Thorns of Glory Page 3

  Surely, most folks would feel honored to have experienced the miracles that I, Harry Hawkins, had received in my life. Some might’ve been scared out of their wits to receive a visit from someone like Jonas. Others might’ve taken for granted having a broken spine healed by Christ, much like the nine lepers in Luke who dispersed without so much as a thank-you. Some might’ve bragged about such miracles until they were blue in the face. Maybe such boasting would’ve brought about the opposite result—a replication of the curse that had been cured, or some other curse, until the lesson was learned.

  No part of our relationship with God was more important than trust. Bluntly put, a recipient of God’s miracles had to learn to shut up. That is, acquire the self-discipline to keep sacred things sacred, unless God commanded otherwise. Blabbering about such things, especially to those who trample them underfoot like pearls before swine, might cancel whatever blessings such miracles were meant to bring about.

  The hour I spent with Jonas brought back everything I’d learned during that year I was crippled, plus everything I’d gleaned those three years stranded on Lincoln Island: in short, that God is always at the helm, no matter the outcome. Some might think that means you don’t have to act. You can just be complacent and let fate rain down. That’s not what I’d learned. I’d learned that most of God’s blessings are inseparably connected to our choices. Can’t disconnect the two. Sure, some blessings are “gimmes”—expressions of God’s pure love and mercy—but there is an equilibrium. A balance between feeling buoyed up by faith and acting as if nothing buoys us up at all. Pausing to analyze it is often a mistake. We’ve all heard the expression Believe as if everything depends on God and act as if everything depends on you. I wished that it hadn’t become a thread-worn cliché. In my experience, few people believed that expression when it most applied. This was one of those moments. The Lamanites were launching their attack. My experiences had made the concept of God’s involvement a natural part of my thoughts, like an extra appendage or a separate spiritual gift. I felt sorrow for those who couldn’t find the same conviction.

  In the last few minutes, the Lamanite drums had gone quiet. The silence was more haunting than the beating and hammering. I saw my dread mirrored in the faces of the citizens of Zenephi. It frayed or clenched every nerve—a new species of fear.

  Mormon’s innermost trench filled with tar was still shooting flames high into the starry sky. This combustible ooze stretched the entire length of the southern line, drawing everyone’s gaze as the night wore on. All was eerily quiet. No whisking arrows. No pounding drums. The Nephites of Cumorah’s bowl had to be wondering what game the Lamanites were playing. No moment in this war had struck me as more unsettling. I almost couldn’t remember the last time we’d conversed without raising our voices above the percussion. For the first time in days, I could hear the inhale and exhale of my lungs. We could hear our heartbeats, the blood rushing in our veins, the rumblings in our empty bellies, and another kind of sound—just beneath all else—a whisper. Dark. Ominous. Impending.

  What did it mean, this sudden silence? The change wrapped itself around the Nephite nation like giant tentacles. Were the Lamanites planning a midnight assault? Did they intend to unleash some secret weapon on our fortress in the wee hours before dawn? What if burning away the bitumen moat was a calculated act? A prelude to something incomprehensibly devastating?

  The stench of petroleum clung to our nostrils. Smoke was starting to obscure the shapes of tents and people amidst the candles and lanterns. A light breeze blew most of the smoke northward, sparing the lungs of families in the bowl. It would be oppressive for the soldiers of the Scorpion Division under Gidgiddonihah and for other divisions along the eastern escarpments. As the atmosphere became increasingly ethereal, I imagined that hallowed glow—the beckoning light—described by people who had near-death experiences. The “light” that urged them forward, into the arms of their Maker.

  My nose was still tender from the beating I’d received at the headquarters of Sa’abkan. My face was likely swollen and purple, like a circus clown. At least my nerves were steady, like Damascus steel. Moreover, they were like those of my companions: Mary, Steffanie, Uncle Garth, Jacobah the Lamanite, even my young cousin Rebecca. SaKerra McConnell, too, seemed solid in her testimony of Christ, although I wasn’t so sure about her impetuous brother, Brock, or her untalkative son, Kidd. Moments ago, SaKerra had approached my uncle with an unusual request: “Garth, I saw you reading a volume of scripture earlier. May I see it?”

