Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (36 page)

Isaiah stood at the back edge of the crowd,
thoughts clouded, but grasping at the hope that victory could be
theirs. The crowd surged forward, eager to sip from the gleaming
vessel that beautiful Feenie was freely offering.

Isaiah muscled his way through the crowd to
reach the front of the line.

But the image of his aunt, uncle, and Mull
screwing in his father’s office flashed in his head. How could he
reconcile his hatred for them with the elation they had built
inside of him now?

“Stop this madness. You’re all being drugged
by Devil’s Breath!” a woman yelled from somewhere nearby He looked
around to see Dr. Katrina Sweet holding a scarf over her nose. “I
can smell it in the steam. Don’t breathe the steam!”

How could anyone not breathe it in when the
vapor covered the whole park?

A man in a blue and black checked flannel
shirt approached the platform. Guards went to intercept him, but he
held up a palm and they bounced away as if he were surrounded by a
force field.

“It’s Red Wakeland!” someone shouted. A
murmur swept through the crowd.

Aunt Feenie’s head jerked around in surprise.
Her face morphed into contempt as the mayor climbed the steps to
the platform. Boos and cheers rang out from the crowd.

“We love you, Red!” a woman yelled
encouragement.

“Sock it to ‘em, mayor. Get these wannabes
off the stage!”

“Listen to me, my people,” Dad said, holding
up a hand for everyone to be quiet. “What Barrett, Feenie and their
wicked companion have failed to tell you is that the price of magic
is always more than you can afford. Do not step onto the trail they
have mapped out for you, because it leads straight to hell. As the
ancient prophets foretold, persons or nations that place theirs
faith in witches and warlocks will earn the wrath of God.”

“Galatian guns combined with my magic will
win this war,” Mull said with a sneer. “Not fasting and prayers to
your invisible god.”

“Guns and Magic,” Feenie said, holding up her
fist to the crowd. “Guns and Magic!”

Another woman on the platform shouted in
reply. “Give us guns, and give us magic, but rid us of Red Wakeland
and his useless god once and for all!”

“The power you’ve seen here today is
delusion,” Red said. “Those who use it are the pawns of demons.
Follow them to your own destruction. Or trust in God and be
saved!”

“Let Red become the sacrifice that wastes the
flesh of our enemies!” Feenie shouted.

“Kill Red! Kill Red!” rose up from the
crowd.

Fear for his father’s life sobered Isaiah in
an instant. He fought to get to the platform, but the crowd was too
thick.

“Have you people lost your goddamn minds?”
Nathan Steelsun’s voice rose over the crowd. “Even if you think
he’s the worst leader ever, Red doesn’t deserve to die!”

Fists began to fly. People were pushing each
other.

“Stop this madness,” a woman yelled. “Let Red
go!”

Caught in a rush for the platform, Isaiah
suddenly came face-to-face with a beautiful brunette with dark
eyes, Belle Winters, his ex-fiancé. They had parted last year on
bad terms and hadn’t spoken since. Unsure about who’s side Belle
had chosen, Barrett or Red’s, Isaiah froze. Would she rat him
out?

“Isaiah,” she gasped, then clamped a hand
over own mouth. “Oh, my, gosh. You have to get of here.”

She reached for him, but the crowd surged
again, seperating him from Belle.

“Suspenoth, abernoth, Red Wakeland,
enorsedo!” Magus Mull shouted.

About a third of the crowd collapsed just
like that, ending the brawl. Were they dead or passed out—Isaiah
didn’t know. When he looked up again, he was horrified to see that
his father was in the custody of the sheriff’s goons. They were
coiling a thick rope around his body. Helplessly bound, they
hoisted Isaiah’s father above their heads.

The crowd followed in procession as the goons
carried the mayor through the park and down the street. A woman
grabbed Isaiah by the arm, eyes narrowing in accusation.

“Aren’t you Red Wakeland’s boy?”

He shook his head in denial.

A man shoved him in the chest. “Yeah, it’s
the oldest one, I think. What’s your name again?” Too scared to
speak, Isaiah shook his head. The man unexpectedly stumbled
forward, half-falling onto Isaiah.

“My two left feet strike again,” Belle
apologized profusely. “Sorry, mister, I tripped.”

