Hidden Fragments Chapter 9

The journey continues

What happened before:
After surrendering his heart to the God of the Scrolls, Calen felt as though a new light had entered his soul. Yet his newfound peace was soon tested when a dark mist descended, whispering lies, dredging up shame, and urging him to abandon his mission. But Marisa, filled with divine courage, rebuked the fog in the name of Jesus, and the darkness fled. Strengthened by her faith, Calen realized the battle was not against flesh and blood but against unseen powers. When Marisa declared she would join him on his journey to Ömstead, his heart stirred with gratitude and awe. Together, they set their course toward the unknown, carrying the sacred fragments and the promise that the God of the Scrolls would go with them.

Chapter 9

The Road to Bramblebrook

Marisa led the way. She steered her magnificent, spirited horse skillfully away from the cave. Calen followed. He was riding a brown steed; a muscled, sturdy horse with its shining chestnut coat, eager to carry him. Just before mounting, Marisa had pointed the horse out to him and introduced him as Hosanna as she gently patted his nose. The horse neighed in welcome.

“He’s our best,” she said.

Hosanna?

Calen chuckled. His own horse Bob was slow and old, hardly part of his household and now confiscated by Drenick. But Hosanna … what kind of name was that? “

And … your horse?” he asked. “What’s that called?”

“Whisperwind,” Marisa said matter-of-factly. “Fast as the wind. When I ride her, I feel … guided by the God of the Scrolls who is whispering His directions into my ear.” She gave Calen an impatient stare. “Come on, dreamer boy. We’ve got to go.”

Calen marveled at her, and at the quiet hand of heaven that had led him to Marisa. Riding again, feeling the horse’s gait and the scent of the leather saddle, he thanked God silently. So much better riding a horse than walking, and so much faster too.

When they steered the horses over a hill, Marisa stopped and pointed to the grey mountains in the distance. “That’s where we have to go. Ömstead is behind those mountains.”

Calen nodded. “That is far,” he mumbled. “And … do you know the way? I’ve never been to this part of the country.”

“I’ve never been there, either,” she said, “but Ömstead is near the Great Sea and that’s where the sun sinks into the sea, so if we follow the sun, we’ll get there.” Her smile warmed Calen’s heart. Things would not go wrong. How could they? He was now in the service of the God of the Scrolls, together with Marisa. Life could not be better.

He turned around and looked one last time behind him. He could no longer see the cave. The place that had brought him so much joy was now completely covered by the forest and seemed already far away. A strange feeling; part dread, part melancholy, rose as the wind whispered through the nearby trees. He was about to step into unfamiliar territory. Would he ever see his old world again?

“You’ll see it again,” Marisa said, as if she could read his thoughts. “I don’t know how long this mission will last … but don’t worry. I’m eager to return to Grandfather, the goats and even to Winston, who will definitely try to steal my spot on the couch.”

Calen steeled himself. That world was behind him now … and maybe it was better that way.

At that instant, the fluttering and whistling of wings above them in the sky caught their attention. They looked up and saw two doves flying over.

“Carrier pigeons,” Marisa muttered, wrinkling her nose. A shadow of unease crossed her face, and Calen’s stomach tightened.

“Should I be worried?”

She shrugged. “No idea. I only know that the Council of Twelve uses carrier pigeons all the time. What if Slink is warning someone about us?”

Calen ran a hand through his hair. “Slink doesn’t even know where we’re going. Maybe we’re reading too much into this.”

Marisa shrugged dismissively. “We must be vigilant, Calen. A prudent man foresees evil; the simple pass on and are punished.” *

Calen frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It’s from the Scrolls,” she stated simply. “It’s a warning not to take anything for granted. We just have to stay alert … all the time.”

To Calen’s relief, her gentle smile returned. “Now, let’s not linger any longer. A few hours from here lies the town of Bramblebrook. We can rest, gather supplies, and … you might as well start reading the scroll Angus dictated to you. I need to memorize it, and we’ve got no time to waste.”

Calen bent over and slid the scroll Angus had dictated out of his boot. “It sounds like you already know a lot of the Scrolls. You seem to have a passage for every situation.”

“I’ve read them all before,” Marisa said softly. “That was before the Council of Twelve rose to power and began their evil campaign against the Scrolls. I still remember much, but not always in the right order.”

She gestured toward the rolling hills as they rode. “See those fields? Each of them is like a different part of the Scrolls. Some bright, some dark, but all part of God’s plan.”

