Out of Exodia (18 page)

“
What for?” Harmon crossed
his arms and looked down his nose at Eugene. Something wasn’t
right.

Eugene took the golden armbands that
someone held out and dropped them in before answering. “The box
quit humming. The cloud’s gone. Now Bram’s left us. We’re making
something so beautiful that it’ll outshine the sun. We’ll put it on
the tallest cart and hitch the best horses to it. They’ll pull it
up the road and we’ll follow it. Like we did the cloud.” He shoved
a sweaty strand of gray hair from his eyes and rested both hands on
his hips. Puffing his chest out only made his pot belly more
obvious. His belt sacks poked straight out, filled, no doubt, with
trinkets and charms.

Harmon frowned and looked around at the
Reds who were watching the skies for their evening
rations.

* * *

I’m almost to the top of the mountain.
I hear the thunderous rumbling again and duck my head, crouch as
much as I can, and expect a rock slide to hurl me back down the
mountain. Instead the awesome sound gels to something else, a
higher pitch but lower volume. Without realizing exactly the point
that the thunder becomes a voice, I begin to comprehend the
words.

“
This is what you are to
say to the Reds: You saw what happened to the Blue army that
followed you. It was God who helped you at the bridge. You saw what
happened to the idolaters of Proserpina. It was God who helped you
at the airport and above the underground city. You saw what
happened to the Grays. Again, it was God whose power was released
to you through the rod.”

I shudder at the truth of the message,
but I don’t dare to look up.

“
Listen, Bram. Tell them
this: if you obey me fully and hold to the old ways then out of all
the states you will be the favored ones and I will put you in
control. And you must acknowledge me. You must learn again to
worship the one true God.”

I feel a heat like a
furnace blasting at me from all sides and even from my insides.
Just as suddenly the astounding reaction stops, the thunderous
voice cuts off, and the silence and cold of the mountain top dare
me to raise my head. The cloudless sky is colored gold.
The one true God. The detour gone.

I dwell on that thought.
Wonder.

Worship the one true
God
. That’s a little harder. The sky’s
golden haze deepens. I stare until I see it:
oh, whip restored tongue
. I hadn’t
realized until this moment that my troubled stuttering had ceased
along this journey. I silently curse my stupidity and stare harder
at the gilded heavens until I see another truth:
tongue worshiped other
.
My guilt rises, my pride falls. I know the very words I must speak
to all the Reds. I rise and turn to find a glowing tablet at my
feet. Its shape and color are like a ledger’s, but it’s hard and
doesn’t open. I lift the warm object and peer at my reflection on
its smooth black surface. Letters begin to float to the surface and
swim into ten neat lines. Nine of them are crazy puzzles, but the
first one hardly hides the truth:

I, your dogma

I easily rearrange the letters and see
the truth of that first line before the screen goes black. I slip
and slide my way down the slope.

Chapter 13 The Guardian’s
Diary

From the tenth page of the
third Ledger:

Then he pitched himself down
the mountain. In the blackest night with his sins beside him he
sought out the right path. By dawn he found his people.

I REACH THE bottom of the
mountain and catch my breath. The strange black tablet, granite
hard but light as air, bounces in my belt sack, reminding me of a
certain bumpy ride in a canvas-covered truck long ago. A different
life, it was, back when Barrett was alive and Kassandra and I were
being driven into Exodia, Gresham only a few weeks old. I remember
the moment so clearly because that was the instant I realized that
I was a gemfry. An anagram revealed itself to me at that moment,
confirming that truth. But there was another anagram then, too; one
I didn’t understand:
ten should
plead
. It came from
Dalton helped us
. Now it makes more
sense. Ten lines of commands appeared on this magical board. Ten
pleas for obedience.

Ten should
plead
. Yes, it makes sense. And now, in my
mind’s eye, another message forms changing those three words into
four:
lad held up stone
.

