The Brotherhood (working title) Click to Englarge Map

Scan of the original map of the Brawlius Empire
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Word Count: Approx. 77,000
Status: Complete, seeking publication
Sequels: Two, both complete
Synopsis: The Brawlius Empire revolves around an ancient religion that might destroy everything and everyone that matters to Emily Byrnes. Here, fire is the epitome of doom and sin and has been cast away by ancient druids for centuries, no longer to exist. Instead, a bluish, tangible light illuminates their braziers that only men can create and only women can extinguish. But when a patrolling guard is hit over the head and slammed to the forest floor, he looks up and sees, through the woods, a branch fallen to the ground - burning. Fire is back. The Empire is strewn into chaos - the Emperor evacuated, the provinces erupting in riots as flame is once more kindled in the hands of a primeval, elusive cult. Emily, in the secluded, relic town of Darson's Ford, is thrust into the mystery of this flame when her dearest - and only - father figure, Adam, is sentenced with his Brotherhood of criminals to extinguish the fire where water could not. Adam knows this means death, but Emily cannot watch him leave through those dark trees alone. She will find first-hand not only the depth of the flame's prophetic meaning, but what it can do to unravel an empire.
Word Count: Approx. 77,000
Status: Complete, seeking publication
Sequels: Two, both complete
Synopsis: The Brawlius Empire revolves around an ancient religion that might destroy everything and everyone that matters to Emily Byrnes. Here, fire is the epitome of doom and sin and has been cast away by ancient druids for centuries, no longer to exist. Instead, a bluish, tangible light illuminates their braziers that only men can create and only women can extinguish. But when a patrolling guard is hit over the head and slammed to the forest floor, he looks up and sees, through the woods, a branch fallen to the ground - burning. Fire is back. The Empire is strewn into chaos - the Emperor evacuated, the provinces erupting in riots as flame is once more kindled in the hands of a primeval, elusive cult. Emily, in the secluded, relic town of Darson's Ford, is thrust into the mystery of this flame when her dearest - and only - father figure, Adam, is sentenced with his Brotherhood of criminals to extinguish the fire where water could not. Adam knows this means death, but Emily cannot watch him leave through those dark trees alone. She will find first-hand not only the depth of the flame's prophetic meaning, but what it can do to unravel an empire.
Excerpt:
For the men in my life. You know who you are. But to five especially: Matt, Grandpa Ed, Grandpa Joe, John Flanagan, and my dad, Larry. You’re my constellation – and you’re not going anywhere.
Muddled colors stain the wood floors through the glass window. His light is ignited as he stands next to her, eyes gently closed, head bowed. It floats at his hand – a deep, purplish-blue orb, slowly rotating on his skin, and clings to the hairs at his wrist. Emily pulls her eyes from the patch of stained light on the floor and watches him.
“If the women would please extinguish the men’s light…” the druid requests upon the altar, looking with fondness at his small but familiar audience. The one-roomed, pew-less wooden church holds only its regulars, and is now, as usual, lit only by the blue, spherical lights clinging to men’s hands or wrists or fingers.
The man next to Emily, in his late-forties, flutters open his eyes with a wry smile. His short, reddish-brown hair looks violet in the blue light, and he meets Emily’s eyes with gentle anticipation.
“Would you?” he whispers, offering his wrist where the round, glowing light rests. Emily smiles. Of course, he would always ask her.
She steps over to him and he leans his head down as she lays a soft hand over the blue light. It shrinks under her fingers until there’s nothing but darkened, empty air. She glances up to his eyes, and his gold ones linger on hers with affection before he straightens and lends his gaze to the others in the temple.
The dots of blue light extinguish under the touch of females around the room, until a soft darkness falls upon them, the tainted sun still making valiant attempts through the deeply colored windows. Identical, vivid-blue spheres of light dance through emerald-green leaves or ride over pearly waves on the glass.
Ahead, at the altar, where the short priest stands in white robes, a circular window spills in the most light, its color not deep blue, or purple, or green, but red and orange and bright yellow.
This one depicts fire.
The fire struggles in the picture, suppressed under legions of light and water. The flaming colors beam lava over the altar and onto the floor.
They wait.
“A beautiful day,” the druid speaks into the darkness, “in which we celebrate all that is true. All destined. The Celestial is the reminder of our glorious place on earth, shown to us through the choreography of heaven…”
She doesn’t want to listen about the rural holiday. Part of the excitement is waiting to discover what it is. As the priest continues, she pulls out a smooth square of wood from her pocket. The scratches made on it with her knife indicate where she wants to carve its design.
One of the priest’s words draws her back.
“And, too, a reminder of the fire we banished. Though flame hasn’t burned in our realm for centuries, still it can burn in the hearts of our enemies. Let Celestial be a reminder that even softest starlight can triumph over dark embers.”
It feels wrong, the interest in fire. Like the interest in death, inner darkness. But she finds herself listening, not with relish, but burning curiosity.
Burning, she thinks. The irony doesn’t seem funny.
“Go forth, and please celebrate the Celestial in safety tonight.” The druid emphasizes the word “safety” and pins a bright eye upon a trio of rowdy-looking teenagers shoving each other’s shoulders. They stop and look up at him when they realize his stare, and the priest and walks to an oversized stone chalice on the floor. The reflection of its water dances on the wooden ceiling.
