Hidden Fragments Chapter 32

Previously on Hidden Fragments…

Calen found refuge in the hermit Elior’s tree dwelling, where peace and faith gave him clarity. It renewed his sense of calling. The hermit is determined to use their time well, guiding him in the wonders of the God of the Scrolls.

Meanwhile, Marisa, Isola, and Tobin remained hidden, their patience tested as danger closed in. When hoofbeats finally broke the silence, it was Ronan who had deceived Droskar’s soldiers and bought them time.

But was it enough?

With the enemy still searching, the fugitives were forced onward… racing toward the Waystation, the hunt close behind.

Chapter 32

About Hermits and Ruins

Calen was no fervent tea lover. Given the choice, he would much rather have a mug of Ogre Ale, though in truth he almost never set foot in a tavern. Such places were not meant for him, and he preferred to keep well away from them.

Yet the tea Elior set before him tasted better than anything he had ever drunk. It was rich and fragrant; with sweet herbs Calen did not recognize. He drained the cup and licked his lips, unwilling to waste even the last drop. When Elior asked whether he would like another, his eyes lit up like a boy’s.

After refilling Calen’s cup, Elior walked to the window and looked out across the fields toward Ömstead.

“If I were younger, I would go with you Young Pilgrim,” he said, without turning, his figure casting a shadow across the room. “But that cannot be. I do not believe it is God’s will.”

“Of course,” Calen replied politely, “I would not mind the company. I must admit I feel rather lonely without Marisa. But I understand that you cannot come.”

He forced a cheerful smile. “Besides, you said that Ömstead is more or less my final stop. The work is nearly finished. I’ll be back here with the last missing Scrolls before you know it.”

His words faltered as he spoke the last sentence.

“Ömstead…”

The name brought an uneasy silence. The thought of more conflict and whatever troubles might be waiting in that small town by the lake, left him unsettled. Yet he had come too far to turn back now.

One final step.

And then it would be done.

He would deliver the last Scrolls neatly to Elior and return to Marisa, and to all his other new friends.

Elior turned around. His face was peaceful, almost fatherly, yet Calen sensed a deep seriousness beneath it.

“After your final stop, Young Pilgrim,” Elior said quietly, “your work will only truly begin.”

A jolt ran through Calen. More danger? More trials? When would he finally lie down in the green pastures beside the quiet waters, the Scrolls had promised?

“W-what do you mean?” he stammered.

“Why do you think God chose you to gather the Scrolls?” Elior asked.

Calen flushed and stared at his hands.

“I… I truly do not know. I am grateful that God has called me to Him, but when it comes to gathering the Scrolls, I know many others who would be far better suited for such a task. Marisa, for example… and you. Well, you may be older, but you would surely do far better than I ever could.”

“But I cannot write very well,” Elior said with a gentle smile. “You can. You are a scribe, and not just any scribe. You are a very good one, and you love God as well. I do not know many like that.”

Calen opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words would not come. He stared into Elior’s face and felt the weight of what was being said. Now was not the time for arguments, doubts or idle talk.

“How many Scrolls have you brought me?” Elior asked again.

Calen did not know exactly. Marisa would have known. She never forgot details like that.

“I… um… thirty, perhaps… forty.”

“Thirty-five, to be precise,” Elior said with a gentle smile.

“H-how do you know that?” Calen asked, his voice trembling.

“God is a living God, Young Pilgrim. He speaks. He knows all things.”

Calen stared at him, letting the words settle. His mind raced.

Thirty-five… That was fewer than he had hoped. Marisa had said there were sixty-six Scrolls in all. He was barely halfway through his quest. Which meant, there were many more dangers ahead.

Elior seemed to read his thoughts, for a wide grin spread across the old hermit’s face.

“I have good news for you, Young Pilgrim.”

Calen leaned forward.

“What?”

Elior lifted a hand and pointed toward a fur chest in the corner.

“There are already twenty-five Scrolls in there.”

Calen jumped to his feet.

