Father Duinn was tired. Today was one of those days when he felt his age. His joints ached and the cold penetrated him to the bone. The energy of the crowd did little to invigorate him. On the contrary, their eager chatter only made him feel more weary. Their merriment was baffling. You would think these people were attending a holiday feast, not an execution.
This was the second time he had traveled to a far-off town to try and stop a witch hunt. It was the second time he had failed. In both cases, the decision had been made before he’d arrived. In this instance it had not been made officially, but the girl was already condemned in the minds of the townsfolk, which was as good as any official proclamation.
Duinn had given impassioned speeches to anyone who would listen. He’d met with the most influential men in the village together and separately. He’d even been permitted to give a few comments at the girl’s trial. He spoke always of Christ’s mercy, and insisted that the task of judgement rests with God. None of it had made the slightest difference.
The makeshift gallows before him consisted of a large ash tree, a noose, and a wooden stool. The noose dangled listlessly in the gentle breeze. With a shudder, he averted his gaze and looked around at the faces in the crowd. There were old faces and young faces. Children bobbed impatiently next to their parents. Most people seemed far more engaged in their present conversations than in the solemn purpose of the moment. In one or two faces, however, he detected a familiar intensity. It was the same lethal righteousness he’d seen in his abbot on that terrible morning so many years ago. Duinn sighed. Why had he stayed today, instead of leaving as soon as it was clear that the girl was doomed? He had real responsibilities to attend to at the monastery. He could not rewrite the past. Yet perhaps, he supposed, if he could not rewrite the past he could at least relive it, and there was some inexplicable comfort in that.
Just then, he spotted an odd figure at the edge of the crowd. It was another monk. Or at least, it was a man in a filthy monk’s robe. The hood was pulled up as far as it would go, so that the top portion of his face was obscured by it. Duinn began to move from his place at the front of the crowd toward the mysterious brother.
As he was making his way through the crowd, they brought out the girl. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she was being led to the noose by the town sheriff. The sheriff was a tall, imposing man with a barrel-like torso and a red beard. Next to him, the girl seemed even more thin and wispy than she had at her trial two days ago. Her long, lank black hair formed a curtain around her pale face. Her paleness was accentuated by her black dress. Her face was a mask. Through it shone two brilliant violet eyes which betrayed not the slightest trace of fear. It was hard to say what was more striking about those eyes: the color or the ferocity, which seemed more fitting to someone twice the girl’s age and size.
Duinn lost interest in the other monk and turned to watch the girl. He crossed himself and began to recite the prayers he came here to recite. The sheriff directed the girl to stand on the stool, and the executioner placed the noose around her neck. As the sheriff began making his announcement, Duinn prayed fervently for her soul and for theirs. If this was the only power he had, then he would wield it with all his strength. If the girl herself had any last words, he did not hear them. But he did hear the dead silence that heralded the arrival of the appointed moment. It lasted only an instant, and then the stool was removed from beneath her feet. Duinn felt horror rising in his chest, but he did not stop praying.
Just then, a booming crack resounded over the scene. Duinn thought he saw a great flame somewhere above the girl. A woman screamed. Duinn felt bodies pressing against him, some running away from the gallows, others pushing toward it. He looked up. The tree branch from which the girl had been hanging a moment ago was gone, replaced with a smoking black scar. He blinked, disbelieving his own eyes. Where was the girl? He hesitated. Should he go toward the commotion, and try to help? What help could he give? None, of course. That had been the answer since he’d arrived here. This was not his fight. He belonged at the monastery. Then through the churning crowd he glimpsed the girl on the ground, wrestling with her noose. The next thing he knew, he was moving toward her.
The crowd thickened as he got closer to the front. Voices called out over him—for order, for God’s mercy, for blood.
“Just do it now, to hell with it!” shouted one.
“Kill the witch!” came another.
“Everyone keep your distance now, keep back!” came the sheriff’s voice.
“Kill her, before she strikes again!”
“I saw him that did it, it was the monk!” an old woman shouted. Duinn felt a large hand grasp his forearm. He instinctively resisted.
“I’ve got him!” said the man who held him.
