Hidden Fragments Chapter 31

Peace and Hoofbeats

Previously on Hidden Fragments

After a fierce encounter with the fallen Seraphiel, Calen meets the mysterious hermit Elior Bran. The old man leads him through the mountains and reveals Calen’s next destination: the distant town of Ömstead, where the remaining Scrolls may be found.

Meanwhile, Marisa, Isola, Tobin, and Pax flee through the forest as soldiers close in. In a risky act of loyalty, Ronan rides away to draw the pursuers off their trail, leaving the others hidden among the rocks to wait for his safe return.

While danger gathers in the forest below, Calen arrives at Elior’s hidden dwelling deep within a silent woodland, where the hermit promises there is still much they must discuss.

I hope you will enjoy the next chapter.

Chapter 31

Peace and Hoofbeats

When Calen reached the top of the spiral staircase and looked around, he marveled at the sight stretching before him. Everywhere, natural beauty unfolded in quiet majesty. To his right he could clearly see the Grey Mountains. The Bridge of Echoes lay hidden from view, yet the mere sight of those massive slopes, their rugged, stony peaks rising against the sky and the memory of where he had come from caused him to shiver.

To his left lay Ömstead once more, resting beside the water. From here it appeared even smaller than from his earlier viewpoint, but knowing it would be his next stop, he eyed it with great curiosity. Beyond it rose more mountains, blue and distant. Those peaks no longer belonged to their country.

If he turned his head only slightly away from the shimmering lake and the tiny houses of Ömstead, vast forests rolled toward the horizon, dark and endless. If only he had wings, he would stretch them wide and lift himself into the open air. How wonderful it would be to be a bird and to soar upon hidden currents, to let the wind carry him to places unseen by man and where the Council of Twelve had no say.

Somewhere below, a faint sound caught his attention. He looked down and saw, at the edge of the grassy field, a deer stepping cautiously from the shelter of the forest. It lowered its head and began to graze, though one ear flicked now and then. After a moment it lifted its gaze toward him. Did it see him? Maybe, but the animal did not seem troubled by the fact that Calen watched.

“Pretty, isn’t it, Young Pilgrim?”

Elior’s voice broke gently through his thoughts. “I love to sit here during my prayer time. If you would like, you can join me in my morning devotions tomorrow at five. You will see the sun rise.”

“I—I…” Calen muttered. “Of course, Elior. Whatever you say.”

Elior looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes. Was the old man teasing him?

“It’s early,” Elior admitted, “but you will find it a sacrifice worth making.”

“You can wake me up,” Calen said quickly. “I’ll be glad to join you.”

“Not me,” Elior said. “It’s the birds. They will wake you.”

“The birds?” Calen repeated. “I thought you said there were no birds.”

“I did not say that,” Elior laughed. “I said they were not around when you arrived. But they are here. Every morning at five, they come and wake me up. It is a sign that all is safe and that all is in the hands of God.”

He gestured toward the valley below.

“And then, after our morning service, they fly out on their various missions for God. Yes, Calen, all creation works for God, and all creation celebrates His glory. That includes the birds of the air, the deer in the field, and the trees that clap their hands for joy in praise of their Creator.”

He let out a soft sigh.

“It is only man without faith who just seeks to serve himself. It will be some time before this world truly becomes God’s world, but it will happen, as it is written in the Scrolls. And that is why finding the remaining Scrolls is of such great importance.”

Calen nodded, amazed at how easily Elior seemed to weave the God of the Scrolls into everything he said and did.

Marisa would have loved to meet him. The hermit truly lived for one thing alone: the glory of God.

“But come,” Elior said good-natured. “I invited you for raspberry tea, so let’s get you inside, while I prepare some hot water.” He opened the door with a creak and motioned for Calen to enter into his quaint little tree house. “I’ll be there soon,” he said in apologetic tones. He pointed to a small stone hearth near the door and said with a boyish grin, “My kitchen. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”

A ripple of unease rose, as he didn’t like to enter the privacy of the hermit’s home while the man himself was still outside, preparing tea. But seeing the hermit’s encouraging smile, he nodded and stepped inside.