Calen looked out at the flower-filled meadows and the gurgling streams. “So, the Scrolls are … like a map?”

“Exactly,” Marisa said, smiling. “A map for the pilgrim and a melody for our hearts. It’s like a symphony where every word is a note reflecting heaven. The words aren’t just random thoughts thrown together. Rather, they are God’s own guidance. To understand the whole, we need every book in the right order.”

The horses trotted down a narrow path, and Calen could smell the fresh grass and hear the leaves whisper in the wind. “How many Scrolls are there?” he asked.

“There are sixty-six,” Marisa said, scanning the horizon. “At least, that’s what I know. Others whisper of more, but I’ve never seen them.”

Calen sighed. “Sixty-six? That’s… a lifetime’s work.”

Marisa chuckled. “Then let it be a lifetime’s work. What feels impossible to us is nothing to God. We follow, and He guides.”

Calen marveled. How lovely it was to see Marisa’s faith. He believed too; he truly did, but he knew he had a long way to go. He licked his lips and asked, “And … eh … how many Scrolls, or books do we already have in our possession?”

“Let me see,” Marisa said. “You brought us most of what is called the Book of John. It’s one of the most beautiful writings in all the Scrolls. It’s called a Gospel.”

“Gospel?”

“That means Good News,” Marisa replied. “There are four Gospels, and they contain the words of Jesus Himself.” She paused, thinking, then added, “And I carry a book called Proverbs. It’s kept safe in the lantern. It belongs to the Old Testament, but I’ve already memorized it, so it won’t take us extra time.”

“Wait …” Calen frowned. “What do you mean by ‘the Old Testament’?”

Marisa laughed. “Oh, Calen,” she said warmly. “For a Scribe, you are most uneducated. The entire collection of Scrolls is divided into two parts … but I’ll explain more once we’re on the road.”

She adjusted the strap of her pack and glanced toward the horizon. “Bramblebrook isn’t far, and we’d best reach it before the sun is in its zenith.”

As they rode, he read aloud from the Scroll of John, holding the parchment steady against the horse’s rhythm. The bouncing and swaying made it harder than he expected, but he pressed on, and Marisa repeated the words, letting them sink into her memory. The words mingled with the sounds of the countryside, the song of birds, the rush of a stream, the rhythm of hooves on the earth and for a moment, Calen felt the teachings of the Scrolls as vividly as the land beneath him.

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. **

Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. ***

The hours passed.

The countryside was breathtaking. Lush, flower-filled fields stretched between forests where gurgling streams wound beneath massive, bird-filled trees. Occasional rough stretches of heather broke the scenery with their barren charm. Calen had little time to drink it all in. They were so absorbed in their discussion of the Scrolls, yet he could not help marveling at how he had never seen his own country this way. So vast. So beautiful. So alive.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he could not shake a quiet unease with the knowledge that some eyes might be watching for those carrying the Scrolls. Bramblebrook lay ahead. Beauty and danger mingled on the horizon, as inseparable as light and shadow.

Just as Marisa heaved a satisfied sigh and said she had most of the words from the Scroll of John stored away in her heart, a small boy leaning on a large stick appeared to hobble ahead of them. That was the first sign of life since they had left the cave that morning, and it could only mean Bramblebrook was close.

Swiftly Calen stuck the piece of parchment back into his boot.

“Hello,” Marisa called as they neared the young boy from behind. “Is Bramblebrook still far away?”

The boy froze and slowly turned. Calen’s chest tightened. The child was a bit crippled, barely ten or eleven years old, and his eyes held a quiet sorrow that made Calen look away for a moment.

“A few more miles,” the boy lisped. “I am just going there.”

“Want a ride?” Marisa asked. “You can sit on the back of my horse.”

The boy glanced at her, longing in his eyes, then shook his head. “Mother says I must be careful with strangers. Thank you, but I can walk.”

“Your mother is a wise woman,” Marisa said with a smile. She touched the shiny cross at her neck. “Do you … eh … know what this means?”

The boy’s eyes brightened. He looked from Marisa to Calen and back, hesitant, then whispered, “That is the cross … of Jesus. Do you … belong to Him too?”

“We do,” Marisa said softly.

Calen felt a pang of awe. Amid danger, Marisa had shared her faith with quiet grace and in doing so had found another child of God, one who may have been hungering for hope more deeply than anyone knew.

