The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (29 page)

There in the streets of Copious the words
gleaned the people, threshing hearts, changing them, making old
things new, and new things old. One by one, word by word, those who
were unafraid came forth ready to face the thing they had helped to
create. Here, Andrew stood and watched as the people gathered. A
new kind of people. An army humbled and willing to face the things
they had so long kept hidden, or neglected.

Here, the voices would spread. Here even in
this pompous city full of porcelain people, was a mine of “gems” to
be had.

Andrew smiled, feeling goose bumps appear on
his arms as wispy words swirled around him, whispering vivid truths
that had not been spoken in the streets for over a hundred
years.

Heard on the Wind

Lancedon, Coral, Sterling, and Zeechee’s band of men
journeyed far from the forest where their paths first met. The
unrelenting heat of the drought had suddenly ceased as if someone
had turned a switch that caused the heavens to pour down rain and
frost. The Drought was at an end, but something else was coming.
Something subtle, cunning, and deceptive---darkness perhaps?

In Zeechee and his men, Lancedon had found
true friends, and patriots. Their help and friendship was enough to
give Lancedon hope that many men just like Zeechee were waiting for
someone to follow.

Day by day, though encased in darkness,
Lancedon could feel his senses expand. Like a butterfly in the
darkest cocoon, his mind had grown wings, and these wings were
beginning to take him to places of unknown heights. His wisdom had
grown sharper, his judgment keener, his hearing better, his sense
of light and darkness more vivid.

Though blind, he knew now that light and
darkness was much more than something you saw, or something you
didn’t see. He could
feel
light, just as he could feel the
darkness, though he could perceive neither with his human eyes.

Light and darkness carried with it a feeling,
a pulse, a spirit of its own. Darkness and light were living,
breathing entities that gave wages to those who served them, light
unto light, and darkness unto darkness.

Where darkness constricted, light loosened
and expanded and grew, gave, and never diminished. Yet for all
this, the people chose to hold onto the darkness. They clutched at
it as if it would save them, and it clutched back, binding them in
fear, and darkness, keeping them from ever stepping outside the
prison that the darkness had created for their minds and bodies. It
was if the people of the earth had become a different species
altogether. Becoming wholly undesirable, something that could not
think, trust, or act for themselves. Nor would they question why
they held onto this darkness with such desperate-and at
times-violent aggression, afraid of anything that threatened the
chains that held them in place.

It was as if they were afraid to see the
light, afraid to hear the truth, because once they opened their
minds, they might look and see the awful place they were in.

Perhaps it was better not to know. Because
once you knew, you had to act. And to act is a frightening thing.
Yes. It was far better to remain as they were. For in their bonds
was a sense of safety, a sense of unity, a sense of direction, even
if that direction was heading to an endless abyss they could not
see.

Lancedon was blind. But he could see that the
chains that held the people of the earth were something far more
binding than even his blindness. For theirs was a blindness of the
soul. It was as if they had forgotten how to feel, forgotten who
they were.

Lancedon did not need to see the people to
feel their malice. It emanated off them like an unpleasant odor.
His senses had grown so keen that he could smell the odor of
darkness, and the sickness of the polluted souls that dwelt in the
cities and towns they traveled through. It was is if the darkness
was starting to concentrate itself so much so that it had form, far
more powerful than a shadow.

Lancedon had passed through many towns full
of this dark odor---a stench that did not wear off very easily.
Most were towns they passed by without stopping at, because of the
foul stench that emanated off them. Though no one else in their
party could smell this odor, Lancedon could, and it was he who
directed them to the places that did not reek of darkness. But even
in towns that had not been so polluted, the grip and influence of
The Fallen was still there, lingering in the shadows, catching hold
and tightening its grip on those who had been conditioned to accept
his lies. All had remained unfriendly, hostile, and threatened them
by violence. Lancedon’s blindness had indeed been a great stumbling
block, especially for those who may have chosen to follow him if he
had not been thus handicapped. No one wanted to follow a blind
leader, much less a blind leader who spoke of revolting from the
very powers they had embraced, and protected.

Lancedon, and those of Zeechee’s men that
followed him were growing weary. No towns would have them. The
cities cast them out.

They were fugitives, outcasts, wanderers in a
land that did not want to hear what they had to say.

Lancedon leaned against a large rock, and
inwardly groaned. The night was a welcome boon to the weary day.
Though cold and ridden with frost, at least it did not smell of
true darkness. His body and his soul felt tired and worn out. They
were lone voices crying out to a world that would not hear them. He
wondered if it was indeed a pointless cause in which they worked.
He and Zeechee’s men had been laughed at, scorned and ridiculed as
conspirators, traitors, and bandits. People had agued that if he
had indeed been the Heir of Danspire, why hadn’t his people rallied
behind him?

That was a good question. He felt a far cry
from the prince he once was. Yet he knew in his heart that the
cause in which they fought was one of the most worthy. It was a
cause that was greater than trying to secure power for himself or
his place on his throne.

They did not want to rally the people to
fight for a meaningless war, or for possessions, or even for land.
But to fight to keep back the tide of darkness. To fight to light
up the world. For if there were no souls who desired light, it
would only be a matter of time until everything, and everyone was
consumed by darkness.

He ran his hand along the cold rock he leaned
against, feeling its smooth surface, trying to imagine what it
looked like. He could hear Coral’s soft voice as she spoke to her
brother, Sterling. He could hear the weary voices of Zeechee’s men
as they battled with the wind, trying to set up tents to keep out
the winter chill.

He sighed and pulled himself onto the rock,
feeling the gritty, cold stone against his skin as he pushed away
from it and stood up. He straightened himself, now on top of the
rock, and let the cold wind blow through his hair and toss his
cape.

