The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (27 page)

Freddie glanced at Andrew with fearful eyes.
“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Andrew assured him. “Go!”

“But…”

“Go!”

Without another word, Freddie turned and ran,
with the girl draped in his arms.

Andrew continued on through the smoke and
heat, closer to the inferno of bubbling oil. He moved like one who
knew what he was doing, but did not consciously know. He only knew
that he must keep going, keep on fighting. He pushed through the
soldiers, breaking a prisoner free from his chains, just in time to
turn and help someone else, only to turn, and battle another
soldier.

The deeper into the pit Andrew went, the
hotter it became. Sparks sifted through the air like dancing
specters watching the scene with heated malice. His face dripped
with the heat. His clothes stuck to his skin. Above him he could
hear the cries of the freed slaves as they battled the soldiers.
His eyes burned, and his lungs longed for fresh air. Everywhere,
slaves cried out, pulling against their carts and chains. The great
vat of boiling oil burbled and belched up an array of sparks and
smoke. He pushed further into the haze of smoke until he found
himself at the bottom of the pit. The air was so polluted he could
barely see. Sparks and bits of oil spattered and bubbled out of the
great vat of oil, filling the air and burning his skin. Away from
this large vat were racks and racks of candles, thousands upon
thousands, all ready to be carted out of the place before they
melted back into oil from the heat.

Andrew pushed through the crowd of soldiers
surrounding the vat, and brought his sword down on a long chain,
freeing twenty slaves at once. The freed slaves cried out pushing
away from their taskmasters. Andrew moved through the masses,
helping slaves to free themselves, while pushing back the soldiers.
Mud and wax coated the road and walls, making everything slippery
and oily. All around him slaves rushed, helping other slaves to
their feet, fighting and subduing the soldiers.

An old man cried out, trying to pull his
wagon up the steep path so he would not be left behind. Those
already freed rushed past him, seemingly not paying him any mind.
The man stumbled against the heavy wagon. It rolled back hitting
him in the head. He yelped in pain, and fell, tugging at the chain
holding him to the wagon. Andrew ran to the man and brought his
sword against the chain. It broke with a loud snap, sending
brilliant blue sparks into the air.

Andrew helped the man to his feet. “Are you
okay?”

The man groaned, leaning on Andrew for
support. The man’s legs were bowed, and his back bent. He stumbled
forward, hardly able to walk. Before the man could protest, Andrew
lifted the frail man in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” Andrew said, trudging back up
the winding road, towards freedom.

“You should leave me,” the man moaned pulling
against Andrew’s arms. “I’m weak and useless.”

Andrew shook his head, and smiled. “No,” he
said with firm voice. “You are much stronger than you think.”
Andrew set his jaw, and continued up the steep road. He had felt
this man’s strength in the sword. No. He was not useless. He was
not weak. Only those who believed a lie were weak. Only those who
let themselves be trapped by fear, enslaved by deception, who gave
their will away freely, were weak. And this man, though frail and
fragile as he was, was not weak. Andrew was beginning to understand
something. Weakness was something that was in the heart and in the
mind. That type of weakness was far more debilitating than any
physical weakness.

True strength came from truth. Nothing more.
That kind of strength was something that was not measured in
muscle, not tabulated in education, wealth, or possession---but
possession of one’s own mind, will, and strength of soul. That kind
of strength could never be taken away, only given away. And once
that powerful source of strength is given away it is hard to ever
get back. To give it away means you lose the most powerful part of
yourself that makes you, you. It leaves you weaker than a man in a
sick bed could ever be.

“Let me die,” the man moaned, as Andrew
struggled up the slippery road.

Andrew shook his head, and continued walking.
“No.”

“I’m not worth it,” the old man
protested.

“You are to me!” Andrew said those words with
such conviction that the man smiled, his sad face filling with more
light than the host of candles in the entire camp could ever emit.
At first the old man seemed very light in Andrew’s arms, but the
further he trudged up the steep path, the heavier the man became.
His arms screamed, and his back ached. He stepped in a muddy, waxy
patch of earth, and nearly dropped the old man. But he caught his
footing and continued on. Many other slaves passed by him, moving
much more quickly.

Still he continued onward though it seemed
like he was miles away from where he had started. Through the
smoke, sparks, and mud he marched until finally he reached the top
of the pit.

“There he is!” Freddie cried. Once Freddie
spotted him, a loud cheer ran through the gathering. All around him
stood freed slaves, their faces gaunt, and dirty---their clothes
torn and filthy. But their eyes were filled with light.

The entire camp of slaves had been taken in a
night---every soldier defeated. No one seemed to notice the bodies
of the soldiers strewn across the ground, their gray bodies meshing
into the waxy earth as if they, too, were becoming wax.

Someone took the old man from Andrew’s arms
as the crowd of freed slaves surrounded him in a cheering mass.

Hands reached out at him---dirty hands,
weary, work worn hands, but strong hands. Andrew wondered how
strong they could be if they would all rise up together.

Andrew’s throat grew tight. His eyes grew
misty, and his heart swelled with gratitude.

The summoning was only just beginning.

Words

Andrew moved ahead of his new army of freed slaves.
Bedraggled and as weary as they were, they had a glow about them
that shone even through their dirty skin.

Young and old, women, men---all sang and
rejoiced at their new freedom. Their music carried far, and swelled
through the air as they walked, like an unseen flag that bore the
banner of he whom they served, their master of light, mercy,
justice and truth. Theirs was the song of freedom, of redemption,
of awakening, and second chances.

Their minds were awake. Their hearts alive.
Their eyes clear, their ears ready to listen.

