Chapter 5 Daylan
five
Daylan
“All of them?” Father asks, his face pale in the candlelight.
“Most,” Arn corrects. “Some have no marks, but most of the damned ones have been carved with the word ‘repent’ and the devil’s ram’s head symbol.”
“How?” Father blurts out, looking as stunned as I feel where I sit at the gathering table.
After I brought news of what I found, he sent the caravans away early and locked the community down tighter than it has ever been before.
Families with children have locked the doors of their cabins, the bunkhouse where the single men live has been shut tight for the night, and Timothy has been taken from the hole he was digging to the small hut the sinners awaiting cleansing are kept in.
Despite not having had his turn at digging Angelo’s grave, Arn has been permitted to come to the longhouse where his rooms are, letting me know once more who Father believes is truly behind the act of loosening the ropes.
Regardless of how I feel about that, it’s important that everyone is kept safe.
Other things can be dealt with in the days that will follow, but nobody may be out this night.
Beyond the doors of the longhouse, the compound is eerily silent, yet it must be that way.
“I don’t know how. You couldn’t pay me all the riches in the world to do that kind of shit,” Arn says, leaning back in his wooden chair. It creaks beneath his weight and size, the noise echoing through the large, empty hall.
“It is devilry,” I say, my words carried on a whisper.
“It’s fucking sick,” Arn grunts. He turns to look at Father, offering an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but that’s what it is.”
Father raises his hand as if giving a blessing, then lowers it, rapping his knuckles against the wooden table.
“Someone is doing these dreadful things, and we must find out who it is before it is too late. I have worked too hard to make this community what it is to have it ripped away by Lazarus.” Arn’s eyes open wide and meet mine as surprise rattles through my bones, but Father barks out a dry laugh.
“You can’t possibly think this is anyone else. ”
“He is dead,” Arn offers carefully. “We set him out for the damned ones to devour. We tied him to the outer gates, and in the morning we found his chewed-up body.”
Father smiles, but it is drawn and tight. “Perhaps.”
I am stunned into silence, looking between them as they seem to exchange unspoken words about a past I do not share with them.
The story of Lazarus that I know contains nothing but malice, murder and then his death outside the safety of Bright Haven.
He was supposedly shunned by all in the community, but there remains a question there in my mind.
“Does anyone remain that he once called friend?”
“No, that son of a bitch had no friends,” Arn says, rolling his eyes at me and sighing petulantly.
“Arn,” Father warns. “That is our Blessed Lamb you speak to. Watch yourself.”
Arn flinches as if he has been punched in the face, pushing his chair back and kneeling on the floor as I watch in wonder. He bows his head and mumbles, “My apologies, Father. I meant no harm. It has been a long day.”
I note he does not apologize to me, but Father doesn’t comment on this.
Instead, he reaches out and places a hand on Arn’s head, gently caressing his hair in a way that makes me feel slightly wobbly inside.
I have never seen Father behave in this way with anyone, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Apology accepted,” I say, breaking into whatever strange moment they are having. Their eyes snap to me as if they’ve just remembered I am present, Arn quickly rising from the floor and flopping back into his chair.
Father turns his eyes to mine, adding a smile that is nowhere near as gentle as the one he has just gifted Arn. “Lazarus has no connections left here. Arn is right. He is dead, and may he suffer for eternity in the lake of fire.”
“May he,” Arn says, as he looks my way expectantly.
“May he,” I mutter.
Silence lingers between us, candles flickering on the table.
While the compound has some solar energy available, it is used very sparingly, and any use of power must be pre-approved by Father.
We mostly make do with beeswax candles sold by the vendors from the nearby settlement of Ekksha, where the products they create at their bee farms make up much of their wealth.
With a yawn, I stand up from the table and stretch my body out.
My head has had a slight ache since the discovery of the markings on the damned, and I am tired of thinking and wondering about what is happening to this community.
Father rises as I make my way to the window to peer out at the darkened night.
In the cabins that rest around the longhouse, candles flicker, and I can see shadows of movement within the hazy glow.
“They will be safe,” Father murmurs, coming to stand behind me. He places his hand on my shoulder and grips me tight.
“What will we do?” I whisper, scanning the darkness beyond my safety.
“You will stand where Ezekiel fell, and we will cleave to the Lamb, for it is his blood that will save us all.”
I swallow hard as he gives my shoulder a squeeze, then leaves me alone to contemplate the words he has plucked from the tome that builds the very foundation of our community.
A scream pierces the night from beyond my bedroom window, and I fly from my bed, eyes wide and heart shaking inside my chest. Sleep has not been a friend to me this evening, and I have been torn between pacing my floors and trying to get whatever rest I can.