The freezing wind pricked his skin,
threatening to throw him off balance. He remained tall as if
challenging the wind to try and make him fall. He smiled and lifted
his chin towards the sky, holding out his arms as if to welcome the
tempest. He could smell the cold, fresh smell of snow on the air,
and the hint of something else. The smell was something he could
not understand. It was something altogether new, and fresh.
Something that smelled of possibility. Something old as time and as
new as spring. This something was powerful,
stirring---startling.

He closed his eyes, though it made no
difference in what he didn’t see. But, through the small act of
closing his eyes, he heard the sounds clearer. The sounds were
muffled, hushed and distant, growing louder as if they came from
the wind itself. The voices were soft, yet powerful, and almost
indefinable like a mirage that vanished if you looked at it too
hard. He listened to the mysterious voices that glistened on the
frosty wind as if blown in from somewhere that could not keep these
words hidden.

The words hummed and swelled, mixing together
into many voices. It was as if someone had opened a vault of
forgotten unsaid, beautiful, sorrowful, powerful, true words, and
these words exploded through the air so he could not be sure what
he heard. Yet their power was not lost in the explosion, but
tripled and multiplied by their sudden release from imprisonment.
These words caused a stirring in Lancedon’s chest, a great
transformation in both his body and spirit.

Something had been born. Something good,
something kept long in the darkness. Now it had come to light. And
no one could shut this something out.

Though he could not understand where they
came from, or what they meant, it gave Lancedon assurance that
something had been unleashed. Something good and powerful.
Something with the power and possibility of softening hard hearts
and moving men into action.

He raised his head to the sky, feeling
suddenly not alone. An overwhelming sense of urgency and duty
encompassed him. It was his job not to let these words go
undetected. He and his men must gather them, must speak them. They
must spread them, must hand them out and give them homes, and a
place to reside.

No. These words would not be shut out.

They would spread and expand, and be heard.
He would see to it that it was thus.

There was more power in these words than in
his sword. He would use these words to ignite the souls of men with
the beauty of these lost, unsaid words.

Voices

The words Andrew had released into the world surged
through the land at the speed of light. The words swirled through
the air like swarms of swallows darting through the earth, cutting
holes in the shroud of gray, looking for a home.

They coursed through villages, towns and
streets, seeking rest. With Lancedon and his men’s help, some words
found rest, and a home in the person who created them. Yet, for
every person who was suddenly awakened by these words of truth, ten
were ashamed and would hide from the words. If they saw or heard
these stray words fluttering around in the streets, fear would grip
them and they would run as far and as fast as they could to get
away from them. Many would lock their doors, and plug off any
openings within their house just to keep the words away. Despite
all this, their unsaid words would follow them, and the unheard
words if daring enough, would creep beneath doors and peek into
open windows, tap, tap tapping for the occupants to let them
in.

Fear, pride, and stubbornness gripped the
people of the earth, and they would not listen, nor would they
speak what they should say.

Stray words that might be otherwise
embarrassing to their maker, were caught and placed in jars and
boxes, and put under lock and key, hidden away once again. If one
looked into the streets of many cities of almost any town on the
earth, you might think that the people were trying to catch
butterflies at the brink of autumn. Men, women, and even some
children, could be seen with nets, chasing after the words to catch
them, and hide them away, never to be heard, spoken, or seen
again.

As much as it was a time of truth, it was a
time of great sadness. For as this flood of unsaid, true words came
to light, they were quickly captured, rejected, scorned, and even
kicked into street corners away from the very ears that needed to
hear them. Those words that had not been tucked away, or caught,
wandered aimlessly through the streets, drifting like purposeless
clouds settling on trees, like leaves, lingering only a moment to
wander again, scorned, and ridiculed. These lost words swirled with
the wind, tossed up like trash. Like orphans whose parents had left
them to fend for themselves, these rejected words accumulated in
streets, trembling in the cover of darkness fearing for their lives
and freedom.

It was a time of deep reflection for those
who heard the unsaid words and began speaking them. Those who
accepted these words became changed. Their countenances became
brighter. Their actions reflected the things they heard. The more
true words that they welcomed to their door, the more they wanted.
Those who welcomed these words quickly scoured the street corners,
glad to give a home to the rejected words. But this action was not
without penalty or danger to those who bravely welcomed these
words.

A scourge was going throughout the land.
Those who kept and nurtured outlawed, dangerous words were quickly
punished. The penalty for such terrible crimes was death. But even
at that high price, there were still those who disobeyed.

The effect of these words on the people was
gradual, hardly noticeable. Yet word by word, bits of truth were
heard more and more. Even though those who dared speak these words
were few, it caused a great uncomfortable feeling to ripple through
the earth. The truth was that the people had become so accustomed
to the altered version of the truth that when the real, genuine
truth did happen to show its face, it was quickly smothered out.
The truth stirred an uncomfortable feeling inside their souls and
made them feel something sharp in their hearts that they did not
want to feel.

No, they told themselves. They were free.
They had always been, and would always be. These who ruled over
them were just, and good men. These were the lies they told
themselves, even as the black mist swirled around them, taking from
them their wealth, their children, and the freedom they thought
they had.

Through all this, still these unclaimed words
lingered, waiting for those souls brave enough to hear, and
speak.

Morack had heard these voices, the product of
the words Andrew had released, and he hated it. The people of the
earth whose eyes had grayed from the endless lies they had
consumed, somehow were beginning to see shafts of light. These
shafts were small, and Morack, was quick to silence them. Any
light, any truth was a threat. The Fallen was quick to silence such
words, and so was Vargas. These three powers ruled the world with
vengeance and disregard.