Flicker flew before the army of slaves,
directing them across the waxy land into a country full of chalky
white dirt, and green pools of clear water, to the edge of a
granite city that gleamed in the sun. The city was fortified by
glittering walls and tall willow trees with leaves that had turned
yellow from the autumn frost. The city of Copious was indeed as its
name sounded. It spread out over the land like a vast canopy full
of people and abundance. It was neither lacking any comfort, nor
any luxury. From its tallest buildings to its shortest tower,
everything was embellished, beautified, bedecked, and bedazzled.
All was full, plentiful, populated, and prominent. The city was a
plentiful paradise fit for kings.

The army of slaves surged through the gates
of Copious, pushing the unready soldiers and watchmen aside by
their vast numbers and weapons.

A great cry went up through the city, a cry
of woe and wonder. Though there were soldiers in plenteous numbers
throughout the city, they were taken off guard by the flood of
savage-looking slaves. They had not imagined nor prepared for such
an affront of armed people coming against them.

“To the center of the city!” Andrew cried,
standing atop the wagon that bore the unsaid words. “There we will
make our stand!”

The army of slaves moved through the city,
subduing any who would hinder them from their course. They were an
unstoppable force that drew power from the truth they held in their
hearts.

With each step they took closer to the center
of the city, the louder the chest of words throbbed, moaned,
groaned and creaked, as if tearing at the inside of its prison with
desperate hands. Andrew sat atop the wagon, as his horse struggled
to move the heavy chest of words to its final destination. The
slaves fought their way through the gathering soldiers, creating a
path for Andrew’s horse.

The wagon moved slowly, creaking laboriously,
weary of the load it bore. With each step the wagon slowed, as if
the chest was growing heavier and heavier.

“Keep going!” Andrew encouraged his horse.
“You can do it.”

The horse breathed deeply, its body shiny
with sweat, its head bowed, its nostrils flaring as it pulled the
heavy cart painfully forward.

With each step, the chest thump, thump,
thump, thumped, like a host of powerful drummers, the sound rising
and falling over the noisy crowd.

Andrew leaned against the chest, his hands
resting on the lock, feeling the chest vibrate against his hands
like something living. He stared across his army, far out into the
city, with keen eyes. It was a city full of every kind of nothing
you could ever want. It was extravagant, ostentatious, large, and
boisterous. Everyone was in everyone’s faces. To Andrew it seemed a
place where people didn’t look you in the eye, and when they did,
it was to glare at you because you had probably stepped on their
foot or accidentally touched them. They were judgmental and
quick-tempered. They were narrow minded, and vastly uninformed.

They knew just enough to know nothing. And
the nothings they thought they knew, they knew emphatically. They
kept their traditions with zeal and a certain amount of
religiosity. They were shiny, surfacey, clean people, polished,
possessing everything except one thing.

The truth.

Oh, they thought they knew the truth. But
when it came down to it, they only knew half truths, which were
twice as bad as believing outright lies. These half-truthers had
upturned noses and narcissistic personalities. Oh, they weren’t all
bad. They cared for one another. That is, if that meant caring for
one of their own, whomever that might be at the moment.

They were sweet-lovers in every sense of the
word. Anything just a little tart, bitter, or strange, new or
slightly different, they rejected, pounced upon, pulled down,
ripped apart, much like a rhino stamping out a fire.

They disliked interruption, disliked bad
news. Yet they thrived on it in a morbid sort of way, as if it
applied to everyone but themselves. They liked their quiet,
regulated lives. They worked, ate, went to school, and did
everything that was expected of them, much like an orderly beehive.
Even if that beehive teetered and swayed above a steep precipice,
attached only to a thin string, they cared not. This thin string
had been strong, and unbreakable for many years. It was something
that held them firmly in place, something strong, steady, and
secure. Yet, year by year, hour by hour, there were those in the
beehive that fought against the cord holding them in place, arguing
its usefulness. So day by day, year by year, leaders in the beehive
invented ridiculous excuses to cut small threads of the thick cord,
until, thread by thread, the thick cord was not a thick cord at
all. But a very thin thread.

And for some time, because that thread was
made strong, even though it was a thin string, it held the beehive
in place for many years. Many argued that the thin, little string
had held them for the bulk of their lives and would still hold them
for many years to come.

After so much time had passed, people forgot
that there had been a strong cord holding them in place. They only
remembered the thin string. No one would venture out and see the
thin thread that was holding them from certain destruction. It was
better to just be ignorant, for who could do anything about it
anyway?

Some upstarts had suggested they move. Others
even said that they should perhaps fix the string. Others protested
that the string should be cut because it was binding them down,
just like all the other cords they had cut away. So while some held
a knife to the string, others held their hands over their eyes and
continued on like nothing was wrong. Others protested that those
holding the knifes were the ones actually protecting the hive.
Thus, their lives continued on in the same manner. Until Andrew and
his band of freed slaves entered the city.

Soldiers buzzed, cries rang out, and men
shouted. Andrew’s army pushed through the city demanding food,
weapons, and help, urging them to wake up, to do something about
the fraying thread their city was held in place by.

The streets were stirring with angry people,
both young and old. Some started arguing over the thickness of the
thread, others argued over the weight of the hive and those cutting
away at the thread. Others argued that the thread was old in the
first place, and that it should be replaced. Yet none realized that
if the thread was cut, the hive would fall to destruction.

Andrew knew it was his job to warn the people
of their peril, before it was too late.

The time had come. It could not be delayed
any longer. Andrew’s horse jerked to a stop, and stood in the
center of the city, its great body heaving from the massive weight
it had just carried. The chest of unsaid words puffed in windy
gusts through the cracks in its wood as if gasping, begging for
air, for a voice, for a chance to finally speak.

Andrew’s band of slaves fought to hold off
the great mass of soldiers that crowded in around them. The clash
of swords and weapons was deafening. But above the noise of battle,
the droning, weary, mournful tones of the unopened chest rose.