One by one, the people form a line to the altar. Emily slips the wood back into her pocket. The older man next to her and she make up the rear. They walk in slow, rhythmic steps forward, but excitement for the holiday brims over as laughter and conversation distract the pace of the queue.
Emily’s older companion approaches the druid and the stone basin. She watches the priest dip his fingers in the water and bring the drizzling liquid to the man’s forehead, where it dribbles down his lashes and nose. Most close their eyes respectfully during this ritual. Emily notes that his eyes, though not reproachful, stare neutrally across the room and blink away the water. Like going through the motions, or perhaps even tolerating them. He turns and Emily takes his place. The priest dresses her in the same water, and she closes her eyes, unsure if it’s instinctive or something more spiritual.
Water, extinguishing fire. Do they expect to find fire in her?
Each leaves the wooden church and Emily follows the older man’s silent step towards the door as he squeaks it open with one long arm. The druid wipes his hands on the cloth behind them and watches fondly the last of his people dismiss in good spirits.
Sun hits her eyes and she squints. Dark, murky water glints off its rays and the dock she stands upon, though sturdy as earth, darkens from recent splashes. People must be active in the water today – a rare event.
The man closes the door behind her and inhales.
“Are you ready for tonight?” His voice is gentle, level. But Emily thinks she caught just a tint of amusement behind it, which annoys her.
“I’ve only been here a year, Adam – why is it so surprising that I didn’t know what the Celestial was?”
The statement intended to be defiant, but she finds herself laughing.
The boards creak beneath their feet as they walk down the dock to the block shacks on stilts ahead of them, where other boardwalks connect. Mildew gives the wooden walls a green patina, but the buildings of Darson’s Ford are almost all identical, including the church they just left behind.
“City folk,” replies Adam in a low, neutral voice again. “I don’t like to think of you missing all those Celestials.”
A sentimental smile creases Emily’s lips that Adam, walking just behind her, won’t see. Her voice is softer, though. “I’m sad I missed them too. I love it here.”
Adam is quiet at this, almost contemptuously, as they reach the rail-less dockway along the first block of shabby houses. Emily runs her fingers along the splintered boards of the homes. She knows what his silence means. He doesn’t approve of her being here with no guardian, forced to fend for herself. It’s a concerned anger, but if Adam and her distant mother – who takes every cent she earns here in Darson’s Ford – were ever found in the same room, it would take serious restraint to keep Adam to himself.
“Are you working tonight?” he asks, trying to mask the displeasure in his voice. Yes, their thinking had worked through the same scenario and ended up with this question.
“Just until eight,” Emily replies, the emphasis on being casual a little too obvious. But Adam is rarely in need of being defused. He has a knack for keeping his emotions to himself and suppressing them quickly.
Up ahead, they hear a prominent splash as someone must have dived into the water. They both stop, amused, as a wave sloshes against the poles.
“It’s hot, but not that hot,” says Emily, shaking her head. Adam grunts playfully as they resume their step. The waters of Darson’s Ford, though nostalgic and iconic to the small, secluded village, are also none too clean.
The screeching footsteps behind her stop, and she turns to see Adam standing there with a regretful pursing of lips. He wears his usual dark green shirt and fine-chained, silver necklace catching a glisten of the sun’s light. The brown leather sheath of his short sword hangs along his belt and is so worn and faded, it barely holds the blade. The smile-wrinkles around his eyes are weary rather than joyful as Emily blushes.
“I just passed work, didn’t I?” she says.
Adam watches her with his light brown eyes, a hint of phony rebellion behind them. “I almost wasn’t going to stop you. Want to take the old man out tonight?” he whispers in mock seriousness.
Emily can’t help but laugh. The “old man” Adam refers to is her boss at the tavern.
“I think we need more time to devise our plan before going in for the kill, Adam.”
Adam nods considerably.
“Fair thinking.”
She smiles, brushing past him for the door, but his fingertips catch her arm before she opens it. His expression is serious, but there’s a tender glow behind his eyes. “Come with me for the Celestial tonight. I’ll wait for you here at eight.”
He tries for another smile, but again, it seems sad.
“I’ll be here,” she promises.
She has never celebrated the holiday before, but something tells her the Darson’s Ford regular standing next to her never truly has either.
Adam watches her, eyes heavy, as she opens the door to the bar.
“Amanda, thank goodness!” The old man bustles from behind the bar and actually embraces Emily, surprising her. In spite of herself, she chuckles.
“They’re on your head, Mr. Robutan.” She points to his glasses. He slaps a hand over his forehead and knocks them back down but shakes his head fervently.
“Not the glasses, not the glasses,” he says, but suddenly Emily knows why he’s so pleased to see her. The entire tavern is overcrowded with orbs of blue light, floating on every surface in the room. Her mouth falls open. “Wha –?”
“Some undisciplined gaggle of youngsters,” Mr. Robutan hastens to explain, his slight lisp becoming more severe in his exasperation. He hobbles off behind the bar again, leaving Emily trailing into the room, gazing around at the hundreds of blue lights upon the surfaces.