“Got who?” came the voice of the sheriff.
“No you haven’t, I have!” came another man’s voice.
“Get your hands off me!” said another voice. Duinn started. He knew that voice.
Duinn was being led to the front now. So was the other monk, who was resisting more vigorously than he was. Duinn spotted the old woman who must have spoken the accusation.
“No that’s not him,” she said, looking at Duinn, “it was the other one!” Duinn could not get a good look at the other monk, who was thrashing around with his hood still on.
“Well this one was muttering incantations,” chimed in a man from the crowd.
“They were Hail Mary’s!” said Duinn defensively.
“He was praying for the witch!”
“He’s been defending her ever since he got here,” murmured several new voices.
“It was the young one that cast the spell,” insisted the old woman.
“They’re working together! Three witches!” came a hysterical voice.
“Enough! That’s enough!” boomed the sheriff. He and his deputies had helped the girl to her feet and freed her of the noose. The huge tree branch lay at her feet. One end of it was blackened and smoke emanated from it, stinging Duinn’s nose and eyes. The sheriff controlled the crowd now as one might control an excited dog. “Settle down now, all of you!” He strode over to the other monk and threw back his hood.
It was Crastor. Dear Crastor, fighting almost as obstinately now as he had on that terrible day fifteen years ago when Duinn and a few others had presided over his execution. He hadn’t changed a bit. The more Duinn stared at him, the more he was struck by this fact. Crastor looked just as young as he had on the day he’d arrived at the monastery more than twenty years ago.
“There will be no execution today,” announced the sheriff in an authoritative voice. “This town will not succumb to mob rule. We’ve done all of this according to the due process of law and that’s not about to change now. As for these two…” the sheriff looked from Duinn to Crastor. “I’m arresting both of you for disturbing the peace, and for suspicion of witchcraft.”
“Please sir, I can assure you this is a great misunderstanding,” began Duinn.
“Yes, it is! I was nowhere near the girl. He’s the witch, not me,” cut in Crastor.
“Liar!” yelled the old woman.
“Quiet, you!” snapped the sheriff. Looking at the monks he said, “I’m taking you both in. You’ll get a fair trial, just like she did.”
~
Apparently the town of Bridge Point had never needed a jail with more than two separate cells. One cell went to the girl. After Crastor insisted that he’d never seen Duinn before, and Duinn feebly shrugged, the sheriff decided that the two of them could share the remaining cell. The sheriff interrogated each of them separately. There was a small barred window in the cell’s heavy wooden door, and through it Duinn could see the anteroom outside the cell. Deputies dropped in and out of the anteroom all afternoon. There was also a barred window in the back of the cell connecting it to the outside world. Through it, Duinn could hear arguments. Several men in the town were growing impatient of the sheriff’s insistence on due process. It had been one thing when he was gathering evidence against the girl, but it was another thing now that she’d been found guilty and the people felt they’d been cheated out of the spectacle of her execution.
Meanwhile, Crastor paced the cell like a caged animal. He and Duinn still had not spoken to each other. They had barely even looked at each other. When they accidentally made eye contact, both looked away. With all the comings and goings of the day, there had been little opportunity for private conversation. Now the sun was setting, and things were finally quiet. The little barred window in the cell door revealed that the deputy who had been watching them left, giving no indication when he might be back. For the moment, they were alone.
Duinn wished desperately to speak to Crastor. This silent coexistence was hard to bear, even though being a monk he was quite accustomed to silence. There was so much he wished to say. There was a bench in their cell, upon which he sat now as he watched Crastor pace back and forth.
His youth really was striking. His wavy chestnut hair had grown out to his shoulders, but otherwise Crastor looked just as he always had. Duinn had first met him nearly twenty-five years ago, but he looked less than twenty-five years old now. Perhaps Duinn should not have been surprised. After all, if that ghastly other face of Crastor’s—that face for which he’d been sentenced to death—proved anything, it proved that there was something very unnatural about the man. But that was not what mattered now.
“Crastor,” he said tentatively. Crastor whipped around and glared at him. “Could we talk?” Duinn asked. Something in Crastor’s face softened ever so slightly, but he went on glaring. “Crastor, I…. I’m sorry,” said Duinn.
