Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel (37 page)

Gizmo lowered their rope down the front of
the building on the opposite side from Barrett’s henchmen. If
anyone in the crowd turned around, he or she would be able to see
Isaiah and Gizmo climbing down. Fortunately, most people were too
busy watching the video to notice. When Isaiah and Gizmo reached
the sidewalk, Barrett’s deputies were just rounding the corner of
the building.

The crowd was gasping and flinching at the
movie when Mull delivered the death blow, plunging the knife into
Nora’s heart.

“It’s trick photography, all done on
computers.” Feenie laughed nervously.

“Bullshit!” Gizmo yelled.

Hundreds of heads turned around at the same
time, making Isaiah feel like a burglar caught in a spotlight.

“I can verify that they are one hundred
percent authentic.” Gizmo’s opinions on such matters held a lot of
weight in Galatia. He had their undivided attention. “What you saw
on screen really happened. Do you recognize the faces of those who
did this to Sam and Nora? Do you really want these people as your
leaders?”

The video continued playing.

Larger than life, bubbles of blood gurgled
from Nora’s mouth as she drew her last breath. In the video, Feenie
smiled wickedly, as if she had gotten a thrill out of the whole
affair. Barrett fell to his knees and pulled at the weeds on the
forest floor, wailing, while the rest of the people with him tore
into Sam. “My god, what have we done?”

“Galatia—this is what happens to anyone who
opposes the Evil Trio standing before you!” Isaiah stretched out
his arm and pointed toward the podium. “They drugged you and
convinced you to kill my father, the Mayor of Galatia, who guided
us so lovingly through these difficult times. If you get in their
way, they’ll kill you, too.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“What are we doing out here in our pajamas?”
someone asked in horror, as if she had just woken up from a long
sleep. “Was what happened at the pit real? Or just dream?”

“The steam from Feenie and Mull’s cauldrons
were laced with drugs,” Isaiah spoke quickly. “Opening you up to
suggestion, inciting you to commit murder.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“Arrest Barrett!” a woman shouted. “And all
of his guards!”

Fear etched over the faces of the men holding
onto Gizmo and Isaiah. They immediately released them and fled away
from the crowd.

“Lynch the Warlock,” Nathan Steelsun shouted,
“and that evil witch, Feenie!”

Feenie ran into the National Building first,
while Mull followed on her heels. Barrett remained on the landing,
holding his wrists out in what appeared to be an admission of
guilt, as if he had no intention of defending his actions. Men
clamored up the stairs before he had a chance to change his mind.
They secured the sheriff’s wrists and led him across the street to
the jail, while a bunch of men and women stormed into the National
Building after his accomplices.

“You did it.” Gizmo placed a hand on Isaiah’s
shoulder. “I can’t believe it, you really did it.”

“
We
did it,” Isaiah corrected. “But my
Grandma was the mastermind.”

“What happens to Galatia now?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Isaiah
replied bitterly.

..............................

Isaiah returned to his family’s home a few
blocks away from the square. He and his brothers clung to each
other for comfort in their shared bedroom, mourning the loss of
their father.

Mother was in the next room, weeping with his
sisters—all except Allison, the huntress, who sat on a kitchen
chair facing the front door, gun cocked at-the-ready. Isaiah wanted
to stay up to defend the family, but he was just too spent.

The rest of the household fell into a deep
black slumber.

Early in the morning, he awoke to the
mournful sound of a thousand voices rising and falling like a
Gregorian chant. He thought he must be dreaming about that crystal
sword again, the one that had been singing his name since boyhood.
Stealing a peek through the edge of the curtain, he saw the faint
golden glow of sunrise crowning over the mountains, but the upper
part of the sky was still stained in darkness. A man’s baritone
voice carried over the city, sending an involuntary shiver through
Isaiah.

“Have mercy on us, O God, according to your
unfailing love.”

Thousands of voices sang in response,
“According to your great compassion, blot out our transgressions.
Wash away all our iniquity and cleanse us from our sins. For we
know our transgressions, and our sin is always before us. Against
you, you only, have we sinned, and done what is evil in your
sight.”