“They came in wanting water, I should have known! Produced all this light. And left!” He throws a dishtowel in the air in indignation, his wispy white hair seeming ghostly in the blue glow. “Where will people eat, blinded by such insensibility?”
Emily sets to work extinguishing them beneath her hands, but she doesn’t share Mr. Robutan’s fury. On the contrary, they seem pretty to her. Their color is sky-blue, and although several men scoff against it, she and most women believe the light men produce to have their own unique shades, depending on the individual. Adam’s is deep and purplish in her opinion. Still, she supposes her imagination may trick her at different angles. She watches the warm, soft aura of the orb shrink beneath her fingers, and wonders whether the boys who stopped for water were really trying to cause the old man trouble, or if they simply sought to brighten a room.
She snorts to herself. Teenage boys decorating. Right.
Mr. Robutan is under the bar now, clunking around with pewter mugs and plates and speaking to Emily far louder than necessary.
“They told me not to hire a young girl like you! In a grubby place like a tavern and all! But I told them I was a chancing man – you being worth the chance!”
Emily makes her way across the room for more orbs.
“What were you gambling when you hired me?” she can’t help but ask him, a little smugly. His wispy head pops up from under the counter and seeks her out. Half of his tavern is already extinguished.
“Leave the light in the pockets!” he instructs unnecessarily, as if he hadn’t heard her question. The pockets are engravings in the wall that hold the blue light like braziers.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Emily. Her hands begin to sweat at the warmth of the orbs beneath her palms.
The last of the light is finally put out by the time the patrons should be making their way to the inn – six o’clock. Emily joins the old bartender at the counter and grabs dinner cloths.
“They’re on your head,” she says again as Mr. Robutan looks aghast around the counter for his spectacles. He slams them back over his eyes as if she had said nothing, and the door opens with the first pack of especially jovial costumers.
***
“So why are we lying here again?” Emily asks. The wet grass furrows around her; hands folded across her chest. Night sprawls above, and stars scatter like sawdust floating on water. The moon floods silver onto their skin.
“Just look,” Adam replies. His voice is gentle, low, and tonight, touched with humor. Emily shifts her shoulders and watches stubbornly. Here, every night is like this. Quiet. Boring.
The waters of Darson’s Ford rebound the moon like a mirror. The houses, all within the pool of water, are quiet and glow softly through their paper-covered windows. A few silhouettes stand outside their doors on the boardwalk with their heads thrown back to the heavens.
Everyone’s in on it… Emily thinks. She flexes her entwined fingers and rustles again in the grass.
Adam, lying a few feet from her, catches her excitement and smiles.
“Almost time…” he teases.
As he speaks the words, a streak of light slices across the sky. Its long, flaming tail draws soft gasps from the ford. Emily’s eyes widen, and she jerks up on an elbow. Immediately after the first meteor’s passing begins to fade, two more speed in its pursuit, one soaring down, the other cutting through the middle. And then dozens of shooting stars race like volleys of arrows from invisible bows.
On the ford, fathers lift children on their shoulders. An old man crouches beside his granddaughter and a mother joins hands with her little son. Emily tries to single out one of the stars, but finds her eyes jumping from one to the next.
The last is the longest. It soars over the constellations in a long, lingering arch, tail sparkling silver and white. All is quiet.
The people remain in awe, staying on the docks for another ten or fifteen minutes, murmuring in hushed voices to one another. Then doors squawk open and they gather back to their homes, where the after-celebrations will rumble through the night.
But Adam and Emily remain lying on the elevated ground near the trees of surrounding woods. Adam turns to her with a lifted eyebrow.
“Well? Was that worth the wait?” he asks with a hint of cockiness.
“Yes,” Emily replies, awestruck, but trying to pull up her wall again. “Yes, that was…” She swallows and shakes her head. “Amazing.” Wall gone. “What was that?”
Adam laughs and props himself up on his elbows. “Haven’t you heard of a meteor shower?”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve never...in the city…”
Adam gives a just-what-I-was-saying hrumph. Emily shoots him a playful glare.
“Did you say meteor?” she says after a pause. “Aren’t they shooting stars?”
Adam gives her a disbelieving look.
“Those ‘shooting stars’ are meteors. Don’t you remember astronomy from school?”
Emily has to strain to recall any class, let alone astronomy. She hadn’t attended a lesson in two years; before moving to Darson’s Ford. Her previous hometown in the capitol of Cathair Mόr is where she used to live with her mother.
Adam sighs and drops the query. His tone is softer.
“That doesn’t happen too often, you know.” He gazes up at the stars. “It’s every year, usually, but not always the same day.”
He answers before she can ask.
“A holy man lets the date be known to the priest. Some people call them druids. They know more about the world than healers and kings. The physical pattern of the world, anyway.” He breathed that last sentence.
Emily imagines someone seated in the night with a large chart in front of them, chronicling the stars and predicting the next Celestial. It seems like a lonesome and yet important job.
Soft cricket chirps compliment the calmness, and Adam cast his eyes, long since adjusted to the darkness, around the clearing. Moonlight polishes every leaf and the grass shifts to blue in the damp coolness. From the incline they rest upon, they can glimpse at the distant, rolling lands nestled far past the tree line.