Luke Steelsun yanked the man to his feet and
pushed him aside, then offered Isaiah a hand up. Not letting go, he
steered Isaiah through the crowd, with Belle at his heel. Once they
escaped the mess, Isaiah gratefully shook Luke’s hand.

“Thanks, man.”

“It’s a dangerous night for anyone who
supports your father,” Luke said. “Come with Belle and me to a safe
place.”

“I can’t,” Isaiah said as he backed away.
“There’s something I have to do.”

Isaiah put up the hood of his jacket and
melted into the mob, determined to stay near his father. He assumed
they were returning him to the jail.

“To the pit!” then crowd began to chant, “To
the pit!”

Falling into step, he marched with the crowd
toward the Mouth of God, where they gathered around its rim. The
mayor was carried to the side opposite of the mouth from Isaiah,
who dared to lower his hood in the hopes that his father would see
a kind face among the crowd.

“He will give his life, to power the spell,
that will save the nation, which he almost destroyed,” Feenie
shouted. “Shall we make Red Wakeland our sacrifice?”

“Feed the Mouth!” the people pumped their
fists in the air. “Feed the Mouth!”

The wind began to pick up. Clouds rolled in
over a full moon. A pattering of rain fell, just enough to wet the
ground and dampen everyone’s clothes. His father didn’t
struggle—eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer, he prepared to
meet the God he loved so much. Magus Mull turned to Barrett, who
nodded in approval.

“On the count of three.” Magus lifted his
long arm to the moon. “One. Two. Three!”

The citizens of Galatia heaved their mayor
into the Mouth of God.

He didn’t make a sound as he disappeared into
the bottomless void of darkness.

“No!” Isaiah dove to the edge of the mouth,
reaching out in a futile effort to snatch his father from certain
death. “Dad!”

(Isaiah Wakeland)

The crowd’s hands were all over Isaiah.
Punches rained down. Someone reached down to pull him to his feet,
using his own body as a shield. Uncle Bryce.

“I didn’t mean for any of this happen,
Isaiah,” Uncle Bryce yelled over the chaos. “Not to you—not to Red.
You gotta believe me—I had no idea they’d take it this far.”

Isaiah felt like his guts had been hollowed
out by a big spoon and replaced by a churning ball of pain. His
uncle’s words didn’t quite register. How could the Galatians do
this? Was his father still falling into the bowels of the Earth? Or
had he hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces? Had the
rest of his family heard the news?

“Hurry home. Lock the doors and don’t let
anyone in.”

Urged on by Uncle Bryce, Isaiah ran. Torn and
blinded by his own blood, he returned to the rope running down the
side of the city jail. The strength had been drained out of him. So
he relied on the charisma to carry him up. This time he pulled the
rope up behind him. Gizmo was already there, waiting for him with
his video equipment. When he got a look at Isaiah, his eyes
widened.

“What happened to you?”

“They just killed my dad,” Isaiah
croaked.

“Wh-wh—what?”

“They threw him into the pit like a piece of
garbage.”

“
They
?”

“Everybody—it was a lynch mob.”

“Are you sure?” Isaiah vented his frustration
on one of the speakers, smashing it with a kick. “Hey,” Gizmo
yelled in alarm. “That’s irreplaceable!”

“So is my father!” Isaiah sunk to the ground
in a heap. “All he ever wanted was to help people and love God.
Those sons-of-bitches! I’m glad the Western Alliance is coming. May
we all burn in hell!”

Gizmo laid a supportive hand on Isaiah’s
shoulder. “Do you still want to do this?”

“More than ever.” Sniffling, Isaiah wiped his
nose, and looked up at Gizmo. “Let’s hang Feenie, Barrett and Mull
with their own damn rope.”

They had an excellent view of the square and
the crisp white facade of the Building of National Affairs. From
their perch on top of the jail, Gizmo and Isaiah watched the evil
trio running up the steps to the National Building’s landing. A
podium was already set up. Barrett stood behind it as all of
Galatia came out to hear his plans for Galatia.

When the crowd filled the square, Barrett
cleared his throat and said somberly, “In our darkest hour, my
brother has committed suicide, jumping to his death into the Mouth
of God.”

Conversation broke out across the crowd.
Women were sobbing. A man yelled, “Who cares? We got Barrett.”

“All hail King Barrett!” Feenie shouted,
pumping her fist in the air.

