The Eye of the Stone (6 page)

“The Chieftain of All Timmra,” Yed declared, “and Commander of the Steadfast Order!”

“The Steadfast Order?”

But the growing line of questions in Jackson's mind never had a chance to advance as Yed swept him out the front door.

8. The Hall of the Steadfast Order

Yed and Jackson emerged, as if out of a cocoon, into bright afternoon sunshine and warm air. Jackson stood blinking at a large open village square full of canopied market stalls and teeming with men, women, and children, each and every one in motion. That is, until a ruddy-faced man in a green tunic who was leading a horse-drawn cart noticed him. The man stopped and stared, then reached out and tapped the shoulder of a tall fellow with a long ponytail who was unloading large bundles of firewood onto the hard-packed dirt. The first man whispered to the second, who in turn got the attention of a harried-looking woman, who in turn hushed her two squabbling children. In only a matter of seconds, everyone in the square had stopped and was staring at Jackson. “There he is,” murmured the crowd. “That's the one!”

Jackson stepped back. At Timber Grove Middle School, whispers were used to plan ridicule before it became public. He braced himself for laughter, scorn, or worse. Like Yed, most of the men carried a weapon of some kind—bow, sword, dagger. A few carried all three.

Yed leaned close, “Don't worry. They can see that even with your strange clothes, you are not the enemy. You were made in the same image as us.”

Jackson surveyed the crowd. True enough. If he just concentrated on the faces that stared at him, he could see that they were, in fact, a lot like his own. Some seemed quizzical, others friendly, even respectful. One child looked up at him in what appeared to be open awe. But not one pair of blue eyes showed any anger, hostility, or contempt. No sword or dagger had been drawn, no arrow fitted to bowstring.

Yed gave Jackson a gentle nudge. “Let's take the shortcut. We should get to Radnor as quickly as possible.” He guided Jackson away from the open stares of the people in the square and into a narrow alley.

Mud-and-straw houses lined both sides, the eaves of their thatched roofs hanging low, just above Yed's head. As they walked, Jackson could see that behind each dwelling, stone fences divided the land into small plots. In one stood a large pig, snorting as it rooted in the mud. Another held goats; yet another, a cow and three squawking chickens. Several horses were corralled in a larger area, one of which raised its head and whinnied.

A rooster crowed. From a nearby house came the cry of a baby, then the soothing sound of a mother singing. The clank of metal on metal echoed in the distance. Jackson's head filled with the smells of wood smoke, damp earth, barnyard, and—

“Ah, roast stag!” Yed said, sniffing the air. “My favorite! After everything is settled, we should go up into the Barrier Mountains and hunt together.” He draped his arm over Jackson's shoulders. “What do you think?”

Jackson didn't know what to say. For as long as he could remember, he'd dreamed of the day his father would teach him how to shoot, then take him hunting. But only a week before he finally turned twelve—the age his parents had agreed that he'd be old enough to try for his first deer—the mill had announced the layoffs and … well, it just hadn't been the time to ask.

But now here was Yed offering freely what had come to seem so unattainable in Timber Grove. Jackson searched Yed's face for signs. Was this a cruel joke like the ones Seth enjoyed playing? Bait and then strike? Turn it all on its head with sarcasm and ridicule? He hoped not, really hoped not. He wanted to believe it was all sincere. Still, experience had bred caution.

“Here we are!” Yed said. “The Hall of the Steadfast Order.” Stopping before a large wooden door in a stone wall, he thrust his right hand in front of his eyes, then drew it slowly away as he looked upward.

Jackson followed Yed's gaze. Directly above them, jutting out like a crude porch roof, was a platform of lashed branches. On it lay a dead ram, its limp neck draped over the edge, its tongue—red with blood—hanging out.

Jackson took a quick breath. “Why is
that
there?” The glassy eyes of the ram held his own in a fixed stare. He felt both repulsed and fascinated at the same time.

Yed turned to Jackson with a baffled expression. “It's our sacrifice, of course. Surely you know—” He stopped and ran his fingers through his blond curls, peering into Jackson's eyes. “You've been through a lot getting here to Timmra, haven't you?”

Jackson blinked and looked away from the dead ram. “You can say that again.”