  Garth hesitated. I wasn’t sure why. Finally, he replied, “Of course.” He reached into his travel pack and produced his tattered three-in-one of the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price. As Kerra grasped it, Garth held on. “Looking for something in particular?”

  “Comfort,” said SaKerra. “I might read to my son.”

  Kidd looked on in silence, finding his mother’s actions curious. I doubted scripture study between them was a regular habit.

  As Kerra turned away, Garth said abruptly, “Please return it!” Embarrassed by his tone, he added more gently, “I mean, when you’re finished.” He let go of the book.

  “I won’t be long,” said Kerra.

  She settled near her son, making the best of the firelight, and thumbed through the pages, seemingly looking for something specific. Garth looked restless. He sighed, as if resigned. Something was going on. Or maybe Garth was just nervous about his only copy of sacred writ.

  The only regular member of our company who was not with us tonight was Jesse, the orphan from ancient Israel. I’d first guessed he was about sixteen, having aged among the Nephites the same length of time that I’d aged on Lincoln Island. I was starting to think that estimate was a bit off. Either that or Jesse’d been blessed with genes that’d filled in his adult physique prematurely. He was a tough kid but not invincible. Presently, he was in the care of Mormon’s personal physicians inside the commander’s compound. An arrow had pierced his shoulder in virtually the same place another dart had pierced a few weeks earlier.

  Mormon’s compound was brimming with injured warriors—casualties from Joshua’s Fox Division who’d stormed the eastern escarpments earlier in the day to rejoin Zenephi’s forces. The charge had resulted in a terrible loss of life. Many condemned Captain Josh, calling it reckless for his army to cross the marshes in the face of such odds. Most, however, regarded him as a hero who’d made the only possible choice that would allow his division to rejoin Mormon’s forces. Joshua himself had gone MIA during the operation. Gidgiddonihah claimed to have witnessed the very moment my cousin disappeared into a geothermal vent along the cliff. Joshua’s whereabouts were now a mystery—something that only added to the inner turmoil of his sister, Rebecca, and his father, my Uncle Garth.

  It seemed only moments ago that Gidgiddonihah, accompanied by a small honor guard, had arrived with news of Joshua’s disappearance. It was just before the drums fell silent. Almost immediately after the message was delivered, a volley of flaming arrows ignited the trench. Gidgiddonihah hustled back to the eastern escarpment with his honor guard, including his second-in-command, a soldier who possessed a similar gruffness and temperament. The Scorpion Commander left behind only Jacobah, the faithful Lamanite convert who’d once served as Ryan Champion’s bodyguard.

  Jacobah carried a Nephite spear nearly seven feet long. He stared at me with a strange intensity. I wondered if he was curious about my purple nose and how I got it. Nah, that wasn’t it. Jacobah had something to ask me, but he hadn’t worked up the nerve. Oh well. If it was important, he’d ask soon enough.

  In the absence of battle drums, I felt strangely torn between watching the distant walls to see if the Lamanites attacked the fortifications or concentrating on nearby swatches of earth for the materialization of Gadianton Ghosts. Only yesterday these demons abducted Meagan and Apollus. We weren’t sure how. Their whereabouts were no less baffl
ing than Joshua Plimpton’s. No trace offered us a clue about their circumstances. Were they even alive? Could a similar fate swallow any of us at any instant?

  Again I met Jacobah’s eyes, intense as ever. Dude couldn’t seem to stop staring at me.

  I gave in. “What’s on your mind, Jacobah?”

  He glanced downward, then up again. “I wish to serve as your bodyguard.”

  This caught Mary’s attention.

  I studied him curiously. “You acted as Ryan’s bodyguard for a long time. Now you want to guard someone else? I thought you wanted to serve Gid and the Scorpions.”

  “I discussed it with Commander Gid,” said Jacobah. “He’ll accede to my wishes.”

  “So?”

  “I feel drawn to another task.”

  “Why me?” I said dismissively. “Guard one of the women. How about Becky?”

