D. MacHale - The Soldiers of Halla

“I don’t believe it,” Saint Dane said. “I am their benefactor. I protect them. I reward them.”

“All they wanted was the freedom to choose their own destiny, and today they did that,” Uncle Press said.

“How?” Saint Dane shot back.

Uncle Press gestured for us to look over the edge. Saint Dane and I slowly walked forward. As the scene below revealed itself, I thought I was looking at a painting. I’m serious. That’s how impossible the image was. Saint Dane gave a little gasp. He was just as surprised as I was.

Down on the ground, for as far as I could see, were dados. Thousands of them. Multiple thousands of them. It was the army that marched on Eelong. I saw red Ravinians, the green uniforms and golden helmets of the Quillan guards, thousands of Mark-looking dados, and just as many klees. They had made it back through the flume downtown and marched along the same route that the exiles and gars had taken to get to the conclave. That’s where their journey ended.

These dados were no longer functioning. They were frozen. Deactivated. Dead. Whatever you want to call it. It was an impossible sea of dados that stood frozen. They filled the expanse between the conclave and the river, continued across the double-barge bridge, and stretched out on the far side of the river, back toward the city. There was no end to them.

Uncle Press said, “This was the work of your Ravinians. They entered the dado control center and deactivated every last one. They ended the war. You’re looking at a sea of worthless junk.”

Now I knew why there were so few Ravinians around during the attack. I had thought they were cowards, when in reality, they had seen their chance. The dados weren’t magic. They were mechanical. They had to be controlled from somewhere, and the Ravinians knew where. In the end the positive spirit of Solara had triumphed over the darker motives of man. Saint Dane’s chosen had chosen the right path.

Saint Dane pulled back from the wall, his eyes darting left and right. He looked panicked.

“I don’t believe it,” he cried. “It cannot be.”

He ran across the platform to look down inside the conclave and the multitude that was inside, staring up at him.

“People of Ravinia!” he shouted. “It isn’t too late! The choice is still yours! You are the elite! The perfect! The future of Halla!”

The people glared at him blankly, unmoved, silent.

“Take back what is rightfully yours! You have earned it by proving your own excellence. You don’t want to live like animals! You have chosen to excel. To thrive. You aren’t shackled by the common trials of those less deserving than you!”

The Travelers stood silently. Saint Dane turned to them.

What he expected any of us to say, I didn’t know. He was breathing hard. He looked desperate. He looked… older. Was that possible? Saint Dane’s face had changed yet again. He was deteriorating.

“Listen to me!” he called out to the crowd. “You cannot give up in mere moments what your ancestors have worked centuries to achieve! You are better than that. Far better. Together we will rebuild this world. Ravinia will spread beyond these walls. But that cannot happen until we eliminate those who are not deserving.”

Every last person in the conclave stared up at Saint Dane silently. It was eerie.

Courtney stepped up next to me and grabbed my arm. “Did you see that?” she whispered.

I did. For a brief moment Saint Dane had seemed transparent.

“Look at those around you,” Saint Dane bellowed. “The interlopers who have invaded our sanctuary. Is that what you want? Are these the kind of people you want to share your lives with?”

It happened again. Saint Dane momentarily faded, then came back. I looked to Uncle Press. He nodded in understanding. He knew.

Saint Dane pulled himself away from the edge. He was losing it. His blue eyes had turned from fierce to frightened. He reached out to the other Travelers. “There is still hope,” he cried. “Still time. Perhaps I have been too resolute. Yes, too arrogant. I can admit that. There is a better way. We can build a better Halla. All of us. Together. That was always my goal.”

The Travelers didn’t react. He went to each in turn, looking for some kind of confirmation. Some hope. They all stood silently, with no expression. Saint Dane’s face was aging. He seemed shorter. He was stooped, no longer standing erect.

He ran to Uncle Press. “We have been friends. You know I only meant well.”

“Perhaps,” Uncle Press said with no emotion. “At one time.”

“We can bring that back!” Saint Dane exclaimed. “That spirit! It can be as it once was. It can! I was only trying to help the people of Halla. You know that.”

Uncle Press didn’t say another word. Saint Dane then came to me. We stood eye-to-eye. Both of our faces were battered from the beating we had taken, and given. He clutched at my shirt.

“Pendragon,” he gasped, his voice getting raspy. “My adversary. We are not so different, you and I.”

Saint Dane’s image blinked again. For a moment I saw right through him. Literally.

“We both want what is best for Halla; we just come at it from different perspectives. Think. Think, Bobby. Together, you and I embody exactly what Solara is about. There is no right and wrong, there is only balance. Together, you and I, we can restore that balance and heal the wounds.”

“You mean the wounds that you inflicted?” I said.

Saint Dane was losing strength. He started to cry. He fell to one knee while still clutching at me.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” he sobbed. “I made mistakes. I was weak. I was seduced by my own vision. You of all people should understand that. You know that Halla is imperfect, and I am the embodiment of Halla. Forgive me. Please. Save me.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why?” he cried. “Why can’t you?”

Saint Dane was sobbing. His image winked out again, then returned, but not fully. He raised his chin, and I looked into those blue-white eyes for the last time.

“Because this is the way it was meant to be.”

Saint Dane dropped his head, let out a guttural cry, and disappeared.

The demon was dead. His spirit had ended. It was only fitting that, in the end, I wasn’t the one who destroyed Saint Dane. His final undoing came at the hands of the very people he’d set out to dominate. The people of Halla finished Saint Dane. In doing so, they took back control of their own destiny.

(CONTINUED)

A few weeks have passed since that incredible day that saw the end of Saint Dane and his bid to create a new Halla. I’ve been walking around in kind of a dream state. It’s hard to believe that it is over. Truly over. The quest to stop Saint Dane consumed my every thought for nearly five years. It changed my life. No, it revealed to me a life that I never imagined existed. I know this is going to sound strange, but now that reality has sunk in, I’m feeling kind of sad. Don’t get me wrong, defeating Saint Dane was a glorious thing. It was the right thing. I’m still having trouble getting my head around the fact that by ending his spirit, we have put Halla back on the proper course. I know that it’s true, but come on… it’s a lot to accept.

The other Travelers are in much the same state of disbelief. We all took up residence here in the Taj Mahal. This is where I’m writing my final journals. We all are. Uncle Press asked that we all take the time to reflect on events and write them down. I’m not sure why that’s so important, other than as a record from ten different points of view. He hasn’t said what’s going to happen to them, but the way

I look at it is, if there is ever any hint of somebody like Saint Dane making rumblings about causing trouble again, maybe our journals will serve as a warning. Learning from the mistakes of the past is a good thing.