“Sorry for what? For killing me, for betraying our friendship, or for destroying my faith in God?” responded Crastor acidly.
“All three,” said Duinn. “I know my apology is not worth much, but for what it’s worth I am so sorry. I should have stood up for you on that day. I was a coward and I’ve always regretted it. That’s why I came here, to try and do better in some small way. I tried to help the girl, to talk some sense into the townsfolk, though I’m afraid I was not very effective.”
Crastor had stopped pacing. He moved to the corner of the cell that was farthest from Duinn. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t have been very effective against the abbot either,” he said. In the fifteen years he had spent ruminating on that day, Duinn had never seriously considered this. He did not reply, as the truth of Crastor’s words sank in. He shifted his eyes toward the hard earthen floor. Even though Crastor presumably had not set foot in a monastery in fifteen years, he was still comfortable with silence, too.
Finally, Duinn asked, “Did I really destroy your faith in God?”
Crastor smiled and shook his head.
“What? What’s funny?”
“That out of those three things, that’s the one that bothers you most,” Crastor replied. “You’re still as faithful as you ever were. You haven’t changed much, Duinn.”
“And you haven’t changed at all.” Then, regretting that he’d brought it up, Duinn said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine,” said Crastor, waving it away. “Perhaps you didn’t destroy my faith in God. Only my faith in man. God must exist. How else could he have forgotten about me?” He was smiling again.
“Oh Crastor,” said Duinn. “I’ve missed you. You always had the makings of a good monk. You were never rigid and you were never afraid. I liked that you asked questions. Even though sometimes they made me want to…”
“Throw me into the river?”
“That’s not funny.”
“This is why I wouldn’t make a good monk. Unlike the rest of you, I have a sense of humor,” replied Crastor.
Duinn was smiling now, too, in spite of himself.
“You were always the best of them,” Crastor said quietly. “I accept your apology. And I forgive you.”
Duinn stood up and moved toward Crastor, opening his arms wide. They embraced. And it was like a block of ice that Duinn had been chipping away at for years and years suddenly melted.
When they parted, Crastor had a look of determination on his face. “I’m going to get all three of us out of here tonight.”
“You can’t be serious,” Duinn said.
“Of course I’m serious!” said Crastor. “You don’t think I came here just to delay an execution. And I certainly didn’t come here to live through my own again.”
“Someday I would like to hear how you did that, by the way,” ventured Duinn.
“Well,” Crastor took a deep breath. “That day may never come, so I’ll give you the short version.” He sat on the bench, and Duinn sat beside him.
“When you threw me into the river, I died. Then I woke up underwater, and I tried getting out of my bonds but I couldn’t. Then I died again. I woke up underwater again, worked at the ropes again, and then died again. I don’t know how many times I died before I got the damned ropes off. Laighin must have been a sailor before he became a monk because I’m telling you, those were no monk’s knots. Anyway, eventually I washed up on the shore, and I decided on the spot that I would become the greatest magician who ever lived.
“As for the story of why I can’t stay dead, well, that’s a longer one. Suffice to say it was a sophisticated bit of magic that I didn’t ask for. To this day I’m not sure if it was just a meaningless accident, or part of my…” Crastor grimaced. “My father’s plan,” he spat the word. “Or our Holy Father’s plan,” he said, pointing up to the sky. “I went to the monastery for an answer, and, well, I suppose I got it.” He sighed.
“You got a foolish answer from foolish men,” said Duinn.
Crastor smiled. “Is there any other kind?” he asked.
“What, of answer, or of men?” asked Duinn.
“Either I suppose,” said Crastor. “Still, I can’t help but wonder if the abbot was right. Maybe the devil is in me. Maybe I really did sell my soul. If I did, it was an accident. I think.”
Duinn thought about this. “I don’t think you can sell something that belongs to God,” he replied.
“It’s easier to believe my soul belongs to the devil. It makes more sense that way,” said Crastor in a defeated voice.
Duinn shook his head and said, “Everything belongs to God. Including the devil.” A breeze from their little window chilled the room. Duinn looked out toward it, and watched the rosy glow of the setting sun.