Darson’s Ford is a small town established literally on top of a ford. Thick poles the size of tree trunks support wooden docks, or boardwalks, that run all within the waters like a maze and serve as streets and porches to homes. The water itself is deep, but small, burbling creeks run from the west forest into the wide pool and keeping the water fresh near the banks, even almost drinkable.
Deep woods completely surround the little town, and at the same time seclude it. Only from the very high ground closest to the trees, on which Adam and Emily lay now, can one see the peaks of the Calamus Mountains and the yellow grassland before it. Adam admires those grasslands now, but the mountains are too dark to be deciphered from the sky.
“Why do the stars shoot then, Adam? What makes them fly away?” Emily wonders. Adam opens his mouth but struggles.
“Well, I…I don’t think they’re actually stars. Stars don’t move. Shooting stars are just… burning rocks.” He stops a moment, checking his facts mentally before continuing. “And being close to our planet is what makes them ‘shoot’.”
“Then why do they call it…?” Emily begins, but ends up shaking her head in humored frustration. “Weird world we live in,” she concludes.
“Yeah,” Adam sighs. “Weird world.”
A comfortable silence hangs between them. Fireflies burn like dying embers in specks around the tree line.
“So the stars aren’t going to fall?” Emily’s quiet voice has a tint of true concern. Ancient tales of the heavens falling to earth reappear in her mind. Adam can’t help smiling gently.
“They’re not going anywhere,” he promises.
Adam’s promises she could trust. She knew that ever since first meeting him at the tavern.
In the bustle of an average business night, he had opened the door and simply stood there, looking around at the inn and its patrons, seeming entirely out of place. When she approached him and offered to find him a seat a little timidly, he had snapped out of his trance and studied her.
“Aren’t you a little young to be working here?” His voice was not ridiculing like every other that had asked the same question. It was genuinely concerned, troubled even.
“Aren’t you a little old to need help finding a seat?”
He watched her pointedly after the jab, but when Emily couldn’t contain a smile, his eyes brightened tentatively, almost perplexed.
“Amanda! If you’re going to sleep here, no standing!” Mr. Robutan had hollered after setting two filled mugs on the bar.
“Sleep here?” Adam spoke to her, and it was like they were already a team.
Emily pursed her lips shyly and nodded. Adam’s brow furrowed.
She had departed from him, and Adam, walking slowly, found a lone seat by the corner and slid into it. He had watched her darkly the rest of night as she went about her work. The further the hour, the more rowdy and drunken her tables became. Mr. Robutan seemed to pay no mind, but her step became more nervous around the strong, drunken men.
Finally, when clearing out a mug, a stocky, smashed-faced figure rose from his seat and pinned her forearm to the table. She’d gasped.
“This look ‘mpty to you?” he slurred, tilting the mug against her to show the dregs of foamy ale.
And then the man was knocked to the ground. The wooden seat clattered down with him. Other thugs at his table scraped back their chairs and stood, but Adam clasped a strong hand on Emily’s shoulder and yanked her back.
“Flame-rotting filth!” the stocky man howled on the floor. Adam reached down and jerked him up by the scruff of his shirt, then thrust him back towards his friends. The man had stumbled and nearly fallen over again. They glared at him incredulously, but Adam’s returning look was unforgiving.
“That won’t happen again,” Adam turned and said darkly to Emily. “I promise.”
And it never did.
He came back the night after, when Emily was able to thank him. Slowly, they questioned one another, Adam secretly delighted by her courage and wit, and Emily unable to ward off the paternal attachment she felt towards this older man who had protected her that night. She discovered Adam to be unmarried, childless, and retired military. Adam discovered her to be fatherless, with a mother back home who was pregnant with Emily’s half-sibling. Emily merely shrugged when she couldn’t identify the father of that child.
At last, Adam offered to teach her fishing, show her the ropes of this foreign-feeling village called Darson’s Ford.
“Adam?”
There is not an ounce of sleep in his reply.
“Yeah?”
Emily chuckles. “Nothing. I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“I’m going to,” Adam breathes and drags himself to his feet. He groans. “Since when did I have knee problems?” He rubs his left knee with a half wince, half smile. Emily jumps to her feet too.
“You have a lot of problems.”
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. “Some truth to that.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Emily offers, joining him down the grassy slope.
The waters are black, holding only the glassy moon like a dinner plate on its surface. They shuffle down onto the first wooden planks, which clunk under their feet. The air is cool, the leaves of the surrounding woods still, watching.
They’re silent.
Torches at intervals on the docks are lit in the floating blue light. Emily watches as a dark silhouette far down one of the boardwalks holds a hand over the top of a torch and produces the light to ignite it. It grows from a dot in the distance to a sphere of light blooming under the man’s hand.
Festive, she thinks again. The torches are hardly ever lit at nightfall – too many to tend to, too tedious to assign a woman to extinguish. But she supposes the Celestial merits special luxuries.
They reach the pub before reaching Adam’s house. Mr. Robutan, an early riser, closes the bar just as early. Only sleepers at the inn – who numbered one, including Emily – are served inside after eleven.
Adam stands by the door and turns to her, but doesn’t open it yet. The inky water laps gently against the docks.