“You have Scrolls?”

“Of course, Young Pilgrim,” Elior said calmly. “God knows what He is doing. It was no accident that the traitor Sylvain Vrax sent you here. Even evil itself is turned toward the good of His children.”

Calen sank back into his chair and began counting in his mind.

Sixty Scrolls in total…

Twenty-five were already here.

Yes, that meant sixty in all.

He swallowed. “Sixty Scrolls,” he whispered. “Then I am almost finished.”

But a small, unpleasant thought followed. “What if there are duplicates?”

Elior grinned.

“No, Young Pilgrim. There is only one copy of each Scroll. They were never duplicated. Writing materials are scarce. Few people can write, and copying is dangerous. Each original was treated as sacred, and guarded with great care.”

A knowing smile played at Elior’s mouth.

“So, no duplicates. Only originals.”

The hermit cleared his throat.

“But now I have another question for you.”

He studied Calen closely.

“What do you think God wants us to do with all those Scrolls?”

“I… don’t know,” Calen said.

“Yes, you do,” said Elior. “Think, Young Pilgrim.”

Calen closed his eyes and thought. Perhaps Elior was an old prophet who needed the Scrolls for secret gatherings of believers in some dark forest. He could almost see them gathered in the shadows while Elior preached from the ancient words.

Yes. That must be it.

Elior needed those Scrolls.

He looked up and said, “God wants you to preach from them.”

Elior chuckled. “Me, preaching in a dark forest? In secret, as if we should be afraid to share the word of God?”

Calen looked down, blushing. He did not know what to say.

Elior shook his head.

“Wrong, Calen.”

The old man leaned back and studied him with a serious expression.

“I would love to preach, Young Pilgrim, but I cannot anymore. My eyes are not what they once were, and my days are numbered. That is not the answer. Think a little further.”

He rose, walked to the cabinet with the herbs, pulled out a book and handed it to Calen.

A shock ran through Calen and he shivered, as his fingers touched the rough, leather cover.

It was the Book of Order.

As he stared at the hated tome the urge rose to throw it away. This was the book that contained so many lies. They should burn it like the Scroll that Seraphiel had tried to force upon him. Through the doctrines in this book the country was steeped in gross darkness. Why would Elior have a copy of this book?

He looked at Elior, confused.

“W-what is this?” he asked.

“You know what it is,” Elior said. “Just open it and read what is written on the first page.”

Pushing his resentment aside, Calen opened the heavy cover. A musty smell rose from the pages. Surely Elior had not opened it in years.

His eyes moved slowly over the title page.

The Book of Order

This book is the pure word of the Order, free from error and doubt.
All who assist in its creation are registered as servants of its truth.
The following people have assisted in copying the truth:
Balthor of Ömstead
Tovan Rheel
Draven Holt

Calen’s heart began to pound. Suddenly he knew what was coming. His breath caught in his throat as he read the next name on the list.

Calen Fairwind (friend of Drenick)

A bitter taste flooded his mouth.

His own name stared back at him from the page like an accusation. Forever tied to that book of lies. Not something that could easily be undone.

Elior looked at him almost sheepishly.

“I believe, Young Pilgrim…,” the hermit began, his words soft but clear, “…you already know how to write books. The proof is right before your eyes.”

Calen looked up, almost expecting a righteous rebuke, but the hermit’s eyes held none. Instead, they twinkled.

“I do not write very well,” Elior continued. “But you do. I believe this is what God is asking of you: to write His words.”

A strange ripple of cold and warmth coursed through Calen’s body at the same time.

Writing God’s words…

Now he began to understand.

Elior sat down again and placed a warm hand on Calen’s knee.

“You see, Young Pilgrim?”

“You want me to gather all the Scrolls and bind them into one book?” Calen asked.

Elior shook his head gently.

“I believe that is what God wants you to do,” he said. “But not one book, Young Pilgrim. Dozens of books. In fact, hundreds.”

His eyes brightened as he spoke.