I press my nose against the glass, body quaking like a leaf in a storm as another foul shriek rises from the darkness, trying to see what is unsettling the damned ones along the fence.
Something large flies at the window, sending me reeling backwards in shock and fear as the glass rattles.
I crash to the floor beneath me, scrambling away from the glass as a scream of my own loosens from my chest. Footsteps beat a path over the wooden floor outside my room, and I tremble on the floor, heart beating a wild tempo inside my chest.
What was that?
Who threw it?
A thousand fearful questions rumble through my brain, undercut by the shock that rattles my bones.
“What has happened?” Father says, opening my bedroom door and rushing into my room. He sets a lit candle on the floor beside me and crouches down to see my face.
“Something was thrown at my window,” I whisper.
Arn comes running into my room carrying his own lit candle, eyes as wide as saucers as he stares between my naked form and Father. “What’s going on?”
“Our Lamb believes someone has thrown something against his window.”
I squawk a noise of protest, blood rushing in my ears still. “I know. I know someone threw something at my window.”
Father rises and Arn hands him the candle in his hand. I reach out to take hold of the brass holder containing the other candle, bringing the light to my face hoping it will dash away the terror rippling through me.
Arn rushes to the window and presses his face to the glass as Father opens my wardrobe.
He yanks a robe off one of the hooks and throws it on the floor beside me, scowling at my nakedness.
I swallow hard, begging for forgiveness silently as I put my candle down and quickly toss the robe on.
My body in its rawest form is sacred, and none are worthy of looking upon it, save for Father and myself.
He nods his approval as I rise to my shaky feet, letting the robe fall to my ankles.
“Do you see anything?” he asks, turning his attention to Arn.
“I didn’t see his cock,” Arn comments, laughing slightly.
Father laughs for a moment at the joke, then reaches to take hold of the back of Arn’s neck. He pulls Arn’s face away from the glass, gritting his teeth as his moment of good humor leaves as quickly as it came. He places his lips right beside Arn’s ear and hisses, “Do you see anything outside?”
“No, Father,” Arn blubbers, Father’s fingers digging into his neck. “I saw nothing. I see nothing. Nothing at all. There is a smear of something on the window, but I do not know what it is. Perhaps dirt from the winds.”
Father lets loose his grip on Arn’s neck, then runs his hand up through his hair to scrub his fingers against Arn’s scalp gently. “You are certain?”
“There is nothing out there. Perhaps he was dreaming?”
“Perhaps,” Father murmurs, taking his hand away from Arn and turning to face me, the wrinkles in his skin illuminated in the light he holds in his one hand. “Could it have been a dream, my Lamb?”
“No, I know what I saw. Something was thrown against my window. I don’t know what, but I know it happened. That smear, whatever it may be, was not there when I went to bed.”
“Arn can see nothing out there.”
“Because it is dark!” I protest, raising my voice. “How is he to see when there is no light?”
“If it is dark, how did you see?” Arn retorts, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring at me.
“Because it struck my window. It rattled the glass. It was heavy enough to do so.” I cannot believe what I am hearing. How do they doubt me after all that has already happened here? “Father, please tell me you believe I was not dreaming. This is ludicrous.”
“Arn, take a torch and go check outside to see what may have struck the window. Perhaps it was a dream, but our Lamb is fearful and he deserves to know. Recall Ezekiel and go fast.”
Arn nods solemnly, then heads for the door to my room, collecting the candle from Father on his way by.
Father stoops to collect the candle holder off the floor, leaving me without a light of my own and I dare not move towards my bedside to get one for myself.
That would take me too close to the window, and I do not trust that there is nothing out there.
Father and I wait in silence together, me standing by my bed and him peering out the window, candle in his hand.
He turns his head and snuffs the light out, then sets the candle on the floor before pressing his face against the glass.
I swallow hard as the room is bathed in darkness, my heart beating slightly faster in my chest now.
We wait.
And wait.
Neither of us daring to speak a word.
And then Father lets out a frightened noise, reeling back from the window. Without thinking, I rush to his side, and even though I am already quivering, I take a chance and look to see what he has seen.
Arn stands a few steps away from my window, his face turned down towards an object he holds in his hands.
His candle is on the ground at his feet, and as I press my face against the glass, he looks up into my eyes.
Father steps forward and lifts the latch, opening a tiny crack along the bottom of the windowpane.
“Who is it?” he calls, his voice trembling out of him.
Who.
Who?
“Timothy,” Arn replies, his voice grave.
It is then that I finally decipher what Arn is holding, and I step back in horror at the human head cradled in his hands, unruly blond curls rippling in the breeze.