He entered another world altogether.

The room was not very large; of course it wasn’t, as it only needed to serve one hermit. Yet the space felt open, rather than confined. Light streamed in from every side through large windows set into the walls. Most of the windows were framed with intricate latticework, while a few smaller ones were made of stained glass that scattered rich colors across the floor.

The home seemed to have become part of the tree, or perhaps the tree had grown around the home. Thick, living branches curved naturally through the structure, serving as supports for the walls and ceiling. The roof was made of wooden paneling that followed the natural rise of the branches. It smelled of sap and old wood warmed by the afternoon sunlight.

In one corner stood a wooden bed covered by an intricate quilt, sporting images of flowers and birds. The rest of the room held carefully constructed seats and tables that almost seemed part of the tree itself. Everything was breathing life and light. Calen knew if he ever would have the chance, he would love to live in a place like this.

He envisioned working at one of the tables, writing books and translating Scrolls while casting an occasional look outside, to drink in the beauty of creation and so be filled with fresh inspiration. There was a rug on the floor that made it cozy. It made everything feel alive, and yet peaceful; a haven of rest in a world of tribulation. In the middle there was a cupboard that was literally carved out of the tree itself and contained shelves with jars of honey and jams. Above it hung a large quantity of various herbs and roots, presumably for preparing dinner.

Should he sit down somewhere?

Calen wasn’t sure, and afraid he’d be sitting in the wrong seat, he kept standing. Luckily, it didn’t take long for the hermit to return with a pot of boiling water.

“You like it here?” Elior asked, as he placed the pot on a table and took some dried raspberry leaves from a jar.

“I love it,” Calen replied.

“Good,” Elior said simply. He turned his attention to the tea and began to pour.

Calen listened to the sound of the cups being filled. It reminded him of Isola’s home. And that memory brought Marisa sharply to the forefront of his mind. A deep longing rose within him; not painful, but heavy, like homesickness for a place he had not yet returned to.

Elior looked up and noticed.

“Don’t worry, Young Pilgrim. Your journey has not ended, and neither is Marisa’s or the journey of the people she is with. Be faithful to your calling, and all will be well.”

He paused.

“But first, we will have our tea. Then we will talk about your mission, and what still needs to happen.”

Calen couldn’t help but smile.

Why was it that faith, true faith in the God of the Scrolls, made everything seem so simple?

***

“Must we stay here much longer?” Tobin grumbled in a small, complaining voice. The first thrill of their flight through the forest had already faded. They had been here for more than an hour, and there was nothing for him to do. For a while he had circled the great boulder with Pax at his heels. His patience was gone. At last, he suggested taking Pax for a walk. “There’s a stream nearby. I can hear it and Pax is thirsty.”

Marisa shook her head. “Sorry, Tobin. Not now. It’s too dangerous. We need to stick together.”

“I’ll be really careful,” he objected in a whiny voice, but Marisa would not be persuaded.

“You wanted to be like Calen,” Isola suggested. “Well, this is your chance to be like him. Sometimes bravery means staying put. Just obey, Tobin. Like Calen did.”

“Calen didn’t listen to God so well,” Tobin pouted. “He believed that horrible Vrax person.”

“And it almost cost Marisa her life, young man,” Isola said, her voice sharp and laced with anger. “Guard your tongue, Tobin.”

“Sorry,” Tobin replied. “It’s just that I am tired of sitting around.”

“Yes, and so are we.” Isola said. “We just have to wait. And that’s that.”

From the look in her eyes, Marisa could tell that Isola herself was growing restless.

She understood it all too well. These were the moments when faith felt thin. When waiting felt like weakness. Yet, they had to resist the whispering doubts that urged them to take matters into their own hands.

Ronan had said, he would return. And the soldier was right. They did not know this region at all. Unless she sensed clearly that they must move on, they had to wait.

“Tobin?” Marisa said.

“Yes, Marisa… what?”

“Why don’t you play a game with your mother? It will keep you busy. I’ll stand watch.”

Tobin’s face brightened at once. That sounded far better than waiting. “What kind of game?”

Marisa glanced at Isola, hoping she approved of the idea. Isola smiled.