Then Crastor said, “Well I don’t know if I’ve ever met the devil, but here’s my advice: if you ever meet a foreigner on the road offering you free candy and a job, don’t take it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Duinn. He had many more questions, and many reassurances he might give, but he did not get the sense that Crastor was interested in either. So he asked, “Do you know the girl? Rheol?”
“Is that her name? No, I don’t know her. But I’ve been sabotaging every witch hunt I can.” Crastor leaned back against the stone wall. “You see, since I decided to become a magician, I’ve actually gotten pretty good at it, and I’ve amassed a bit of a following. Our little network has grown tremendously over the years. And so, unfortunately, has the peril of practicing magic. Witch hunts like this one have been on the rise. Regular folk despise us, and a few Christian do-gooders have made it their mission to snuff us out. I’ve lost many colleagues to the stake and the noose.
“More common than the witch hunts are the smaller insults, of course. Magicians getting spat on, or pushed around, or beaten bloody. Most are turned out by their families. They call us freaks, degenerates, demons, devil’s spawn and such.
“Lately there have been stranger insults. Magical insults. Granted, chaos magic backfires all the time. It’s unavoidable. But these incidents don’t seem like magical accidents. One fellow says he was lifted up by a gust of wind and hung by his britches in a tree, and the wind whispered to him to never do magic again. Another says he opened his shed one morning to find his cow dead, and in the blood and the guts they’d written, ‘You’re next, magician.’ But he swears it was locked up tight and he sleeps next to the key.
“On top of that, there have been the deaths and the disappearances. Young, healthy magicians who suddenly died in their sleep, or set out for a trip and were never seen again. I don’t know how to explain those. More importantly, I don’t know how to stop them. At any rate, I try to stop the ones I can. If the girl is a budding magician, so much the better. But either way, I’ll save her on principle.”
“A noble effort,” said Duinn.
Crastor sighed. “I don’t feel very noble at the moment. I thought I was bringing something good into the world, but now people are dying because of it.”
Duinn laid a comforting hand on Crastor’s shoulder. “You’re doing the best you can,” he said. Crastor gave him a sad smile.
“Now then, let’s think about how we’re going to get out of here,” said Crastor, standing up.
“I’ll write to the monastery. I’m sure the abbot can v-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Crastor interrupted. “Even if we could rely on the abbot to act like a decent human being, it wouldn’t do any good. A letter from the pope wouldn’t do any good. These people are out for blood.”
“Well you can go ahead and escape, but I am not going to break the law. I’ll stay here.”
“Duinn,” Crastor sighed impatiently, “I don’t want to have to come back here and save you.”
“The sheriff is a reasonable man. He’ll see to it that this is all sorted out.”
“How many witch hunts have you witnessed?” Crastor asked, putting his hands on his hips. “Trust me, if the mob really gets going, any reasonable man who tries to stand in its way will be knocked down.”
Duinn crossed his arms. “If they see that you’ve escaped and I chose to stay, that will prove my innocence. Why should an innocent man run? And why should a guilty man stay? No, you go ahead. I’ll stay here and I’ll write to the abbot as soon as I have the chance.”
“There’s no such thing as an innocent man Duinn, and especially not one who’s friends with me. Please don’t rely on the goodwill of the mob or the abbot. I’m telling you, some people can’t be reasoned with.”
“I didn’t come here to break the law. And I don’t think breaking the law will make things better,” Duinn insisted.
“But you did come here to save the girl, didn’t you?” Crastor pressed. “Or perhaps you only wanted to save her as long as you didn’t have to get your hands dirty.”
That stung. Nevertheless, Duinn had to admit that Crastor had a point. He had not imagined that saving the girl would mean breaking the law or perhaps risking his life. He’d honestly thought that the bible verses he’d picked out about Christian mercy would do the job.
“You’ll save her,” Duinn said hopefully.
“Maybe,” said Crastor. “But I want to save you too. And frankly, if I have to choose between you two, I’ll choose you. But it’ll be easier to keep you both safe if I can keep you both together.”