“Then … eh …” the boy said, “I suppose it’s all right to sit on your horse.” He stepped closer and patted Whisperwind’s nose, smiling shyly. “By my boots, he’s a beauty.”

“His name is Whisperwind,” Marisa said with a fond glance. “He’ll be happy to carry you too.” She turned to Calen. “Will you help him get on safely?”

“Of course,” Calen said. He jumped down, guided the boy forward, and lifted him carefully, settling him securely behind Marisa. Whisperwind snorted softly, as if in approval.

“What’s your name?” Marisa asked as they continued their journey.

“Tobin,” the boy replied. “I’m on my way to the market in Bramblebrook.”

“Ah,” Marisa said. “It’s market day.” She glanced at Calen. “Good news, Calen. At the market, we can buy all the provisions we need for the journey.”

“Are you going far?” Tobin asked.

“Ömstead,” Marisa answered. “And you? Do you live in Bramblebrook?”

“No, ma’am,” the boy said. “I live in the forest where you picked me up. Every Thursday, my mother sends me to the market. She can’t make it herself, so I have to go.”

“But you can hardly walk yourself?” Calen interjected.

Tobin shrugged. “Mother has arthritis. Father is gone, and my sister is too young. I have to go. But I don’t mind.”

“You are a good lad,” Marisa said. “Will you be staying long at the market?”

“No, Ma’am,” Tobin answered. “Just need to buy some meat, veggies and a bit of flour.”

“That’s good,” Marisa said. “We won’t stay too long ourselves. If you want, we can bring you back too. That way you will not be gone for too long.”

“By the whiskers of Saint Giles … Would you?” Tobin said and his voice was filled with obvious excitement. “That would be lovely.”

For a moment, they were all quiet. Only the sound of hooves echoed through the clearing. As they emerged from the forest, the walls of Bramblebrook rose in the distance.

Calen had read about this town at the School of the Silent Scribes. Nestled near the Grey Mountains and the Grey River it was an important place, a hub of trade and commerce. Yet, reading about it in a book was nothing like seeing it with his own eyes. The towering walls loomed above, dark and foreboding, their shadows stretching across the fields. Perhaps it was only his suspicious nature, but something about Bramblebrook did not feel good.

Tobin cleared his throat. “Ma’am?” he began.

“What is it, Tobin?” Marisa asked.

“Are … are you really one of God’s children?”

Marisa stopped the horse and turned to look directly at him. Calen saw how Tobin’s eyes eagerly studied the cross that sparkled in the midday sun.

“Yes, Tobin. We are. Why do you ask?”

“Because …” Tobin hesitated. “If you bring me back, you can stay for dinner and … eh … well, tonight we have a little gathering. It’s not very big, but several of my mother’s friends come to our house and we sing songs in worship to God.” He paused, uncertain if his invitation had been received well.

“And you think your mother wouldn’t mind if we, being strangers, joined?” Marisa asked.

“She won’t, ma’am,” Tobin said. “She always says we should keep our door open for all of God’s children.”

Marisa smiled. “You are a good boy, Tobin. … Tell you what, my friend Calen and I will consider it. We’d love to meet your mother and the others, but we need to make sure we have the time.” She glanced at Calen. “Right, Calen?”

Calen nodded, astonished. Could this be one of God’s leadings?

As they approached the town, Marisa slowed, her gaze fixed on the gate. “Do you see that?” she asked quietly.

Calen finally looked up. He had been absorbed in thought for a moment and hadn’t noticed the path ahead. Now he understood her apprehension.

Six fully armed soldiers stood at the town’s entrance, blocking the path. Their faces were stern and watchful as they inspected every person coming in or going out.

“What are they doing?” Marisa whispered, almost to herself.

“Good gravy,” Tobin said, his voice tinged with awe. “I’ve never seen soldiers there before. Maybe they’re hunting an escaped criminal.”

Or maybe they’re hunting for us, Calen thought, a chill running down his spine as he remembered the carrier pigeons.

And it seemed he was right. On the captain’s shoulder perched a dove, one just like the carrier pigeon they had seen earlier. As they drew closer, the bird launched into the air, wings beating furiously, and flew straight toward them, cooing loudly and insistently. It was as if the bird were marking them and pointing them out to the soldiers. “Here they are… here is the enemy…”

Ridiculous, of course. A coincidence. And yet, with every flapping beat of those wings, one thing was clear: nothing would ever stay the same.

* Proverbs 22:3
** John 4:13-14
*** John 8:12

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