“It is God’s will that His Word will flow across the land like the waters cover the sea. Every farmer, every baker, every child, everyone must have the Word.”

He squeezed Calen’s knee lightly.

“And that is what you must do.”

“But… but…” Calen protested. “I cannot do that. I am only one man.”

Elior laughed softly.

“God knows that. You cannot do this alone. But this is His plan.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“He will give you help. You must find faithful scribes who will help you.”

Elior’s voice grew firm.

“But it must be done. The time has come for the light to drive out the darkness.

The light of God’s Word will bury the lies of the Council of Twelve. Not in a day, and not in a week, but step by step. People will come to know the truth of the Word, and they will be changed by it.”

“But men like Droskar, Slink and Drenick will burn all those books,” Calen protested. “It will never work.”

Elior laughed.

“Wrong again, Young Pilgrim. No man can stand against the Word of the God of the Scrolls.”

He leaned back and folded his hands.

“Long ago there was an apostle named Paul. You copied some of his Scrolls. People memorized them and passed them on.”

His voice grew thoughtful.

“In his time there was persecution, just as terrible as today. Yet his letters were preserved.”

Elior looked at Calen steadily.

“The books you and your friends will write will endure as well. For the Spirit of God lives within the Book, and nothing, no man and no council, can stand against the God of the Scrolls.”

Calen gasped. “But… so much work.”

“It is,” Elior agreed. “But you will receive help. God has told me that help will come from unexpected places.”

Silence settled over the hermit’s tree hut.

Far in the distance Calen heard a gurgling stream, its sound faint, yet clear and refreshing as though its waters were washing away every trace of doubt still clinging to his mind.

What a vision the hermit had set before him.

He imagined spending his days working with the Word of God. Copying, writing, and being immersed in it. The thought of bending over a desk, quill in hand, while serving God filled him with joy.

And yet, a dark shadow rose as well. It meant he would not be returning to Isola, Tobin and Marisa anytime soon.

This would be his work for the rest of his life.

Elior coughed softly.

“As for Marisa… she will help you. Do not worry. There is nothing she would rather do than serve God together with you.”

He paused.

“But first, there is something else we must do.”

“Something else?” Calen asked. A restless feeling stirred inside him. He had already heard so much that he was not sure he wanted to hear more.

“Something good,” Elior said reassuringly. “We will go together to the river by the forest.”

“To the river?”

“I wish to pray for you,” Elior said softly. “We will ask God to give you His Spirit.”

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“The Waystation,” Ronan announced with a grin.

Tobin let out a long breath. It was about time. Both his back and his bottom ached from the long, jarring ride behind Marisa on Whisperwind, and he was more than ready to stretch his legs.

But Marisa seemed hesitant.

He felt her muscles tighten beneath his arms. She brought Whisperwind to a halt and looked at Ronan.

Why did she stop? Did she truly trust him?

Perhaps she was thinking of Sylvaine Vrax again. Tobin remembered how Marisa had once told him that Sylvaine Vrax had led them to a similar place before, only for them to walk straight into a trap.

Her hesitation made him uneasy. He gave her side a small squeeze and whispered, “I don’t like the look of this place, Marisa.”

She glanced back at him and gently brushed a hand over his hair. There was no fear in her eyes. Only concern. “We are in God’s hands, Tobin,” she spoke softly. “Just like Calen, we must trust Him.”

Ronan looked up.

Tobin felt the man’s gaze.

Did that rough soldier know what they were thinking? Perhaps he did, but Ronan’s eyes were nothing like those of Sylvaine Vrax. These eyes were clear and carried a kind of honesty Tobin had never once seen in Sylvaine.

Ronan cleared his throat, and Tobin listened closely.

“I understand your concerns, Marisa,” the soldier said quietly. “I know you were trapped once before. But you must believe me. I may have spent my whole life as a soldier in the army of the Council of Twelve, but I give you my word, Marisa. I speak the truth, and I am no liar. Calen saved my life, and you can trust me.”