“That was the best holiday I’ve ever celebrated,” Emily says gratefully. It is hard to make out Adam’s expression in the moonlight.
“I imagine it’s the only one you’ve celebrated,” he speaks so low and bare that deciphering the emotion behind the words is difficult. He looks up suddenly to the trees beyond them and exhales deeply.
“I don’t like the braziers.”
Emily twirls and spots one of the blue torches nearby, thinking it was an odd comment.
“Why –?”
“They make everything else darker.”
She could see his reasoning. Their blossoming glow, though warm and familiar, makes the black tree line impossible to pierce. Adam looks at it now, as though worried about something. And then he looks back to her just as suddenly.
“Let’s fish tomorrow.”
Emily smiles, but a yawn interrupts.
“I’ll meet you at your place.” She bravely tries to speak with firm, sleepless tones, but fails.
A small, wistful smile lifts the side of Adam’s mouth. His eyes are content. “Goodnight, Emily.”
He steps forward with a gentle hand behind her head and kisses her forehead.
She watches as he cuts past her and walks down the dock. He throws his head and gazes at the stars but doesn’t look back.
Not going anywhere, Adam, she thinks. They’re not going anywhere.
For the men in my life. You know who you are. But to five especially: Matt, Grandpa Ed, Grandpa Joe, John Flanagan, and my dad, Larry. You’re my constellation – and you’re not going anywhere.
Muddled colors stain the wood floors through the glass window. His light is ignited as he stands next to her, eyes gently closed, head bowed. It floats at his hand – a deep, purplish-blue orb, slowly rotating on his skin, and clings to the hairs at his wrist. Emily pulls her eyes from the patch of stained light on the floor and watches him.
“If the women would please extinguish the men’s light…” the druid requests upon the altar, looking with fondness at his small but familiar audience. The one-roomed, pew-less wooden church holds only its regulars, and is now, as usual, lit only by the blue, spherical lights clinging to men’s hands or wrists or fingers.
The man next to Emily, in his late-forties, flutters open his eyes with a wry smile. His short, reddish-brown hair looks violet in the blue light, and he meets Emily’s eyes with gentle anticipation.
“Would you?” he whispers, offering his wrist where the round, glowing light rests. Emily smiles. Of course, he would always ask her.
She steps over to him and he leans his head down as she lays a soft hand over the blue light. It shrinks under her fingers until there’s nothing but darkened, empty air. She glances up to his eyes, and his gold ones linger on hers with affection before he straightens and lends his gaze to the others in the temple.
The dots of blue light extinguish under the touch of females around the room, until a soft darkness falls upon them, the tainted sun still making valiant attempts through the deeply colored windows. Identical, vivid-blue spheres of light dance through emerald-green leaves or ride over pearly waves on the glass.
Ahead, at the altar, where the short priest stands in white robes, a circular window spills in the most light, its color not deep blue, or purple, or green, but red and orange and bright yellow.
This one depicts fire.
The fire struggles in the picture, suppressed under legions of light and water. The flaming colors beam lava over the altar and onto the floor.
They wait.
“A beautiful day,” the druid speaks into the darkness, “in which we celebrate all that is true. All destined. The Celestial is the reminder of our glorious place on earth, shown to us through the choreography of heaven…”
She doesn’t want to listen about the rural holiday. Part of the excitement is waiting to discover what it is. As the priest continues, she pulls out a smooth square of wood from her pocket. The scratches made on it with her knife indicate where she wants to carve its design.
One of the priest’s words draws her back.
“And, too, a reminder of the fire we banished. Though flame hasn’t burned in our realm for centuries, still it can burn in the hearts of our enemies. Let Celestial be a reminder that even softest starlight can triumph over dark embers.”
It feels wrong, the interest in fire. Like the interest in death, inner darkness. But she finds herself listening, not with relish, but burning curiosity.
Burning, she thinks. The irony doesn’t seem funny.
“Go forth, and please celebrate the Celestial in safety tonight.” The druid emphasizes the word “safety” and pins a bright eye upon a trio of rowdy-looking teenagers shoving each other’s shoulders. They stop and look up at him when they realize his stare, and the priest and walks to an oversized stone chalice on the floor. The reflection of its water dances on the wooden ceiling.
One by one, the people form a line to the altar. Emily slips the wood back into her pocket. The older man next to her and she make up the rear. They walk in slow, rhythmic steps forward, but excitement for the holiday brims over as laughter and conversation distract the pace of the queue.
Emily’s older companion approaches the druid and the stone basin. She watches the priest dip his fingers in the water and bring the drizzling liquid to the man’s forehead, where it dribbles down his lashes and nose. Most close their eyes respectfully during this ritual. Emily notes that his eyes, though not reproachful, stare neutrally across the room and blink away the water. Like going through the motions, or perhaps even tolerating them. He turns and Emily takes his place. The priest dresses her in the same water, and she closes her eyes, unsure if it’s instinctive or something more spiritual.
Water, extinguishing fire. Do they expect to find fire in her?
Each leaves the wooden church and Emily follows the older man’s silent step towards the door as he squeaks it open with one long arm. The druid wipes his hands on the cloth behind them and watches fondly the last of his people dismiss in good spirits.