I slip the tablet out of my
bag and hold the rectangular stone up. I bring it back closer to my
face and stroke the letters that rise to the surface. Only the
first command appears.
I, your
dogma
quickly spins
into
I am your God
then fades. The second command replaces the first, but it
doesn’t reshape itself and its meaning eludes me.
Noble friend soothes mood,
gore
. The stars above reflect in the shiny
surface before the screen goes dark once more.

I imagine chaos back at the iron
lodges. Perhaps things have really gotten out of hand and Harmon
needs me. What is the mood there? What could be the gore? Who is
the noble friend? An image of Barrett flits into my
mind.

I hold the tablet under my arm now that
I don’t need my hands to help me down the rough terrain. The path
ahead of me is clear and I can find my way even in the dark. I
should reach them by dawn. With every quick step I picture a
possible solution to the second command, but not one that makes
sense.

* * *

Harmon allowed Eugene to finish his
crazy scheme. There was plenty of light from the fires so the
Mourners could help Eugene with the melting of the precious metals.
Harmon sat off to the side whittling away at a large piece of soft
wood. It was his impulsive suggestion that a mold be made so he
offered to do the work needed. He’d tried to make something that
would look ridiculous and shame them into abandoning this project.
He settled on a horned dog though it looked more like a cow or a
goat than a dog. He thought it wouldn’t matter. When the
drunkenness had worn off and the light of the sun shone on their
idol they would certainly see how misguided they’d been.

Trouble came a few hours before dawn.
Cleavon stumbled into the fire and burned his legs and right arm.
The three men who rushed to help him tripped over Harmon’s pile of
wood. An angry fight interrupted their mission. They grabbed stones
and sticks to augment their fists. Cleavon’s burns were less
frightening than the blood and gore spilled near the
fire.

And then the partying began. The songs
were lewd and the dancing too sensual. When the golden god was
finished, Harmon made an altar, too.

* * *

“
It’s Bram,” someone yells
as I reach the first of the container cars and find a scene I
couldn’t have imagined. The sounds of a struggle assault my
ears.

Lydia huddles beside several other
women, protecting the sleeping children who lie behind them. The
women hold the faux swords made from the metal clothing racks we’d
pillaged. Our stay at the stores with the twelve springs seems so
long ago. They look wary of my approach until Lydia breaks their
focus by leaping to my arms. I almost drop the stone
tablet.

“
The men have been
attacking each other,” she whispers in my ear. “And some of the
women, too.” Her arms drop from my neck and she swings her hand out
in an arc around the area. “Those who tried to lock themselves in
the train cars were attacked by men hiding inside. We’re safer out
here.” She raises her voice to a normal tone and points, “Go see
what Harmon’s doing. I think he’s gone as mad as the
rest.”

She turns back to guard the little ones
and I follow the long shadow of an early sunrise, a red finger of
light that points to earth that is equally crimson. There’s blood
and gore and signs of a battle. The noises I heard at first grow
stronger, and I yell in answer to the swearing and the words of
hatred.

“
Harmon! What’s going
on?”

My brother sits rigid upon a makeshift
bench, a fallen log that’s twice the size of most trees here.
There’s something like an altar behind him, like the one I had made
of stones, but this one is formed from the Grays’ furniture. There
is blood and ash and strands of fur upon the top as if they
sacrificed an animal.

“
The cloud is gone,” he
stutters. “You were gone. The people wanted something …” He
stumbles over his lies. “They needed a party. It’s just a party,
Bram.”

Cleavon’s sobs draw my
attention. Barrett’s father tends to the raw wounds that somehow
Cleavon has suffered. Eugene stands to the side, using two sticks
to push clods of dirt over the bloody mess to the left of the fire
pit. A stream of filthy words pours from his mouth. Barrett’s
father quietly stems the vile with gentle words that strike me as
too generous. He turns from his patient and helps Eugene cover the
mess. There are others listening, men who look sadly beaten, and
they respond to the peaceful nature of the words that Barrett’s dad
offers. I almost want to laugh when I realize that he is in fact
the
noble friend
that
soothes
the
mood
and hides the
gore
.