Duinn opened his mouth to respond, but his resolve was wavering. He was at a crossroads. “Let me pray on it,” he said.
Crastor groaned impatiently. Ignoring him, Duinn folded his hands and bowed his head. He whispered a little prayer in Latin, and then asked God what he should do.
Duinn did not want to break the law. He thought of the monastery, of his mission and of his vows. But then more images came to mind. He remembered the few stony faces he’d seen in the crowd, and again he heard the cries of “Three witches!” and “He’s been defending her ever since he got here.” He saw a little girl, dangling from a tree. He saw a rowboat on a river, a boulder pushed over the side, and Crastor pulled down after it.
He sat up. He said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to save Rheol.”
Crastor brightened. “Good! You’ll help me save her then.” He went back to pacing. “Now, the question is how.”
Duinn leaned back, skeptical that he could really be of any help.
Crastor continued, “The obvious option is to try the fire trick again, but I don’t know if I’ve got another one of those in me today. In any case, the sound will bring the guard running, and then I won’t be able to concentrate and we may be stuck. And we’ve got to get the girl, too. No, the fire is too risky.
“Alternatively, we could try being sneaky,” he mused, “but that method has its own risks. That kind of magic works better in groups than working solo.” Crastor looked at Duinn and raised his eyebrows. Duinn furrowed his.
“Now I know you can’t be serious,” said Duinn.
~
“Ready?” asked Crastor.
Duinn grimaced.
“That doesn’t look like your ‘yes’ face,” said Crastor.
Duinn sighed. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing each other. The moonlight streamed in through the barred window and cast shadows about the cell. “I still don’t understand what you mean by ‘make the walls sing.’”
“Don’t worry about it if it’s confusing,” said Crastor. “Just forget I mentioned it. Only don’t be too surprised when it happens. Which it will. You must trust that it will.”
“I’ll try.”
Crastor shook his head. “If you have to try, then you don’t really trust. When you go to bed at night, do you try to trust that the sun will rise tomorrow? No, you simply know it will. So you can relax. Magic is like that. It’s easy. It just happens.”
Duinn nodded slowly. The more he tried to relax, the more tense he felt.
“For Rheol,” said Crastor.
Duinn nodded again. In a voice that sounded more confident than he felt, he said, “For Rheol.”
Together they took a deep breath, and began to chant.
“A-ve ve-rum co-o-rpus, na-tum de Mari-i-a Vir-gi-ne….”
The song pierced the night. In this strange place, Duinn felt comforted by the familiar words. Perhaps Crastor did too, since he remembered them perfectly even after all these years. The chant turned Duinn’s thoughts toward God, and that made it easier to relax. Their dismal little cell began to feel more sacred, more special. It felt like home.
Just then, someone came running into the anteroom.
“Hey, what’s this? What do you think you’re doing in there?” came a voice.
Surely that was one of the deputies. He must have been on watch somewhere outside. As planned, Crastor and Duinn did not stop. They did not even look in his direction.
“Hey, you- you stop that! You hear me?”
“es-to no-o-bis prae-gu-sta-a-tum… ”
“I’ll get the sheriff, and then you’ll be sorry!”
“in mo-rtis e-xa-mine… ”
“That’s enough now!”
Duinn could not tell whether the deputy was getting softer or the chant was getting louder. The chant seemed much bigger than the two of them now. It filled the room. Was that an echo? Duinn thought he heard more voices. The chant enveloped him like a blanket. He recalled the feeling of listening to a boring bible reading on a warm day. He did feel warm now, and so very tired.
“ve-re pa-a-ssum, i-i-mmo-la-a-tum… ”
It was happening now. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids felt heavy. He wavered unsteadily. The room shifted in and out of focus. He tried to keep his eyes on Crastor, whose posture was slumped and who was also wavering. Still chanting, Crastor was looking at the door. Duinn followed his gaze. There was something at the little barred window. Something black, moving slowly, creeping into the room. What was it? So slow… so…. tired…
~
Duinn woke to the sensation of something on his face. Languidly, he brushed it off. His limbs felt heavy. He did not want to wake up. Too tired. He thought he heard voices somewhere far away. Angry voices. The floor was uncomfortable. Floor? What floor? Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The largest spider he’d ever seen stared back at him. Suddenly, Duinn was wide awake. He sat straight up. It took a moment to remember where he was. Then the jail cell, the chant, and the whole predicament came back to him. Crastor was still there, asleep on the floor beside him. The spider seemed to be patiently waiting. It was a truly grotesque thing. It was hairy, and as big as both his hands. But hooked around one of its legs was a truly beautiful sight: a key.