“All hail King Barrett!” a smattering of
voices shouted out from the gathering.

“Half the town was at the pit?” Gizmo said.
“Why are they letting him lie about murdering your father?”

“I don’t know,” Isaiah said. “It’s like the
whole world has gone mad.”

A wagon pulled up to the base of the steps.
The big steaming cauldrons were in its flatbed. Feenie’s entourage
from Windmere, other witches and warlocks no doubt, flanked the
wagon, golden goblets at the ready.

“Red’s death was not in vain.” Barrett
gripped the podium as if he could barely stand for the grief
running through him. What a phony, Isaiah grumbled hatefully. “In
given up his life force, Red has given us the energy required for
the flesh-wasting spell, saving us all. But each of you will need
inoculations against its effects. One sip of Glonare’s Wine is all
it takes.”

Isaiah and Gizmo watched the scene unfold
from their vantage of the rooftop. Dozens of people had goblets
now, and were organizing the Galatians into six separate lines as
if they were coming up to drink the Blood of Christ at Holy
Communion.

“Roll the tape,” Isaiah said.

Gizmo pressed a couple of buttons.

A huge square of light appeared on the smooth
white exterior of the Building of National Affairs. The people in
the square watched expectantly, assuming that Barrett had arranged
it as part of the show. Feenie, Barrett and Mull were facing the
crowd, their backs to the National Building, so they didn’t notice
the projection flickering on the concrete wall behind them.

The camera panned across twelve hooded
figures gathered around a stone table. A forest at nighttime served
as the backdrop. It appeared to be late autumn. Leaves of red and
yellow covered the trees rising up from the mossy ground. Tiki
torches and lanterns hanging from branches illuminated the small
gathering , helping the camera catch everything in detail. Not
every face was discernible, but some were exposed enough to
recognize. Barrett and Feenie were among them. Bryce, the
cameraman, took a few selfies, implicating himself in the events
unfolding in the forest. Magus Mull stood at the head of the table,
bare chest painted with swirls and strange symbols.

Now that the movie had the crowd’s attention,
Isaiah asked Gizmo to flip on the speakers. Screams from the past
came back to haunt the living. From their place in front of the
National Building, Feenie, Barrett and Mull startled in confusion,
realizing only then that the crowd’s attention was focused not on
them but on something behind them.

Isaiah was sorry he couldn’t see their facial
expressions better when they realized Bryce’s home movie was the
main attraction. The scene showed young Sam and Nora Harvey
struggling and pleading with their cloaked capturers as they were
mercilessly dragged through the forest against their will. The
captives were in their undergarments as if they had been pulled out
of bed. Both of them had bruised and bloodied faces. Sam managed to
wrestle one man to the ground, knocking off his hood.

“That’s John Pressley,” someone down below in
the square shouted. “Where did he get off to?”

The video rolled on.

“Please,” Sam pleaded on screen. “Just take
me and let Nora go.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” Nora cried,
visibly shaking. “What have we done wrong?”

“When you joined our circle, you refused to
bow down to the image of Glonare.” Mull said.

“Thou shalt not have strange Gods before Me,”
Sam said, as if that were explanation enough. “We just couldn’t do
it!”

“Once you were in on our secret,” Feenie
said. “You knew what was expected. Now, you will pay the price of
disloyalty.”

Sam and Nora were thrown onto the table,
where dozens of hands worked furiously to tie them to the table.
Mull proceeded to draw on them with the tip of his knife, slicing
their skin into swirling designs. “If you will not submit to
Glonare, I will do it for you.”

The sound of a metal clink against the
building jerked Isaiah’s attention away from the video.

“Oh, shit,” Gizmo said. “It’s a grappling
hook!”

The hooks were lodged beneath the ridge of
the jail’s roof. Half a dozen of Barrett’s men were already on the
way up. Gizmo leaned over the ridge and began to saw at it with a
dagger, while Nora and Sam’s pain-filled screams filled the
night.

“Gun!” he heard Gizmo say as he flattened
himself against the roof. The sound of bullets whizzing past them
was too close for comfort. “Those bastards just tried to blow my
head off.”

Staying low, Isaiah scrambled to the edge of
the roof, and grabbed the prongs of the grappling hook. Using his
charisma, he bent one of the prongs. Grunts and cussing came from
below when the entire hook slipped off the ridge.