,” he croaked miserably. “There was no time.”

“It is better that we know. You shouldn't have been there, Marcus, but there must be a reason that you witnessed the ceremony … there must be a reason you chose to follow Helghul. We will have to wait and see how this all plays out,” Grey Elder added.

“There was a memory potion that Helghul took,” Marcus said, trailing off. “I took it too, but I don't know if there was enough; it was almost empty.”

Grey Elder looked at Marcus in horror.

“This is a very bad thing, Marcus; it goes against the will of the Source to have memory in future lives,” Grey Elder warned, closely re-evaluating the young Emissary.

“I am happy with my choice,” Marcus responded defensively, regretting having witnessed the brutality and darkness he had seen but grateful for the memory potion.