Duinn smiled. Gingerly, he lifted the spindly leg and took the key. He put his hands together in a gesture of thanks. The spider stared vacantly back at him.
He nudged Crastor, who woke with a start. Duinn put a finger to his lips, indicating for Crastor to be quiet while he got his bearings. Surely the deputy was still asleep outside the cell. Crastor nodded. Duinn dropped the key into his hand. Crastor grinned.
They both stood up. Crastor moved toward the door. He pulled up his sleeve and stuck his hand between the bars, but it did not penetrate far. He seemed to be engaged in something outside the door. While Duinn waited, he heard voices again. It was nothing like the ‘singing walls’ of earlier. These were ordinary human voices. They were coming from somewhere outside, through the large barred window. Then he heard the key knocking against the lock. Finally, he heard it enter and turn. Crastor pulled his hand back and opened the door. He turned back to Duinn and gestured again for silence, putting a finger to his lips. He crept through the door. Duinn followed.
Duinn inhaled sharply as he passed into the chamber outside the cell. There was the sleeping deputy on the floor, but the room was full of other creatures. There was a pig, and several doves stood on its back. Bats hung from the ceiling. Some sort of large mole was scratching at the floor in the corner. Several more enormous spiders decorated the walls. There was a dog with a falcon’s head. Perched on the deputy’s stomach was a creature that looked like a tiny woman. Near the cell door, there was a black, devilish looking imp with giant ears and glowing yellow eyes. As Duinn looked at it, it folded its ears back and bared its teeth.
Crastor went to the deputy and seemed to be searching for something. Duinn directed his eyes toward the ground. He tried to relax, but his heart was pounding so vigorously that he felt like it might wake the deputy. A moment later, Crastor finished his task and they walked through the door of the anteroom. Crastor closed the door behind them. He produced more keys, which he must have taken from the deputy, and he locked the anteroom door.
Without a word, they crossed through a large central room, which contained several tables and cabinets and comfortable-looking benches. They reached a door on the opposite end of it. As Crastor searched for the proper key, Duinn asked in a whisper, “Are they still in there? With him?” as he pointed back to the anteroom.
Crastor smiled and shrugged as if to say, “who knows?” He unlocked the door and they proceeded into the other anteroom. He went directly to the cell door, and opened that, too. The girl was sitting up on her bench with her legs in front of her, as if she had just been lying on it and suddenly snapped to attention. Her fierce violet eyes searched them both.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
Crastor said, “We’re here to rescue you.”
“That’s not an answer,” she responded.
Crastor seemed a little taken aback. “Fine. I’m Crastor. I’m a magician. And this is Father Duinn.”
“A magician?” squawked the girl. “You mean a wizard?”
“Uhh…” Crastor hesitated. “No, er, well, you can call me whatever you want, I suppose.”
“Are you a wizard or not?”
“How would I know if I were a wizard?”
“Do you do magic?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see your wand,” she said.
“I haven’t got a wand,” said Crastor.
“What do you mean you haven’t got a wand? How do you do magic without a wand?” she asked sharply.
Crastor hesitated again. He seemed to be considering something. He returned the girl’s searching gaze. Duinn chimed in, “Perhaps this is a discussion that could wait until we’re somewhere safe?”
She glared at him. “No. It can’t.” She appeared to be waiting for Crastor to speak, but when he did not, she asked, “Did Titus send you?”
“Who?” asked Crastor.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to be rescued by you,” she said.
Crastor groaned in frustration. “Why is everyone being so uncooperative tonight?” he lamented.
“Titus and my other friends are coming. They’ll be here any minute now,” said Rheol.