A river of sparkling lights flowed toward
the house. It took Isaiah and his younger brothers a moment to
realize they were candle flames, carried by thousands of Galatians
walking in procession through the streets. Dressed in black, they
carried 3 x 5 note cards like hymnbooks. The procession, composed
of men and women, people of every age, stopped in front of the
house, circling around it. The man at the head of the procession
was Father Bob. He sang the lead once again. “Create in us pure
hearts, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within us.”

“What’s happening?” Isaiah’s youngest
brother asked. “Are they coming to kill us like they did
Daddy?”

“I don’t-- I don’t know.”

As he looked out the window, he spotted
Barrett among the chanters, handcuffed, but still managing to hold
a lit candle. The fucker. There was no sign of Feenie or Magus. May
they rot in hell.

Dr. Steelsun was there. God bless him for
having defended Isaiah’s father. There was Luke Steelsun and Belle.
Despite his previous animosity toward them as a couple, they had
defended him against the mob last night. For that he was
grateful.

“There’s Uncle Mike,” his brother cried, and
Isaiah spotted the large scruffy guy in blue jeans, the shaggy
yellow beard. Thank goodness, because after last night, Isaiah
worried that the evil trio might have murdered him as well.

“Deliver us from the guilt of bloodshed, O
God, you who are God our Savior, and our tongues will sing of your
righteousness.”

Mother burst through the bedroom door, face
streaked with tears, but excited. “Get dressed. They’re going to
try to retrieve your father from the pit!”

“There’s no way he’s alive,” Isaiah said,
not wanting to feed his siblings false hope.

“I know,” Mother replied. “But at least we
can give him a proper burial.”

“They’ll never reach him. It’s too
deep.”

“Even so, we have try.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with those
bastards,” Isaiah shouted, spittle flying. “I hate them! I hate
Galatia!”

“Don’t say that!” Mother raised her voice,
uncharacteristically vehement. “Your father gave everything he had
for Galatia. He loved her with everything he had. Now get dressed
and get your butt out there!”

Feeling like a whipped dog, Isaiah lowered
his head and did as his mother asked. His family followed at the
back of the line as thousands of people marched slowly toward the
pit. Many of them were pouring dirt on their heads.

“That is so weird,” his youngest brother
commented.

“What are they singing?” Allison asked.
“It’s pretty, but I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s Psalm 51,” Mother said, “written by a
king named David, in atonement for his sins.”

“What kind of sin?” Isaiah asked.

“The murder of an innocent man.”

The air was cold. Isaiah no
longer had his jacket because the
animals
had torn it off of him, so
he had taken his father’s flannel shirt from the hook on the way
out. When he turned up the collar, he could smell his father’s
scent—Irish Spring—the bunker had been loaded with it and lots of
bars had made it out of the fire. Dad would have loved seeing his
cynical people praying together as one. The lump in Isaiah’s throat
widened. Fresh tears of frustration formed in his eyes as the crowd
spread out around the mouth that had swallowed his father
whole.

A couple of volunteers were lowered down
into the abyss on extra long ropes, but they each reported that
they had reached the end of the line with no sign of Red or the
bottom in sight.

Luke Steelsun walked to the edge of the hole
and held up his gun.

“In honor of the late great Red Wakeland,
who asked us to give up our guns, and trust in a higher power—I
offer you to the Mouth of God this day.” He kissed the black steel
and then let go. Everyone watched as it fell into the darkness.

Allison stepped up to do the same.

Another hunter followed suit, and then
another, and another.

A shower of guns rained down into the
pit.

“There weren’t enough guns and ammo to save
us anyway. Might as well,” Nathan said with a deep sigh. He peered
over the edge of the pit and let his own gun fall into it.
“Wherever you are, Red One and Red Two. We’ll all be joining you
tomorrow.”