  He shook his head. “We equally serve our women and children. Naturally, if one is threatened, I’ll serve them first. It is my inclination to serve you.”

  I scoffed and shrugged. “Why?”

  He hedged, then said, “Because, Harry Hawkins, you are clearly less experienced in warfare than some of the others. I sense that your life is . . . particularly valuable.”

  I frowned. His offer wasn’t complimentary. “I’m no more important than anyone else. And I’m certainly not as green around the gills as someone like Ryan Champion.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Jacobah, “it is my inclination to serve you.”

  Others in the group were now listening. Mary was fighting a smile. Brock laughed.

  “Wh-what about my uncle?” I said. “He needs your services more than I do.”

  “Think about it, Nephew,” said Garth, “An old man like me won’t attract as much attention in battle as a young bull like yourself.”

  “In the heat of battle, I don’t think anyone’s age makes a shred of difference.”

  Jacobah recognized my defensiveness. “Don’t be offended, Harrison. I don’t pretend to understand my inclinations. I suppose you’re free to reject my services, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “But . . . I’ll probably do it anyway.”

  I made a grunt, somewhere between laughter and resentment. “You’ll act as my bodyguard whether I agree or not?”

  Jacobah looked down. “It is my inclin—”

  “Your inclination! I get it. I just don’t understand it. It’s already my job to protect Mary and the other—”

  “Naturally,” he interrupted, “I’ll aid you in this responsibility by association. For now I simply request that you . . . tolerate my increased attention.”

  “Ridiculous.” I snorted.

  Mary touched my arm. “But harmless.”

  “I don’t need a bodyguard,” I said quietly, though everyone heard.

  “Of course you don’t,” said Steff with unmistakable levity. “Oh, but Jacobah sounds determined.”

  I sighed morosely, then felt a rush of self-reproach, as if God felt my current sense of inner peace and placidity might be dangerous. Thus, God sent Jacobah. Oh well.

  “Fine,” I said in resignation. “But if anyone else is hurt while you’re fussing over me . . .” I pondered how to finish this sentence. All I came up with was, “I’ll be very upset.”

  Brock cackled again. Even Kidd cracked a smile. Only SaKerra, still concentrating on my uncle’s Book of Mormon, showed no reaction. In fact, her seriousness sobered everyone’s mood. We peered back toward the flaming trench. A cloud of petroleum fumes wafted over us, making our eyes water. Rebecca was coughing. We covered our mouths and noses with hems and sleeves, but the stench couldn’t be entirely filtered.

  Rebecca stopped coughing long enough to gaze beyond the burning moat. “What are they doing out there?” she asked no one in particular.

  Her gaze was earnest. I squinted in the same location. Did Becky perceive something the rest of us didn’t?

  Steffanie asked her, “What do you think you see?”

  Kerra arose, as if her legs were on springs. The Book of Mormon sat open in her palm as she gaped at the page. She turned to my uncle. The two stared at each other with odd expressions: Kerra unable to speak, Garth somehow unwilling to speak. Kerra approached him, her finger pressed hard on a certain verse. She sought an answer or an interpretation or just an admission. Uncle Garth, for his part, blanched. She spoke to him abrasively, but I didn’t hear her words.

  An unexpected sound overwhelmed us from an unexpected direction. It erupted from behind—a chilling shriek, like the cry of a tortured animal, echoing and twisting as if distorted by some force of physics. I chided myself as I spun around. It should’ve been predictable that the instant we let our concentration slip, the Gadianton Ghosts would strike.

  The first thing I saw was a pulsing circle of blue energy, elliptical in shape, hovering a dozen feet away, a couple feet above the earth, spreading outward like a pattern of waves from a boulder dropped in choppy waters. The edges expanded. At first the circle was concave, bulging inward, as if sucking something into its vortex. In less than a second, the bulge flipped outward, convex. Something evil was about to be expelled—regurgitated—directly on top of us.

  The reason for Jacobah’s “inclination” to be my full-time bodyguard became clear. I was also “inclined” to acknowledge the truth in his appraisal of my skill level as a warrior. Before I reached back to snatch the obsidian blade from my shoulder, Jacobah leaped in front of me, ready to hurl his seven-foot spear into the heart of the vortex.