Sun hits her eyes and she squints. Dark, murky water glints off its rays and the dock she stands upon, though sturdy as earth, darkens from recent splashes. People must be active in the water today – a rare event.
The man closes the door behind her and inhales.
“Are you ready for tonight?” His voice is gentle, level. But Emily thinks she caught just a tint of amusement behind it, which annoys her.
“I’ve only been here a year, Adam – why is it so surprising that I didn’t know what the Celestial was?”
The statement intended to be defiant, but she finds herself laughing.
The boards creak beneath their feet as they walk down the dock to the block shacks on stilts ahead of them, where other boardwalks connect. Mildew gives the wooden walls a green patina, but the buildings of Darson’s Ford are almost all identical, including the church they just left behind.
“City folk,” replies Adam in a low, neutral voice again. “I don’t like to think of you missing all those Celestials.”
A sentimental smile creases Emily’s lips that Adam, walking just behind her, won’t see. Her voice is softer, though. “I’m sad I missed them too. I love it here.”
Adam is quiet at this, almost contemptuously, as they reach the rail-less dockway along the first block of shabby houses. Emily runs her fingers along the splintered boards of the homes. She knows what his silence means. He doesn’t approve of her being here with no guardian, forced to fend for herself. It’s a concerned anger, but if Adam and her distant mother – who takes every cent she earns here in Darson’s Ford – were ever found in the same room, it would take serious restraint to keep Adam to himself.
“Are you working tonight?” he asks, trying to mask the displeasure in his voice. Yes, their thinking had worked through the same scenario and ended up with this question.
“Just until eight,” Emily replies, the emphasis on being casual a little too obvious. But Adam is rarely in need of being defused. He has a knack for keeping his emotions to himself and suppressing them quickly.
Up ahead, they hear a prominent splash as someone must have dived into the water. They both stop, amused, as a wave sloshes against the poles.
“It’s hot, but not that hot,” says Emily, shaking her head. Adam grunts playfully as they resume their step. The waters of Darson’s Ford, though nostalgic and iconic to the small, secluded village, are also none too clean.
The screeching footsteps behind her stop, and she turns to see Adam standing there with a regretful pursing of lips. He wears his usual dark green shirt and fine-chained, silver necklace catching a glisten of the sun’s light. The brown leather sheath of his short sword hangs along his belt and is so worn and faded, it barely holds the blade. The smile-wrinkles around his eyes are weary rather than joyful as Emily blushes.
“I just passed work, didn’t I?” she says.
Adam watches her with his light brown eyes, a hint of phony rebellion behind them. “I almost wasn’t going to stop you. Want to take the old man out tonight?” he whispers in mock seriousness.
Emily can’t help but laugh. The “old man” Adam refers to is her boss at the tavern.
“I think we need more time to devise our plan before going in for the kill, Adam.”
Adam nods considerably.
“Fair thinking.”
She smiles, brushing past him for the door, but his fingertips catch her arm before she opens it. His expression is serious, but there’s a tender glow behind his eyes. “Come with me for the Celestial tonight. I’ll wait for you here at eight.”
He tries for another smile, but again, it seems sad.
“I’ll be here,” she promises.
She has never celebrated the holiday before, but something tells her the Darson’s Ford regular standing next to her never truly has either.
Adam watches her, eyes heavy, as she opens the door to the bar.
“Amanda, thank goodness!” The old man bustles from behind the bar and actually embraces Emily, surprising her. In spite of herself, she chuckles.
“They’re on your head, Mr. Robutan.” She points to his glasses. He slaps a hand over his forehead and knocks them back down but shakes his head fervently.
“Not the glasses, not the glasses,” he says, but suddenly Emily knows why he’s so pleased to see her. The entire tavern is overcrowded with orbs of blue light, floating on every surface in the room. Her mouth falls open. “Wha –?”
“Some undisciplined gaggle of youngsters,” Mr. Robutan hastens to explain, his slight lisp becoming more severe in his exasperation. He hobbles off behind the bar again, leaving Emily trailing into the room, gazing around at the hundreds of blue lights upon the surfaces.
“They came in wanting water, I should have known! Produced all this light. And left!” He throws a dishtowel in the air in indignation, his wispy white hair seeming ghostly in the blue glow. “Where will people eat, blinded by such insensibility?”
Emily sets to work extinguishing them beneath her hands, but she doesn’t share Mr. Robutan’s fury. On the contrary, they seem pretty to her. Their color is sky-blue, and although several men scoff against it, she and most women believe the light men produce to have their own unique shades, depending on the individual. Adam’s is deep and purplish in her opinion. Still, she supposes her imagination may trick her at different angles. She watches the warm, soft aura of the orb shrink beneath her fingers, and wonders whether the boys who stopped for water were really trying to cause the old man trouble, or if they simply sought to brighten a room.
She snorts to herself. Teenage boys decorating. Right.
Mr. Robutan is under the bar now, clunking around with pewter mugs and plates and speaking to Emily far louder than necessary.
“They told me not to hire a young girl like you! In a grubby place like a tavern and all! But I told them I was a chancing man – you being worth the chance!”
Emily makes her way across the room for more orbs.
“What were you gambling when you hired me?” she can’t help but ask him, a little smugly. His wispy head pops up from under the counter and seeks her out. Half of his tavern is already extinguished.
