Chapter 21
By the second Sunday without power, the church couldn’t hold them all.
The pews overflowed, and the aisles were crowded with people standing shoulder to shoulder.
Every face was turned toward the pulpit, eyes shining in the half-light of candles.
The air inside was thick with heat and breath and smoke from melted wax.
The scent of sweat mixed with incense until it became something heavy enough to taste. Father Harlan’s voice carried over the murmur of shuffling feet. It had changed over the previous few days. His sermons had always been long, but now they burned.
“The world as it was has been judged,” he said. “The old hum is gone because the Lord has silenced our vanity. Yet on the mountain, He calls to those who would be saved. The light of salvation burns there. Those who walk in faith shall see His new kingdom rise.”
The congregation swayed as he spoke, caught in the rhythm of his words.
Some wept. Others whispered prayers under their breath, voices blending into a low hum that filled every corner.
The candles wavered, their light trembling over faces worn thin by heat and hunger.
Mary Anne stood at the back near the open door.
The sunlight outside was blinding compared to the gloom inside.
The contrast made her dizzy. She had come only to check on a sick child whose mother refused to leave the sermon, but once she stepped inside, she couldn’t move. The sound pinned her in place.
Harlan’s tone rose again. “The mountain calls to us. The light waits for those who cast off doubt. Do not fear the silence; it is only the breath before the song.”
A man in the front row shouted, “Amen.”
Another followed, and soon the sound rippled through the crowd.
Harlan raised both arms, basking in the noise, his eyes shining with fervor.
Mary Anne turned away before he could see her.
The air outside hit her like a wave. She walked down the church steps and stopped at the bottom, blinking in the sunlight.
Behind her, the hymn began again, voices lifting in unison, rough and uneven but powerful. Across the square, Hale leaned against the well, watching the church doors. He straightened when she approached.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.
“They’re losing themselves,” she said.
“They’ve been lost for a while.”
“Not like this. They’re talking about walking to the mountains. He’s calling it the pilgrimage of light.”
Hale rubbed his temples. “What do you want me to do? Arrest him for preaching?”
“I want you to see what’s happening.”
“I see it. I just don’t have the bullets for belief. They want purpose. He’s giving it to them. Doesn’t matter if it’s true.”
“It matters when it gets them killed,” she said.
“You can’t save everyone.”
“Someone has to try.” She turned and walked toward the clinic. The afternoon heat lay heavy over the town, pressing everything into silence. Even the wind had stopped. The ground shimmered under the weight of the sun.
By evening, the square emptied as people returned home, but no one worked. The fields went untended. The half-dug trenches behind the school remained open. Buckets sat by the well, uncollected. Instead, neighbors packed their bags, tying bundles with rope, gathering blankets, filling jugs.
Mary Anne stopped one of them, a middle-aged woman with a faded shawl. “Where are you going?”
“To the mountain. The preacher says the light will guide us.”
“You’ll die on that road,” Mary Anne said.
“Then we die closer to heaven.”
The woman walked away before Mary Anne could answer.
By sunset, more families were gathering on the church steps, waiting for Harlan’s call.
The sky above them glowed orange, the same hue as the candles they carried.
The sound of hymns rose again, drifting across the town like smoke.
Mary Anne found Emily near the well. She was hauling a bucket, her face flushed.
“You see this?” Emily asked. “Half the town’s leaving.”
“I see it,” Mary Anne said.
“They’re taking food with them and water.”
“Let them. We can’t stop them.”
Emily stared at her. “You sound like you’ve given up.”
“I’m trying not to start a war.”
“That preacher’s going to start one for you.”
“I know.”
The bell above the church tower began to ring, a slow, uneven toll. The crowd cheered. The sound bounced across the valley, thin but relentless.
Hale appeared again, rifle slung across his back. “It’s starting.”
“I told them not to go,” Mary Anne said.
“They don’t care,” Hale said. “They want a reason. Food or faith, it doesn’t matter. One of them is easier to swallow.”
He turned toward the ridge, eyes narrowed. The first stars had begun to appear, dim and flickering. Beyond them, faint glows still marked the mountain. “That’s what they’re walking toward,” he said.
“Maybe they’ll see what it really is when they get closer,” she said.
“Or maybe they won’t live long enough to care.”
The crowd began to move. Dozens of people filed past them, feet stirring dust, candles held high. Some sang. Others wept. Children rode on their parents’ shoulders. Mary Anne counted nearly fifty before she stopped trying.
Harlan led them, robe trailing through the dirt, voice rising over the song. “The light awaits. The chosen will see.”
The procession moved through the night like a ribbon of fire. Mary Anne watched until the last flame vanished. When the night grew still again, she sat on the edge of the fountain. The stone was warm beneath her palms. Hale paced the square.
Emily joined her, setting down a lantern. “What now?”
“We wait,” Mary Anne said.
“For them to come back?”
“For what happens when they don’t.”
The night deepened. From far away, faint echoes reached them, voices carried by the wind.
Hymns again, distant and broken. The sound came from the hills, fading and returning, never steady.
Mary Anne leaned back and looked at the sky.
Even the stars seemed dull, as if the fires on the mountains had stolen their light.
“Do you think he believes it?” Emily asked.
“Harlan?”
Emily nodded.
“Yes,” Mary Anne said. “That’s the problem.”
“People follow certainty. You speak in questions. He speaks in answers.”
“His answers will kill them.”
“Maybe, but they make people feel less alone first.”
“Faith is a kind of hunger,” she said. “It grows faster than reason.”
They sat in silence. The fire on the hills flickered faintly, reflected in the church windows. When the hymn faded, all that remained was wind and the creak of the bell rope swaying in the tower.
Hale returned from his patrol near midnight. His face was drawn, and his voice was low. “They’re camping near the ridge,” he said. “You can see their fires. The preacher’s got them praying on their knees.”
Mary Anne rubbed her temples. “How many stayed behind?”
“Half, maybe less.”
“That’s enough to rebuild.”
“Until they decide you’re the heretic,” he said.
“Then I’ll burn, too.”
“Get some rest. You look worse than the dead.”
When he left, she stood and walked toward the clinic.
The square was empty now, lanterns blown out, the ground littered with footprints.
The wind picked up, carrying a faint hum from the hills.
Inside, the air was stifling. The candle on her table had melted into a pool of wax.
She sat without lighting another. The glow from the fires outside was enough.
Emily appeared in the doorway, still holding her lantern. The light made her look younger. “You really think this is punishment?” Emily asked.
Mary Anne shook her head. “No. It’s cause and effect. The world broke, and we broke with it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, but it’s the only answer I have.”
Emily set the lantern on the counter and leaned against the wall. “You ever wonder if believing hurts less?”
Mary Anne looked toward the window. “Maybe, but I think it spreads faster than sickness.”
“You think faith’s a disease?”
“I think it’s contagious. People catch it because they’re afraid. Once they have it, they can’t imagine living without it.”
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying another faint echo of singing from the hills. It sounded less like praise now and more like mourning.
Emily touched her shoulder. “Try to sleep,” she said.
“I can’t,” Mary Anne said.
“Then at least lie down.”
Emily left without waiting for an answer.
The door clicked softly behind her. Mary Anne sat alone in the dim room, listening to the hymn fade into the dark.
The glow from the ridge painted the window pale orange.
She knew science couldn’t compete with hunger or grief.
She stayed there until the fires blurred together into one faint glow, and she wondered if belief itself might be another kind of contagion.