  Something was emerging from that bubble. The terrible roar transformed into a kind of maniacal death throe. The volume increased, as if it might shred our eardrums and blow us back like an explosion. Whatever was emerging from that vortex, it was huge. There was nowhere to run or hide—nothing to permit our escape.

  Chapter 1

  Apollus

  Gripping my gladius in one hand and Meagan’s wrist in the other, I half-pulled, half-dragged her toward the opposite side of the precipice—the edge farthest away from the reptillian bird soaring forward to snatch us from the summit of this pillar of stone. Meagan breathed in rasping, frightened gasps.

  Only a moment earlier we’d been surrounded by suffocating blackness. Meagan’s sightless eyes had perceived the silhouettes of numerous demon-like wraiths we called Gadianton Ghosts. We’d been carried—“transported”—to this mysterious location, a place where massive towers jutted from a roiling ocean illuminated by a fast-setting sun. After our conveyance, Meagan was again blind. She could not see the brightly feathered dragon’s descent. She did not perceive its jaw, or “beak,” ready to pluck one of us by the arm or neck so it could carry us out over the sea, drop us hundreds of feet, and swoop down to retrieve our floating carcasses. It also might shake us until our necks snapped, afterward swallowing us in a single gulp.

  Meagan and I had been sent to this desolate cliff by a power unfathomable—a witchcraft known only to the ghosts of Teotihuacán. As a youth in Rome, foreigners often regaled us with stories of isles and vales inhabited by equally fantastic creatures. In Meagan’s century, I’d attended a cinema play that portrayed similar monsters—ravenous beasts who they believed had once roamed the earth. Had we been transported on the “secret winds” (a term used by the ghosts) to an epoch prior to the “dawn of man?” The phrase tasted peculiar on Roman lips. Jurassic period? Triassic period? My memory of these epochal names was vague, but I’d gleaned that scholars of science in Meagan’s century believed such behemoths were commonplace. The ghosts had apparently exiled us to this primordial setting to face certain death.

  Behind us, a ragged squawk cleaved the air. I thrust Meagan behind a rocky outcrop, then pressed in beside her as a thick, dark shroud passed overhead. The dragon’s jaws snapped above my ear, orange and emerald plumage glinting in the rays of the dying sun. The beast veered ri
ght, tilting its head to appraise our position before making a second attempt. The spikes of its reptilian/avian head, fore and aft, were on full display, topped by a scythe-like vermilion sail. I distinguished the glassy pupil of its piercing eye as it flapped to a higher altitude.

  Meagan clutched my arm. “I felt a gust!” she said breathlessly. “What happened?”

  “It’s coming back!” I roared above a sonorous note of wind. “We’re moving around to the other side!”

  Another shriek rent the air. Not the monster but a scream from Meagan. I latched on to her waist as she was nearly hoisted away from me. A second dinosaur-bird had lighted on the opposite side of the outcropping and seized Meagan, but not with its jaws. Its gnarled appendage, or claws, at the tip of its right wing grasped a tangle of Meagan’s hair. Its left wing thrashed wildly, attempting to yank her off her feet. I was dragged several yards over the rocks but maintained my grip.

  As her crimson locks slipped through the dragon’s talons, another cry rumbled from its lungs and vibrated in my ears. I watched the beak draw back to pluck at us again, like we were grubs. Still holding Meagan, I rolled left, onto my back, and looked past her shoulder into the creature’s pink, multi-ribbed throat, fetid with fish stench, glinting hundreds of serrated silvery teeth.

  The jaws snapped, and my hip was nudged, but the beast’s only reward was a mouthful of rock. I found the hilt of my gladius and thrust it clumsily toward the creature’s eye. Steel penetrated the scales just above its eye, perforating its vermilion sail and sending feathers fluttering. As it jerked upward, I was hurled outward, flipping once more, carrying Meagan with me as my left arm clung to her waist. Its tail whipped as it pivoted and stumbled. I raised my eyes and spotted the first dragon, gliding in, wingspan magnifying, eager to compete for the meal its competitor had failed to obtain.