Tobin felt Marisa relax.

“I’m sorry, Ronan,” she replied softly. “I do trust you.”

Ronan gave a warm smile. “No trouble, Marisa. Let’s make camp here. Tomorrow we’ll ride on to your grandfather’s house.”

Tobin relaxed as well.

So everything was all right. The ride was over for today.

The sun was just sinking behind the distant mountains and Tobin could already feel the chill of the coming night creeping in. His eyes widened when he took a better look at the sagging, crumbling buildings before him. The stonework was overgrown with thistles and moss and gleamed faintly in the last light of the setting sun.

And this was where they were supposed to spend the night?

What a difference from his snug little bed back home, with the warm quilt his mother had made for him. This was something else entirely, and a warm meal was certainly not part of the arrangement.

A wave of anger rose inside him as he thought of the soldiers who had driven them from their home. They had come, just like that, for no reason at all, and turned their whole lives upside down.

Good gravy.

Who did those fellows think they were?

But the God of the Scrolls would teach them a lesson. And if He wouldn’t, then surely Calen would… although…

Something deep in his heart whispered that the thoughts he was having now might not be the thoughts of God, and that perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking this way at all. He didn’t quite understand it, so he pushed them away.

Maybe a good run with Pax. Explore the place a little.

Yes, that sounded much better.

When they reached the ruined Waystation, he slid down from Whisperwind’s back, and turned to Pax.

“Come on, boy. Let’s have a look around.”

Pax gave him an unwilling look and didn’t seem eager for another expedition.

Isola had similar ideas.

“Stay here, Tobin,” his mother called. “It’s getting dark, and we’ve never been here before.”

“But Mother,” Tobin complained. “I’ve been on a horse all day.”

“I know something you can do instead,” Marisa added in a tired voice. She fixed him with a steady look, and Tobin felt it would be wise to obey. He loved Marisa almost as much as his mother, and it was clear no one wanted an argument. “If you still have that much energy, you can go with Ronan and gather some wood, so we can make a fire.”

That was a fair alternative.

While Marisa and Isola searched for a place to sleep among the ruins, Tobin followed Ronan, who was looking for firewood. Even Pax perked up again and trotted loyally after him.

But where would they find proper firewood here?

Ronan found a few collapsed beams and began chopping pieces off with his sword, but loose branches were nowhere to be seen.

Pax, however, seemed to have caught a scent. He moved his nose tensely along the ground and began following a trail. First he veered right, then left, but soon he was running faster and faster.

“What’s gotten into that dog?” Ronan asked, glancing up from his work on the beam.

“Don’t know!” Tobin shouted back as he started running after Pax. “A trail! He found something!”

Ronan stopped working and followed Tobin, his sword still in his hand.

“Careful, Tobin,” he said tensely. “This isn’t our ground.”

Pax disappeared behind a crumbling wall. Tobin and Ronan hurried to keep up but when they saw Pax again, they exchanged puzzled looks.

The dog stood before a ruined stretch of thick wall, growling softly while pushing his nose against the stones.

“What’s he doing?” Tobin asked.

“There’s something in that wall,” Ronan said.

“Out of the way, Pax,” he added as he stepped forward and gently nudged the dog aside. His hand slid over the stones where Pax had been pressing his nose, and his eyes widened with excitement when he found a loose stone.

He worked the stone loose with his fingers until it slipped free.

A cold draft drifted from the hole in the wall.

Tobin’s breath caught in his throat.

A dark hole appeared, just large enough for Ronan to slip his hand inside. A moment later he pulled it back out.

To their surprise, the soldier was holding a small, simple scroll.

“By the Whiskers of Saint Gilles,” Tobin said. “Pax has found a Scroll.”

As they stared at the Scroll and then at each other, a night owl screeched from the ruins and flapped into the dark sky.

Tobin shivered. A Scroll… But, what was it? Was it one of the Scrolls Calen was looking for? They had to show it to Marisa.

Immediately.

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