Lord of Order, Brett Riley [e ink manga reader .TXT] 📗

Jerold Babb would hold no council seat. If he retained a fifth of his former congregation and his title, even for a few months, it would seem a minor miracle.

Derosier and Baptiste had removed their names from consideration but had agreed to serve as special liaisons to the population, solving disputes between former enemies, enacting the council’s decisions, and the like.

Stransky announced the names of the former Troublers who would co-chair the trades and serve on the council. Their own lieutenants’ incorporation would be another task for the council and the city. Troy knew none of them, but he had agreed to trust Stransky and could not gainsay her first decision. No one else objected.

The proxies and new members so named, everyone sat, awaiting dessert. Norville Unger slipped out, his sheaf of paper in hand. He would return to his desk, where he would craft and copy the official proclamation. And in one week, most everyone at the table would quit the city. Outlawed and hunted and persecuted like the Christians of old. Some had never traveled farther than the nearby bayous. As old as he was, even Ernie Tetweiller had never seen the Gulf, had never ridden as far as Jackson. Who knew for certain they could even find Washington?

The staff brought in half a dozen pies, apple and blueberry and pecan, cherry and peach and huckleberry. The desserts were sliced and passed around. Everyone ate and laughed. Though weary and wounded, they had made their stand. And, for this night at least, they could celebrate, toasting each other with their bellies full.

For just a moment, everyone fell quiet. All eyes turned to Troy, who sat at their head, his plate cleared, his bruised and battered face solemn. Saluting their bravery and their sacrifice, Troy raised his water glass one last time. They drank, and then Troy led them in prayer. When he was done, they sat for a long time, letting the night stretch out and out, reluctant to break the circle and move into the rest of their lives.

Epilogue: The Cemetery

The day workers had long since left. The man’s voice had degraded into a hoarse croak. Half a dozen times during the telling, he had snapped his fingers at one child or the other, their glazed look suggesting minds that had drifted. Each time he had backtracked five minutes, reminding them of their obligations to the generations yet unborn. Nearby, the great monument stood sentinel. Their jerky was nearly gone, their water low.

When the man fell silent, the boy cleared his throat. What happened next? he asked.

Next? the man rasped. Why, they went over the wall and sought their destinies.

Yes, but what happened? the girl asked. Did Gordy get better? Did they make it to Washington? What about Willa and Bandit?

The children had never seemed so young.

They found what they were seeking, the man said. Their place in God’s plan.

Yes, but what happened? the boy demanded. You can’t just tell part of a story.

The man stared at his son until the demanding, insolent look left the boy’s face and he turned away.

That isn’t how this works, the man said. Those men and women—and, yes, the girl and her dog—took their journey in stages. It wasn’t always clear when one stage ended and another began. And that is how we tell their story. One piece at a time.

But that’s not fair, the girl insisted.

Fair? Those people had to learn patience and humility and honor and sacrifice so we might live in a world free of terror. A world free of any one person who stands above us all, wielding authority like a hammer that knocks us all to pieces. You must learn those same qualities so you may be worthy.

Of what? the boy said.

Of what has been given to you. Of leading the world farther up the path. Of God’s love.

The last light bled from the day. From everywhere, crickets and cicadas and birdsong.

So how do we learn those things? the boy asked.

The man stood, wincing as his joints popped. You gather our things and follow me home. Speak no more of these matters. Not to me, not to each other. If you can manage that, then in one year’s time, we will return to this place and continue the story.

But what if we can’t wait?

Then your weakness will fulfill its own prophecy, and you shall never find your answers. The choice is yours. No one can make it for you.

His throat felt as if he had swallowed fire. He limped, the blood needling through his legs and feet. The children’s frustration washed against him like gentle waves. He had reacted much the same when their grandfather left him alone in the cemetery to gather the blanket and the empty canteens. But he had spoken true. They had to decide for themselves, as everyone must, and each choice would alter the course of the world, even if no one noticed but God. Such was the way of things.

Soon enough, he heard them moving, the rustling of the blanket as they folded it, the clank of the canteens as someone shouldered them. He thanked God for laying His hand on the children, troubling the waters of their souls, teaching them the value of the tale and of their own wills. And then the man, the father, the tale-teller walked through the gloaming toward the wagon and mules waiting for him to take up the reins and set everything in motion once more.

Acknowledgments

Thanks, as always, to Kalene Westmoreland—my first reader, my partner, my love.

Thanks to Shauna, John, Brendan, Maya, Nova, Luna, Cookie, Nilla, and Tora for bringing me so much joy. When the night is darkest, I think of you.

Thanks to Vicki Adang, editor extraordinaire, for making the book better and for indulging so many of my stylistic eccentricities.

Thanks to Mark Sedenquist, Megan Edwards, and everyone at Imbrifex Books for all the stellar work.

Thanks to God, for everything. Forgive us for the wrongs we so often do in Your