From her travel bag Marisa took a small wooden sand timer and set it on a flat stone.

“You first, Tobin. I want you to listen very carefully to every sound you hear. When the sand runs out, you must tell us everything you noticed. Then it will be your mother’s turn. Whoever remembers the most, wins.”

Tobin immediately entered into the spirit of the game. He shut his eyes tightly as Marisa turned the sand timer. Pressing himself against the rock, he became nearly a small statue, silent and motionless.

Meanwhile Marisa also listened, tense and alert, hoping to catch some sign of Ronan. But she heard only the whisper of wind through the trees.

“Stop!” she said, when the last grain fell. “Open your eyes, Tobin. What did you hear?”

Tobin pressed his lips together and thought hard.

“I… um… heard the wind. And far away there was a cuckoo. And… um… Pax was snoring.” A wide grin spread across his face. “And I heard your stomach rumbling, Marisa.”

Marisa laughed. It was true. She had not eaten a thing. They had fled in such haste that morning that she had not even had the chance of eating anything.

“Four things,” she said. “Let us see if your mother can do better.”

She turned the sand timer again and nodded for Isola to begin.

Tobin watched intently, listening almost as carefully as his mother, whose eyes were tightly shut. But before the sand had finished falling, Isola’s eyes flew open.

“Horses’ hooves.”

“That’s only one thing!” Tobin crowed. “And you didn’t even wait for the sand timer. I’ve won.”

Marisa did not answer him. She stared at Isola. “I hear nothing.”

“Yes,” Isola whispered. “And it’s growing louder. Something is coming this way.”

Now Marisa heard it too.

Still distant, but the rhythmic pounding of hooves was unmistakable.

“Ronan?” Isola asked uncertainly.

“I don’t know,” Marisa replied. “Let us hope so.” She wanted to say more, but the words caught in her throat. Not because she was afraid, yet the thought of once more standing face to face with one of Droskar’s brutes was not pleasant.

The rider was close now. At any moment he would break into view.

Pax leapt to his feet and began to growl. Tobin wrapped his arms around the dog and hushed him.

Then a soldier emerged from the undergrowth.

“Ronan!” Isola cried in relief. “It’s Ronan!”

The former vassal of Droskar rode toward them, his face damp with sweat, a broad grin beneath it. When he saw Marisa, he called cheerfully, “I told you I would return. I feared you might have moved on.”

“How did it go?” Marisa asked as she ran up to him. “It seems your ruse succeeded.”

Ronan nodded, plainly pleased. “I ran into them almost at once. Three of them—Karsov, Mirek, Volen. Not such gentle men. It’s a mercy they never saw you.”

He gave a short laugh. “I didn’t even let them question me. I shouted, ‘You’re riding the wrong way! Droskar sent me. The fugitives were seen heading toward the White Hills.’”

He cast Marisa a broad grin. “Told them you’d fled there, hiding in a cave, gathering followers, preparing curses. The same boils that laid the captain low.”

Marisa could not suppress a laugh. “And they believed you?”

“They were half-believing it already,” Ronan said. “The moment I mentioned the boils, their courage drained out of their faces. Fear does most of the work, if you give it a name.” He shrugged. “I rode ahead as though I knew the path. When the brush thickened, I vanished.”

His expression sobered. “But they won’t be fooled forever. Our time is limited. Sooner or later they will discover that no one fled toward the White Hills.”

“And you?” Marisa asked quietly. “You cannot go back.”

Ronan shook his head firmly. “Nor do I wish to. I told you, I will no longer serve among the soldiers of the Council of Twelve.” He sighed, speaking more to himself than to the others. “What becomes of me, I do not yet know. That is a concern for another day.”

Then, more briskly: “Come. We must ride for the Waystation. I believe we shall be safe there, at least for the night.”

Tobin climbed up behind Marisa once more, and Isola mounted behind Ronan.

“If we press on,” Ronan said, “we should arrive within two hours.”

The horn sounded again, faintly, almost swallowed by the wind.

For now, it was far behind them.

Marisa bowed her head in silent thanks.

For now, they were safe.

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