“Are you sure about that? Willing to bet your life on it?” asked Crastor sharply.
“They’ll be here!” she said fervently.
“Shh, please keep your voice down,” said Duinn. They had locked the deputy in the anteroom, but still, it would complicate matters if he woke up. On top of that, Duinn had a bad feeling about those men he’d heard talking outside the building.
“Your friends aren’t coming, girl,” said Crastor, whose hands were balled into fists.
“Yes they are, they saved me earlier and they’ll be back.”
“Saved you? With the fire?! That was me!”
“Crastor, please,” said Duinn, trying to quiet him, too.
“So you’re not a wizard, but you’re not a muggle either,” said the girl, her eyes narrowing.
Crastor looked dumbfounded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. They waited in tense silence. The two of them were glaring at each other so intensely that Duinn felt like they were sharing some exchange he was not privy to. Again, he heard voices outside. He felt a sense of anticipation, the sense that a storm was brewing.
Finally, Crastor said, “Come on, Duinn. She doesn’t want to be rescued by us.” He turned toward the door. Duinn saw the game Crastor was playing. So he walked out of the cell and Crastor followed. Crastor closed the cell door and began picking through the keys.
“Rggggghh!” The girl practically growled at them.
“Yes?” asked Crastor innocently.
She pushed open the door, slamming it into Crastor’s face.
“Oww!” he cried. She stormed past them, out of the anteroom. The two of them hurried after her.
She strode across the central room toward the door of the building. They caught up to her just as she reached it. “Wait,” said Duinn, thinking of the men he’d heard outside.
Rheol did not wait. She flung the door open. There were at least a dozen men gathered in front of the jail, perhaps two dozen. A couple of them had torches. One had a rope. The mob and the fugitives gazed at each other in mutual shock.
“RUN!” said Crastor, shoving them both. Rheol darted off and Duinn lumbered after her. Twenty years ago he might have been able to keep up with her, but unlike Crastor, he was not as young as he used to be. Still, he sprinted with more fear and more effort than he ever had in his life. The mob was not directly behind him. They were shouting, distracted by something else. The land behind the jail sloped downward and met with the edge of a forest. Rheol barreled into it, and Duinn clumsily followed. She bounded through the trees like a black shadow in the moonlight. He followed the sound of crunching leaves, and the glimpses he got of her. Then the sound of her was overwhelmed by sound of the mob behind him. Duinn’s joints were on fire and his breathing was ragged, yet somehow he ran faster. He ran in the general direction he thought the girl had. It occurred to him that he did not know where Crastor was.
Then, behind him, he heard a huge crack, and the forest lit up with orange light. Then came a crash, as of an entire tree coming down. The whole forest seemed to tremble. Duinn did not turn back to look. He kept running. Someone was catching up to him. He tried to run faster, but he could not.
“Come on, old man!” came Crastor’s voice behind him. Duinn was too exhausted to reply. He tried to focus on following the direction the girl had gone. But he had lost her a while ago, and he was merely guessing now. Crastor caught up to him, then surpassed him. From a few paces ahead, Crastor turned back to him without slowing down. Duinn nearly stumbled at the sight of Crastor’s mangled face. It was Crastor alright, but the creature in front of him was a bony, pale thing with torn and decaying flesh. His nose was just a black cavity, and his eyes were solid yellow orbs that glowed in the darkness. It was the side of Crastor that Duinn had seen only once before, the corpse side that the abbot had tried unsuccessfully to exorcise.
The sound of the mob seemed farther away now, though Duinn felt he was moving painfully slowly. Crastor remained not far ahead. Duinn got the sense that Crastor was slowing down for him. Then, suddenly, in a flash of light, Crastor disappeared.
Duinn stopped in his tracks. He stared at the spot where Crastor had been. Immediately, he could hear the mob gaining on him. Duinn did not have many options at this point. He was no longer willing to bet that the mob could be reasoned with. What would happen if he stepped into that same spot? Nothing? He remembered what Crastor had said about trusting in magic. Like trusting that the sun would rise. He moved toward the spot. He knew that it would take him somewhere strange. But it had taken his friend. So he moved without fear.