“Leave the light in the pockets!” he instructs unnecessarily, as if he hadn’t heard her question. The pockets are engravings in the wall that hold the blue light like braziers.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Emily. Her hands begin to sweat at the warmth of the orbs beneath her palms.
The last of the light is finally put out by the time the patrons should be making their way to the inn – six o’clock. Emily joins the old bartender at the counter and grabs dinner cloths.
“They’re on your head,” she says again as Mr. Robutan looks aghast around the counter for his spectacles. He slams them back over his eyes as if she had said nothing, and the door opens with the first pack of especially jovial costumers.
***
“So why are we lying here again?” Emily asks. The wet grass furrows around her; hands folded across her chest. Night sprawls above, and stars scatter like sawdust floating on water. The moon floods silver onto their skin.
“Just look,” Adam replies. His voice is gentle, low, and tonight, touched with humor. Emily shifts her shoulders and watches stubbornly. Here, every night is like this. Quiet. Boring.
The waters of Darson’s Ford rebound the moon like a mirror. The houses, all within the pool of water, are quiet and glow softly through their paper-covered windows. A few silhouettes stand outside their doors on the boardwalk with their heads thrown back to the heavens.
Everyone’s in on it… Emily thinks. She flexes her entwined fingers and rustles again in the grass.
Adam, lying a few feet from her, catches her excitement and smiles.
“Almost time…” he teases.
As he speaks the words, a streak of light slices across the sky. Its long, flaming tail draws soft gasps from the ford. Emily’s eyes widen, and she jerks up on an elbow. Immediately after the first meteor’s passing begins to fade, two more speed in its pursuit, one soaring down, the other cutting through the middle. And then dozens of shooting stars race like volleys of arrows from invisible bows.
On the ford, fathers lift children on their shoulders. An old man crouches beside his granddaughter and a mother joins hands with her little son. Emily tries to single out one of the stars, but finds her eyes jumping from one to the next.
The last is the longest. It soars over the constellations in a long, lingering arch, tail sparkling silver and white. All is quiet.
The people remain in awe, staying on the docks for another ten or fifteen minutes, murmuring in hushed voices to one another. Then doors squawk open and they gather back to their homes, where the after-celebrations will rumble through the night.
But Adam and Emily remain lying on the elevated ground near the trees of surrounding woods. Adam turns to her with a lifted eyebrow.
“Well? Was that worth the wait?” he asks with a hint of cockiness.
“Yes,” Emily replies, awestruck, but trying to pull up her wall again. “Yes, that was…” She swallows and shakes her head. “Amazing.” Wall gone. “What was that?”
Adam laughs and props himself up on his elbows. “Haven’t you heard of a meteor shower?”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve never...in the city…”
Adam gives a just-what-I-was-saying hrumph. Emily shoots him a playful glare.
“Did you say meteor?” she says after a pause. “Aren’t they shooting stars?”
Adam gives her a disbelieving look.
“Those ‘shooting stars’ are meteors. Don’t you remember astronomy from school?”
Emily has to strain to recall any class, let alone astronomy. She hadn’t attended a lesson in two years; before moving to Darson’s Ford. Her previous hometown in the capitol of Cathair Mόr is where she used to live with her mother.
Adam sighs and drops the query. His tone is softer.
“That doesn’t happen too often, you know.” He gazes up at the stars. “It’s every year, usually, but not always the same day.”
He answers before she can ask.
“A holy man lets the date be known to the priest. Some people call them druids. They know more about the world than healers and kings. The physical pattern of the world, anyway.” He breathed that last sentence.
Emily imagines someone seated in the night with a large chart in front of them, chronicling the stars and predicting the next Celestial. It seems like a lonesome and yet important job.
Soft cricket chirps compliment the calmness, and Adam cast his eyes, long since adjusted to the darkness, around the clearing. Moonlight polishes every leaf and the grass shifts to blue in the damp coolness. From the incline they rest upon, they can glimpse at the distant, rolling lands nestled far past the tree line.
Darson’s Ford is a small town established literally on top of a ford. Thick poles the size of tree trunks support wooden docks, or boardwalks, that run all within the waters like a maze and serve as streets and porches to homes. The water itself is deep, but small, burbling creeks run from the west forest into the wide pool and keeping the water fresh near the banks, even almost drinkable.
Deep woods completely surround the little town, and at the same time seclude it. Only from the very high ground closest to the trees, on which Adam and Emily lay now, can one see the peaks of the Calamus Mountains and the yellow grassland before it. Adam admires those grasslands now, but the mountains are too dark to be deciphered from the sky.
“Why do the stars shoot then, Adam? What makes them fly away?” Emily wonders. Adam opens his mouth but struggles.
“Well, I…I don’t think they’re actually stars. Stars don’t move. Shooting stars are just… burning rocks.” He stops a moment, checking his facts mentally before continuing. “And being close to our planet is what makes them ‘shoot’.”
“Then why do they call it…?” Emily begins, but ends up shaking her head in humored frustration. “Weird world we live in,” she concludes.
“Yeah,” Adam sighs. “Weird world.”
A comfortable silence hangs between them. Fireflies burn like dying embers in specks around the tree line.