Yed's eyebrows went up in surprise. “Why would I repeat myself? A man's words should stand strong the first time spoken.” But then he shrugged. “If you need anything said again, Jackson Cooper, I'll do it.” And with that he stepped under the dead ram and rapped his knuckles on the door.

There was the sound of footsteps, then a clank of metal as the bolt slid to one side. The door swung back. In the opening stood a large, fierce-eyed man, burly as a bear, with a bushy blond beard. His hand rested on the hilt of a great broadsword.

Yed stood stiff at attention, his body taking on a sudden formalness, as did his voice. “Radnor,” he said, “Chieftain of All Timmra and Commander of the Steadfast Order.” Then he bowed.

Although not used to bowing, Jackson quickly followed suit. There was something about Radnor that demanded it. Jackson's eyes came down to the level of Radnor's sword hilt. From that close he could see that the top knob had been carved into the shape of a clenched fist much like Radnor's own thick fingers and broad knuckles. Everything about Radnor, Chieftain of All Timmra and Commander of the Steadfast Order, exuded power.

Jackson bowed even farther. The stone pendant that hung from his neck swung out of the top of his shirt. He reached up and gripped it for a moment.

From above came a voice like gravel. “Rise.”

Jackson stood upright to find Radnor's blue eyes boring into his. He almost looked away, but the warmth from the stone lingered, as did the sudden, mysterious sense of calm. He straightened his shoulders and held Radnor's gaze.

Radnor nodded. “Enter.”

“We enter,” Yed said, leading Jackson past the big man into a dim foyer. A lone torch flickered in its mount on the wall. The tart smell of burning pine pitch filled the smoky air. Beyond the foyer Jackson could barely make out the opening of a hallway. He peered down it but couldn't see what lay beyond. No light came from within.

“This is Jackson Cooper,” Yed said to his father.

Jackson turned to see Yed motioning toward him. The formalness, he noticed, was gone from Yed's body and voice now that they were inside and the door to the alleyway was closed. Yed leaned close to his father. “I know it's not my position to decide,” he said. “You alone can hear the voice. But I think he might be the One. He has magic.”

Radnor's eyes fixed on Jackson's again. “Magic? What kind of magic?”

Yed smiled. “Show him the watch, Jackson Cooper. Look there, Radnor, on his wrist.”

Radnor bent down to examine Jackson's wrist. “But I don't see any—”

“The other wrist,” Yed said with a gentleness that startled Jackson. In Timber Grove no teenage boy would be caught dead talking that way to his father—not in front of anyone, anyway. It was the tone of voice used by little boys.

Yed put his hand affectionately on his father's shoulder and pointed to Jackson's watch. “There, on that strap.”

For a second Jackson thought he saw a hint of a wry smile beneath Radnor's thick beard. “Of course.” The big man leaned close as Jackson offered his left wrist.

Yed prodded Jackson. “Now show him. Show him the fire.”

Jackson looked at Yed, then at Radnor. What harm could it do? Yed had gotten such a big kick out of it. “Okay,” he said, and pushed the button that illuminated the watch dial.

Radnor's eyebrows went up in surprise at the green glow. “Ehhhhh?”

Yed smiled. “But that is nothing. Wait until you hear about …” And with that he went on to detail every single thing Jackson had told him of the magical wonders of Oregon.

Several times during Yed's grand recital, Jackson found himself thinking that he should interrupt and try to set things straight, explain what Oregon really was, and where. And that all the things Yed spoke of were just inventions, technology, ordinary stuff in Timber Grove. And that he was just Jackson Cooper with a new watch, not the something special they seemed to want him to be.

But the simple truth was that Jackson was enjoying listening to Yed go on and on about him too much to cut the telling short. It felt incredibly good to hear himself praised. By the time Yed finished—“And with this thing called a gun, you can shoot from a great distance!”—Radnor, Chieftain of All Timmra and Commander of the Steadfast Order, was looking at Jackson with great appreciation. That felt even better.

“Just as it was spoken to me!” Radnor said with a huge smile. “Welcome to Timmra, Jackson Cooper! Welcome, indeed!”

Jackson grinned. No way was he going to admit that he'd never even pulled the trigger of his father's pistol—he'd been too afraid—much less hit something, especially at a great distance. “Thank you,” he said, and bowed to Radnor.

