The Bridge Beyond Her World (The Boy and the Beast Book 2) (16 page)

Where an ember had smoldered behind Winter’s eyes, the Sanctuss now saw flames. The questions were burning her alive from the inside. They needed only to be drawn out. Then she could find some relief.

“I am a traveler, just as you are, Winter. All men and women are on a path. We climb the same mountain, only you and I are farther along on our journey. Higher up on the mountain than most. The air up here is clearer, and we have a strong vantage point that allows us to see farther as we look out at the world, at the horizon of the world’s origins, and the opposite horizon of its future. Our questions then become bigger, they take on more perspective, and too often we wrestle alone with what most men and women do not see.

“I shall be open with you. I stand on the opposite side of the mountain as you. I do not trust the Makers. I oppose them. But I have no loyalty to my side. In truth, I wish I could be on your side of the mountain. I was there once, a long time ago.”

Winter looked pale. The Sanctuss noticed her lips part, and knew intimately the question on the tip of her tongue.

Finally, the girl released it. “What made you cross to the other side?”

“First, tell me your biggest question, the one that never quite leaves your mind.”

“Alright,” said Winter, shifting in her chair. “It’s a question I only ask myself when I feel like I’m failing in my gift. When I’m in a dark mood.”

“This is a safe space,” said the Sanctuss. “Have no fear. Let it out.”

Winter released a deep, shaky breath from her lips. “Why do the Makers tolerate all that is cruel? Death and suffering. Dark hearted men like the Baron my brother and I lived under. And then, I wonder why cruelty exists at all? How was it born?”

Winter glanced at her with a reticent expression marring her face. As if she were a good wife unaccustomed to voicing her husband’s bad traits to others.

“Your questions are the very heart of the issue. They were my questions. You are not alone, Winter. Every Oracle broods over these puzzles. We want to know our origins. How things became as they are. Knowing our beginnings orients us to see the present as it really is. When we hold the hand of a dying child, we want to know,
why
…truly we want to know…

“As to your questions, there are answers, many of them. We each must choose which best fits the world we see, but I want you to recognize that the way you framed the question reveals where you stand on the mountain.
Why do the Makers tolerate cruelty? T
hat question is asked assuming they
are
tolerating cruelty. What if cruelty is part of their design?”

Winter nodded. “Yes. I’ve wondered if, somehow, death and suffering are in some way good. Some purpose they serve that I cannot see.”

“That is a healthy road, Winter. Trying to find a way to turn cruelty into a good. It is a view that takes seriously the starting point of that darkness, and that is the Makers.”

“Is there not a way around that?” asked Winter. “A way in which cruelty can exist apart from the Makers?”

“Some try and find justification for the Makers by laying cruelty’s origins at the feet of the Beasts; others attempt to put it upon humans themselves, as if our liberty to do evil came into existence uncaused and unforeseen, catching the powerful, cunning Makers by surprise.”

Winter stared for a time at the polished rock floor. The Sanctuss knew some of what she said required translation from the VOKK, but she knew these questions of Winter’s were deeply personal. The girl’s greatest fears were being fed seeds of doubt that, if watered by future circumstances, or by the Sanctuss herself, could lead to her deliverance.

A small scowl formed on Winter’s face. “What
are
Beasts? I know nothing of them, other than they are to be feared.”

“That is a question almost as complex as the one already at hand. But I will say what is known. The Beasts are spirits, like the Makers, only they are restless and crave to live in a body of flesh. They choose an animal to inhabit, and then, from that animal, they woo the allegiance of men. They are, without question, cruel; they fight against the Guardians and each other, as if our galaxy were one large gameboard, with man and Beast fighting for rule and dominion.

“I could say much more, but what is relevant to our discussion of the Makers is the question, where did the Beasts come from and how did
they
become cruel? This same question can be asked of us humans. What did the Makers do, or fail to do, that brought cruelty into being?”

Winter shook her head. “These questions torment me beneath the surface. Some nights I awake in mid-debate with myself, questioning and defending these doubts I have…”

Tears ran steadily down Winter’s cheeks. Tears that Sanctuss Voyanta felt now in her own eyes. They were heart tears. Winter did not wipe them away, the agony she felt clearly written on her face.

Winter continued, a resolve deepening her voice. “But in the end, the Maker who pulled me from the river is beyond these questions. The being was good and pure in a way I cannot express. In those arms, I felt something I will always crave to feel again, no matter whether I understand cruelty or not. If cruelty exists because of the Makers, then so be it. I can only trust it has a part to play.”

The Sanctuss closed her eyes and could not help but stand and fight the current of her own doubts that washed afresh, as Winter’s confidence and hope battered against her own. It was time to dredge up her own heart and run it through the mud. Winter had done as much, and now so must she.

“Winter, I wish I could have felt what you did. My own experience was powerful, but not like that. Not as intimate. For nine years I was an Oracle. It began when I was sixteen, lying on my bed mat, when a noise drew me awake. It was dark. That grayish haze of early morning. Beside my open window stood a man, bathed in the moonlight. I saw a knife in his hand. He said if I didn’t do what he wanted, he would kill me and my younger sister who slept on the mat beside me. I began to undress, as the man commanded, and that is when the Maker appeared in a vision. I felt safe despite the man in the room. I felt a portion of that warm presence you described, tingling my skin. I was caught up in the moment, standing there, naked, when the man hissed for me to get on the bed. He took hold of my arm and that’s when the Maker gave me my gift. I was given words to speak.

“ ‘Your mother loves you,’ I told him.

“The man let go of my arm and stared at me. More words came to me that were not mine.

“I told him his mother was still searching to find him, and then I remember telling him these exact words:

“ ‘It has been ten years, but not a day passes where your mother doesn’t remember your face and think of you.’