“You do not delight in sacrifice,” Father
Bob resumed the chant and the people answered. “You do not take
pleasure in burnt offerings. Our sacrifice, O God, is our broken
spirits; our broken and contrite hearts you, God, will not
despise.”

The Galatians went up to the pit in groups,
asking Red’s spirit for forgiveness, wishing him peace, saying
their good-byes. “May it please you to prosper Galatia,” Father Bob
sang, “to build up the walls of our city.”

Isaiah didn’t want to hang around with the
people who had killed his father, so he left them at the mouth to
seek their forgiveness. The chant faded away as Isaiah returned
home with a gaping hole in his heart, feeling a little less
hateful, but immersed in a sadness so profound there were no words
deep enough to express it.

(Michael Penn)

The entire city fasted on nothing but bread
and water like Red had asked. In the face of their imminent
destruction by the armies outside the wall, instead of chaos and
panic, the streets inside of Zena City had grown quiet. It was
helpful to have something spiritual to focus on rather than the
upcoming battle. On the last night of the fast, which broke at
midnight, the men took their positions along the dried-mud wall
Barrett had built around the city a few weeks ago. There were no
guns left to poke through the openings now, just swords, spears,
daggers, stones and courage.

People were looking to me for leadership—but
I pointed them to Veronica Albright and Simon Steelsun. Neither one
of them wanted the job either, but I felt they were vastly more
competent than me. The three of us were digging through the
contents of Red’s office, hoping to discover Red’s battle playbook,
but all we found was a book of spells that the warlock had left
behind.

“Burn it,” Simon suggested.

As I continued to sift through my brother’s
desk, I opened the bottom drawer and accidently pulled out the
whole thing. Hidden beneath the drawer was a Mead notebook with a
few notes written in felt-tip pen.

I handed it over to Simon. He set it on the
desk and flipped through the pages.

Underneath the words
‘Battle Plan’
were a couple of bible
verses Red had copied down:

Luke 9:32-34
For he shall be delivered unto the Gentiles, and shall be
mocked, and spitefully entreated, and spitted on: And they shall
scourge
 
him
, and put him to death: and the
third day he shall rise again.
And they
understood none of these things: and this saying was hid from them,
neither knew they the things which were spoken.

Veronica took the time to flip through the
entire notebook, making sure they hadn’t missed anything, but the
remaining pages were blank. “Not helpful, Red Junior,” she said,
giving a nervous laugh. “I never understood your brother, but now
that he’s gone I really miss him.”

“Red had a way about him,” Simon commented.
“I’m a natural cynic, but his strong faith opened me to the
possibility that there’s someone up there watching over us.”

“My brother was not of this world,” I said,
the ache in my chest growing deeper. “Is it any wonder he didn’t
stay long?”

Too much tragedy had dried
up the well of tears early in my youth, so I no longer had the
ability to cry. My shoulders slumped. I sat down in Red’s chair and
hung my head in my hands. Veronica rubbed my shoulders, while the
doctor blew his nose into a handkerchief. I glanced downward,
noticing Red’s map of the city placed beneath a tempered piece of
glass. He had written
Seeker of the Four
Winds?
and circled it with an arrow
pointing southward. That prompted me to recall an experience I had
while imprisoned in the interrogation room.

Lifting my head, I said excitedly, “I had
another dream about your missing children.”

Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Veronica froze
in place as if she were about to fall off a cliff.

“Is Josie okay?” Veronica gulped.

“My son—is he well?” Simon said
simultaneously.

“Yes and yes.”

“And the other members of the mission?” Dr.
Steelsun asked.

“Everyone looks healthy enough, but I didn’t
see Hogard on the boat.”

“Boat?” they both asked, pulling up chairs
in front of the desk, and hurling a billion questions at me.

I told them everything I had seen in my
vision, down to the detail of their children’s clothing—golden
armor—that Red’s squad was traveling up the river on a Viking-like
vessel manned by large one-eyed humanoids.

“Did they have the other half of the Blood
Map?” Steelsun leaned forward to ask, fingers gripping the edge of
the desk.