“He's come just in time, don't you think?” Yed said.

“Yes,” Radnor replied, “but I've been given no instructions.…” His expression grew serious. He stroked his beard for a moment, then closed his eyes and gently placed his powerful hand over them. “Let me understand,” he said. He slowly drew his hand away to reveal his eyes open again, locked in a fixed stare off into the darkness of the hallway.

Jackson looked at Yed for an explanation of what Radnor was doing. But Yed put his finger to his lips, signaling Jackson not to interrupt. Yed closed his eyes and waited in silence. Not wanting to offend, Jackson did the same. The foyer of the Hall of the Steadfast Order grew quiet, save the sizzle of the pine-pitch torch mounted on the wall.

After a long moment, Radnor finally stirred, and Jackson opened his eyes to see the chieftain shaking his head as if coming out of a trance.

“To the armory,” Radnor said. “First, we must get Jackson Cooper a bow.”

Yed's eyes popped open. “A bow? But I thought—”

“So it has been spoken to me,” Radnor said.

Without a blink, Yed nodded. “Then so it must be.”

9. Among Friends

Radnor grabbed the torch from its holder on the foyer wall and led Jackson and Yed into the dark hallway beyond. No one spoke; the only sound was the scuff of their feet on the stone floor. They rounded a corner and the walls seemed to close in on either side, the air to grow musty. A large wooden door with heavy wrought-iron hinges and bolts loomed ahead.

“Open it,” Radnor told Yed.

Yed unbolted the door at the top and the bottom, then grabbed the thick iron handle with both hands and looked over his shoulder at Jackson. “Feast your eyes on the work of Radnor!” he called out as if hundreds had gathered. With a great heave he swung the door open to reveal in the torchlight a long narrow room, lined on both sides with an arsenal of weapons: swords, spears, shields, and enough bows and quivers of arrows to supply a small army.

Jackson gawked. He loved bows, always had. One hung above the couch at home in Timber Grove, next to the mounted head of a six-point buck. His father had made the bow out of ash wood long before Jackson was born. For reasons that were never made clear, at no time had Jackson been allowed to touch it. That had somehow made the bow seem even nicer, like a museum piece, hanging there out of reach, looking perfect.

Here, though, there were dozens of them, each one far nicer than his father's, truly perfect in every detail—recurved on the ends, intricately carved designs above the carefully wrapped leather handgrips, sanded and polished to a bright sheen.

“You made them
all
?” Jackson asked Radnor, noticing one bow in particular with a carving of a great stag on it.

A flush of embarrassment crossed Radnor's face. “Yed likes to exaggerate,” he said. “The truth is—”

“That he is a very good bow maker,” Yed finished for his father.

“Praise no bow before it's tested,” Radnor said trying to sound stern. He faked a scowl but couldn't hide his pride, so waved Yed off with his hand. “Talk, talk, talk. It seems my son was born to pester me like a talking fly.”

Yed reached over and plucked a piece of lint from his father's beard. “It's my duty,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He let the lint float to the floor. “I may not be able to split a melon at fifty paces or shoot an arrow through a bird's eye, but I'm quick with my tongue.”

Radnor laughed openly. “Unfortunately, this is all too true.”

“Just as it's true that you are a very good bow maker,” Yed insisted. He whispered loudly to Jackson, “Not only did he make most of them, he also straightened and hardened the arrows, too, forged the points,
and
mounted the feathers.”

Radnor ignored his son's boasting. “Which bow do you like, Jackson Cooper?”

Jackson stared. “Do you mean I can use one of these?”

Radnor shook his head. “No.”

Jackson's shoulders slumped.

“I mean you may
have
whichever one you choose. So it is spoken.”

“Easy now,” Radnor whispered into Jackson's ear some time later. “Calm yourself before letting the arrow go.” His rumbling voice was as steady as he was asking Jackson to be.

Jackson strained to hold the bow with the stag carving still. He squinted down the arrow shaft at his target—a black circle of dirt rubbed into the center of a piece of stiff leather. It leaned against a large mound of hay piled in the high stone-walled enclosure behind the armory. Six shots had already flown high and wide to the left, burying themselves in the hay.