“The man left, sobbing like a child, blubbering apologies. I never forgot his face. I was given words to speak from that day on. They were always hopeful words. Words that healed the inner wound of a broken relationship. A father whose child ran away. A wife whose husband never returned from sea. A friend long departed who, on their deathbed, had wished to say they were sorry. They were precious words and I cherished speaking them. But like you, Winter, I had questions. I began to see every stranger’s face I passed as a mask for pain. What cruelties had left scars on their hearts? Why wasn’t I given a message for
more
people? I knew there were many that I passed who needed a word. Many people in my everyday life told me of sorrows, but no words were given me to restore them. I began to wonder how my heart could hunger so much for the healing of these people around me, when it seemed the Makers chose only a few. That led me to question the Makers’ goodness, which I had assumed from the start. And one day I saw the face of the man who started it all. The man who had come into my room that first night. His body swayed alongside several other men hanging from the gallows in the city’s courtyard. I stood there, horrified.

“I had always assumed my words changed the life of the hearer. Gave them what they needed to go on. To become whole. To find peace.

“And then, as I stood there, my heart wrenched in the grip of confusion, words came to me to speak to someone. And I obeyed them, weaving my way through a sparse crowd of onlookers until I saw an old woman in a dingy white cloak limping painfully with a walking staff toward the gallows. I knew instantly by the Makers’ insight that she was the dead man’s mother.

“She stopped and fell on her knees at the base of the platform and began to wail. I knelt beside her and told her the words given me. That he loved her and that he had tried to go back and find her, and how he regretted ever running away as a boy. She fell to the dusty ground, thrashing the side of her face in the sand, her tears soaking into the dirt.

“I had never stayed after speaking the words given me, but this time, I did not leave the woman. And I discovered she had found her lost son by reading his name on the town’s board of justice. She had hobbled the entire way here, only to find her boy swaying from the noose, condemned for stealing from the city lord’s manor.

“She died days later, refusing to eat or drink. I stayed by her beside and comforted her. She thanked me for my words. She said they eased her pain, but I knew they were insufficient. She had needed to see her son alive. To touch him and cry with him. Why couldn’t the Makers have sent me to her earlier, and given me words of direction for her, so that she could have found him before? To have held him? To have heard from his own mouth how much he loved her and how sorry he was for leaving her? Maybe, if his mother had found him sooner, he wouldn’t have committed the crime that had sent him to the ropes.

“But I didn’t give up completely. I made it a mission to investigate every person I was given a word for. What I found after more than a year, was that my words were a mix of blessings and curses for the people I gave them to. It blessed them, but it did so without taking away the cruelty, just as it had with the old woman. Your sons loved you,
but they are dead
. Your husband who is lost at sea is still alive,
but you will likely never see him again.
The dear friend who betrayed you regrets what he did,
but your friendship will never be restored, because he ran so far away.

“There were a few who were reconciled. And a few who were reunited. But not enough—not even close to enough.

“And that is when I knew,” said Sanctuss Voyanta. “…that is when I knew I couldn’t trust the Makers. When I, a mere human, weak and mortal, had better motives and foresight than the most powerful beings in our universe, that told me they were up to something far different than I had thought when I first prized my gift.”

Winter’s eyes were soft, and they didn’t turn away from the Sanctuss. “It seems we want to fix the cruelty more strongly than the Makers,” said Winter.

“Precisely,” said the Sanctuss. “And from my vantage point, that makes them the cruelest monsters of all. With power comes the high calling of responsibility. That is the axiom of the Guardians.”

“Do you think me a fool for still wanting to trust them? For holding out hope that there is a reason to their apparent weakness?”

The Sanctuss's smile was warm. “Dear girl, not at all. I still carry the burden of rejecting the Makers. When I am honest with myself, I still wonder, like you, if the Makers are good and have good reason for allowing cruelty. I think every Oracle will be haunted by doubts, no matter which side of the mountain they stand on.”

“Thank you,” said Winter. “I will treasure your honesty forever. I feel so close to you. Even if we are on opposite sides of the mountain.”

Sanctuss Voyanta smiled painfully and wiped at her eyes. The dredging up of those memories was so excruciating, they hung in her mind as she brushed at her tears, distracting her from noticing Winter tenderly reach out her hand.

The girl’s fingers came up lightly to the side of her face and cupped her exposed cheek in a kind-hearted touch. The Sanctuss felt the heat of the contact, its warm fire jolted her, and sent her sideways off her chair. She crumpled onto the rock floor, suddenly in shock, the reality of what Winter had done dawning on her.

“No!” the Sanctuss whimpered, her voice quivering with terror. But it was too late.

“I tried to do what you wouldn’t!” Voyanta called out, not at Winter, but into the void. Into the invisible realm. She knew they heard. But did they feel? Did they care?

The warmth from Winter’s touch moved slowly down her neck. In a familiar whisper, she heard the Maker’s words, a voice she hadn’t heard in many long years, since before her deliverance.

But this time, the word was for her.

She sat up and wept, one hand fastened over her mouth as the warmth encircled her heart, and then, as if gravity were calling to her, she lay back down.

The closeness of the dark. Wrapping its arms around her. The Maker’s words, echoing. Echoing. Even after her body lay dead.

HEARTH

My Divine King,

The Guardian Cultivator continues to come around our building projects. It seems innocent enough, for he likes to watch the new upper walls being built. Yet, I know he dislikes our way of life and our adherence to your teachings. His questions are always tainted with the ring of superiority. My main concern is for your secret creation, Astrum. I fear the animal may get loose, as it nearly did a month ago. The creature is too large and to fierce a thing to contain for much longer. It has eaten or burned to death ten handlers in the last year. If it ever breaks free…what then?