“So the stars aren’t going to fall?” Emily’s quiet voice has a tint of true concern. Ancient tales of the heavens falling to earth reappear in her mind. Adam can’t help smiling gently.
“They’re not going anywhere,” he promises.
Adam’s promises she could trust. She knew that ever since first meeting him at the tavern.
In the bustle of an average business night, he had opened the door and simply stood there, looking around at the inn and its patrons, seeming entirely out of place. When she approached him and offered to find him a seat a little timidly, he had snapped out of his trance and studied her.
“Aren’t you a little young to be working here?” His voice was not ridiculing like every other that had asked the same question. It was genuinely concerned, troubled even.
“Aren’t you a little old to need help finding a seat?”
He watched her pointedly after the jab, but when Emily couldn’t contain a smile, his eyes brightened tentatively, almost perplexed.
“Amanda! If you’re going to sleep here, no standing!” Mr. Robutan had hollered after setting two filled mugs on the bar.
“Sleep here?” Adam spoke to her, and it was like they were already a team.
Emily pursed her lips shyly and nodded. Adam’s brow furrowed.
She had departed from him, and Adam, walking slowly, found a lone seat by the corner and slid into it. He had watched her darkly the rest of night as she went about her work. The further the hour, the more rowdy and drunken her tables became. Mr. Robutan seemed to pay no mind, but her step became more nervous around the strong, drunken men.
Finally, when clearing out a mug, a stocky, smashed-faced figure rose from his seat and pinned her forearm to the table. She’d gasped.
“This look ‘mpty to you?” he slurred, tilting the mug against her to show the dregs of foamy ale.
And then the man was knocked to the ground. The wooden seat clattered down with him. Other thugs at his table scraped back their chairs and stood, but Adam clasped a strong hand on Emily’s shoulder and yanked her back.
“Flame-rotting filth!” the stocky man howled on the floor. Adam reached down and jerked him up by the scruff of his shirt, then thrust him back towards his friends. The man had stumbled and nearly fallen over again. They glared at him incredulously, but Adam’s returning look was unforgiving.
“That won’t happen again,” Adam turned and said darkly to Emily. “I promise.”
And it never did.
He came back the night after, when Emily was able to thank him. Slowly, they questioned one another, Adam secretly delighted by her courage and wit, and Emily unable to ward off the paternal attachment she felt towards this older man who had protected her that night. She discovered Adam to be unmarried, childless, and retired military. Adam discovered her to be fatherless, with a mother back home who was pregnant with Emily’s half-sibling. Emily merely shrugged when she couldn’t identify the father of that child.
At last, Adam offered to teach her fishing, show her the ropes of this foreign-feeling village called Darson’s Ford.
“Adam?”
There is not an ounce of sleep in his reply.
“Yeah?”
Emily chuckles. “Nothing. I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“I’m going to,” Adam breathes and drags himself to his feet. He groans. “Since when did I have knee problems?” He rubs his left knee with a half wince, half smile. Emily jumps to her feet too.
“You have a lot of problems.”
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. “Some truth to that.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Emily offers, joining him down the grassy slope.
The waters are black, holding only the glassy moon like a dinner plate on its surface. They shuffle down onto the first wooden planks, which clunk under their feet. The air is cool, the leaves of the surrounding woods still, watching.
They’re silent.
Torches at intervals on the docks are lit in the floating blue light. Emily watches as a dark silhouette far down one of the boardwalks holds a hand over the top of a torch and produces the light to ignite it. It grows from a dot in the distance to a sphere of light blooming under the man’s hand.
Festive, she thinks again. The torches are hardly ever lit at nightfall – too many to tend to, too tedious to assign a woman to extinguish. But she supposes the Celestial merits special luxuries.
They reach the pub before reaching Adam’s house. Mr. Robutan, an early riser, closes the bar just as early. Only sleepers at the inn – who numbered one, including Emily – are served inside after eleven.
Adam stands by the door and turns to her, but doesn’t open it yet. The inky water laps gently against the docks.
“That was the best holiday I’ve ever celebrated,” Emily says gratefully. It is hard to make out Adam’s expression in the moonlight.
“I imagine it’s the only one you’ve celebrated,” he speaks so low and bare that deciphering the emotion behind the words is difficult. He looks up suddenly to the trees beyond them and exhales deeply.
“I don’t like the braziers.”
Emily twirls and spots one of the blue torches nearby, thinking it was an odd comment.
“Why –?”
“They make everything else darker.”
She could see his reasoning. Their blossoming glow, though warm and familiar, makes the black tree line impossible to pierce. Adam looks at it now, as though worried about something. And then he looks back to her just as suddenly.
“Let’s fish tomorrow.”
Emily smiles, but a yawn interrupts.
“I’ll meet you at your place.” She bravely tries to speak with firm, sleepless tones, but fails.
A small, wistful smile lifts the side of Adam’s mouth. His eyes are content. “Goodnight, Emily.”
He steps forward with a gentle hand behind her head and kisses her forehead.
She watches as he cuts past her and walks down the dock. He throws his head and gazes at the stars but doesn’t look back.
Not going anywhere, Adam, she thinks. They’re not going anywhere.