John Hawks - The Traveler

“Come downstairs!” Boone shouted. “If you come down immediately, you won’t get hurt!”

Lawrence stripped the wrapping paper off the scabbard of his father’s sword, drew the weapon, and examined the shimmery cloud on the blade. The gold sword. A Jittetsu sword. Forged in fire and offered to the gods. A drop of water trickled down his face. Gone. All gone. Discarded. He had thrown everything away. His job and position. His future. The only two things he truly possessed were this sword and his own bravery.

Lawrence laid the scabbard on the wet floor, then walked to the staircase carrying the bare sword. “You stay there!” he shouted. “I’m coming!”

He climbed down the littered staircase. With each step, he lost more of his heaviness, the illusions that had burdened his heart. Finally he understood the loneliness revealed in his father’s photograph. To become a Harlequin was both a liberation and an acknowledgment of one’s death.

He reached the ground floor. Boone was standing in the middle of the trash-filled room with an automatic pistol in his hand. “Drop your weapon!” Boone shouted. “Throw it on the ground!”

After a lifetime of masks, the final mask was removed. Holding the gold sword, Sparrow’s son ran toward the enemy. He felt free, released from doubt and hesitation, as Boone raised his gun slowly and fired at Lawrence’s heart.

Vicki was a prisoner inside her mother’s home. She was being watched by the Tabula as well as by her church congregation. The power company truck had left the street, but other surveillance teams appeared. Two men working for a television cable company began replacing the relay boxes at the top of the phone poles. At night, there was no attempt at camouflage. A black man and a white man sat in an SUV parked across the street. Once, a police car stopped beside the SUV, and the two patrolmen spoke to the Tabula. As Vicki peered through the curtains, the mercenaries flashed ID cards and ended up shaking hands with the officers.

Her mother asked for protection from the church. At night, one or two people would sleep in the living room. In the morning, the night-shift team would leave and two church members would arrive to spend the day in the house. Jonesies didn’t believe in violence, but they saw themselves as defenders of the faith armed with the word of the Prophet. If the house was attacked, they would sing hymns and lie down in front of cars.

Vicki spent a week watching television, but eventually she turned off the set. Most of the shows seemed childish or deceitful once you realized what was really going on beneath the surface. She got some barbells from a church deacon and lifted weights in the garage every afternoon until her muscles felt sore. At night, she stayed up late and searched through the Internet for the secret Web sites created in Poland, South Korea, and Spain that mentioned the Travelers and the Vast Machine. Most of them seemed to agree that all the Travelers had vanished, destroyed by the Tabula and their mercenaries.

As a little girl, Vicki had always looked forward to the Sunday service at church; she’d wake up early, anoint her hair with perfume, and put on her special white dress. Now every day of the week felt the same. She was still lying in bed late Sunday morning when Josetta entered the room.

“Got to get ready, Vicki. They’re sending a car to pick us up.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“There’s no reason to be frightened. The congregation will protect you.”

“I’m not scared of the Tabula. I’m worried about my friends.”

Josetta’s lips tightened and Vicki knew what her mother was thinking: They’re not your friends . She stood beside the bed until Vicki got up and pulled on a dress.

“Isaac Jones once told his brother-”

“Don’t quote the Prophet to me, Mother. He said a lot of things and they don’t always agree. When you look for the basic ideas, it’s clear that Isaac Jones believed in freedom and compassion and hope. We can’t just repeat his words and think we’re right. People need to change their lives.”

An hour later, she was sitting in church beside her mother. Everything was the same-the familiar hymns, the rickety pews, and the faces that surrounded her-but she didn’t feel like part of the ceremony. The whole congregation knew that Victory From Sin Fraser had gotten involved with Hollis Wilson and an evil Harlequin named Maya. They stared at Vicki and expressed their fears during the public confessional.

The confessional was something unique to the Jonesie church, a peculiar mixture of a Baptist revival and a Quaker meeting. That morning it developed in a typical manner. First, Reverend J. T. Morganfield gave a sermon about manna in the desert, not only the food provided to the Israelites but also the riches available to any believer. As a three-piece band began to play with a driving gospel beat, the congregation sang “Call Your Faith Forward,” an old-time Jonesie hymn. People stood up during the singing and at the end of each chorus expressed their concerns.

Almost everyone mentioned Vicki Fraser. They were worried about her; they were afraid; but they knew God would protect her. Vicki looked straight ahead and tried not to look embarrassed. The way they talked, it was basically her fault for believing in Debt Not Paid. Another chorus. A confession. A chorus. A confession. She felt like standing up and running from the church, but she knew everyone would follow.

As the singing got louder, the deacon’s door near the altar opened and Hollis Wilson walked out. Everyone stopped singing, but that didn’t appear to bother him. Standing at the front of the church, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather-bound copy of The Collected Letters of Isaac T. Jones .

“I have a confession to make,” Hollis said. “I have a testimony for all of you. In the fourth letter, written from Meridian, Mississippi, the Prophet says that there is no such thing as a truly fallen man or woman. Anyone, even the most miserable sinner, can make the decision to return to God and the circle of the faithful.”

Hollis glanced at Reverend Morganfield and the pastor responded, almost automatically, “Amen to that, Brother.”

The entire church of believers took a breath and seemed to relax. Yes, a dangerous man was standing by the altar, but they were familiar with the style of his confession. Hollis looked at Vicki for the first time and nodded very slightly as if to acknowledge the connection between them.

“I have strayed for many years,” Hollis said. “I have lived a wayward life of disobedience and sin. I apologize to anyone I have hurt or offended, but I do not request forgiveness. In his ninth letter, Isaac Jones tells us that only God can grant forgiveness-which he gives equally to every man and woman, to every race and nation under the sun.” Hollis flipped open the green book and read a passage. “We, who are equal in the Eyes of God, should be equal in the Eyes of Mankind.”

“Amen,” said an old lady.

“I also do not beg forgiveness for joining with a Harlequin to stand against the Tabula. I did this, at first, for money-like a hired killer. But now the blindfold has been ripped from my eyes, and I have seen the power of the Tabula and their plan to control and manipulate the people of New Babylon.

“For many years, this church has been divided by the issue of Debt Not Paid. I believe, very strongly, that this argument has lost its meaning. Zachary Goldman, the Lion of the Temple, died with the Prophet. That’s a fact, and no one disputes it. But what’s more important is the evil being done right now , the willingness of the Tabula to betray mankind. As the Prophet said: ‘The Righteous must fight the Dragon both in darkness and in light.’”