Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

He scanned her body. No sign of the fig cakes. Trying to slow his breathing, he gazed into her eyes. “Paili. . I mean, Mrs. Nathanson. Are you all right?”

Tear tracks smudged her cheeks. She drooped her chin to her chest and shook her head. “Not all right,” she said, her voice low and thin. “Shiloh gone.”

“I know. I don’t mean that. I mean. .” He lifted her chin. “What did you say?”

A new tear trickled down her cheek. “Shiloh. . gone.”

Elam covered his face with his hands. “No! Tell me you didn’t eat the fig cakes!”

She raised a finger. “Only one. But I sick now.” Her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.

Elam lowered his head to the floor and banged it against the wood as he let out a mournful wail. “Noooo!” He nuzzled her limp hand and kissed her fingers tenderly.

“Paili!” Patrick called.

Elam jerked his head around. Patrick stormed in and scooped Paili’s limp body into his arms. “Come, Elam!” he said as he headed toward the door. “There is still hope!”

Blinded by tears, Elam leaped to his feet and stumbled behind Patrick.

“I’m taking her to the ancient chamber,” Patrick said, grunting as he struggled along the corridor. “Acacia said she might be able to save her.”

“I left my flashlight in the chamber.” Elam surged in front of Patrick. “I’ll get another lantern!” After sprinting down the hall again, he stopped at a table that held two lanterns. He snatched one up, lit it, and waited for Patrick. When he came in sight, his cheeks puffing in time with his grunts, Elam strode ahead, adjusting the wick to provide a strong, vibrant glow.

When they arrived at the chamber, Acacia pushed up from the floor and held out her arms. “Give her to me.”

“Are you sure you can carry her?” Patrick asked as he transferred Paili’s body to Acacia.

Acacia groaned under Paili’s weight. “I’ll do whatever I have to do.” She limped toward the portal window. The glow bathed the two female forms, dissolving their bodies, and absorbed them into the ghostly wash.

The portal suddenly darkened, leaving Elam’s lantern as the only light in the room. He fell to his seat and covered his face with his hands. “Why is this happening?” he cried. “Why would God allow Morgan to kill someone as innocent as Paili?”

Patrick’s trembling grip massaged Elam’s shoulder. His voice quaked. “I. . don’t know. . I just. . don’t know.”

Elam lowered his hands and looked up at Patrick, who was now sitting on the floor. “I feel like the whole world is coming to an end,” Elam said. “Is Morgan going to win this war?”

Patrick’s face, now as pale as Sapphira’s, seemed old and worn out, like a ghost weary of haunting a troubled home. He firmed his chin, pain and determination stretching his words. “She. . will. . not. . prevail!”

Sapphira threw an empty crate to the side. Nothing behind that one, either. Setting her hands on her hips, she surveyed the stacks of crates that lined the alley, groaning at the number. Searching every one of them would be a huge pain, and, besides, Shiloh wouldn’t have any reason to conceal herself, would she? Then again, fear of being alone in the sixth circle might drive a teenager into hiding. The eerie remnants of Shinar could give anyone an urge to cower in the shadows.

She sauntered back to the deserted road, shuffling her tired feet. When she reached the middle of the cobblestone paving, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Shiiilohhh!” She waited a few seconds. A distant echo responded, but no other sound interrupted the quiet evening.

Sighing loudly, she hopped up to a raised, planked sidewalk and forced her legs into a trot. “Shiiilohhh!” She repeated her name over and over as her bare feet slapped the boards.

Stopping at the center of town in the shadow of a clock tower, she gazed at a tall statue in the main square a sculpture of a man riding a horse. As she crossed the street and approached the statue, she blew a low whistle. The village had changed so much! Makaidos and the other dragons, working in another dimension, had altered every building and garden in Shinar. But, of course, they weren’t around for her to congratulate. Still, she might see some of them, as she had seen the images of Makaidos and Roxil the last time she visited.

Sapphira followed the berm that formed the perimeter of the village’s central garden until she came upon a pitcher pump. With its spout poised over a patch of bare dirt at the edge of the street, it seemed a likely place for anyone in town to come for water.

Cinching up her loose jeans, she sat on the berm and worked the handle. After several repetitions, a stream of water trickled out, then a gush. She thrust her hands under the flow and splashed her face, gasping in the chilling refreshment.

After slinging the droplets from her fingers, she sat with her elbows on her knees and gazed at the deserted town. Maybe Shiloh wasn’t here after all. Or maybe she was delayed. Since Morgan wanted Shiloh to live, she couldn’t just dump her in Hades without making sure she would survive the snake bite.

Sapphira looked up into the gray sky. “Elohim?” she whispered. “If you’re keeping an eye on things here, I could use some help. I have no idea what to do.”

As she wiggled her feet in a little puddle, she rubbed the outside of her pocket. At one time, the Ovulum used to warm up when she was going in the right direction or sting her thigh when danger was near. Now that she needed help more than ever, the strange egg wasn’t around to give her guidance.

Her fingers passed across a tiny lump. She stood and dug out the bead she had plucked from the fruit and laid it in her palm. Gazing up into the sky again, she half closed one eye. “What do you expect me to do? Plant it somewhere? It took a thousand years to get fruit down below.” A new trickle of water dripped from the pump’s spout and splashed over her toes. She scooped up a handful of the muddy water. If Shiloh ever came to the circle, she would eventually find the water supply and use it, wouldn’t she?

Sapphira let the water spill between her fingers. What could it hurt? She knelt and dug into the mire with her fingers, gouging a two-inch-deep hole in just a few seconds. After dropping the seed inside, she breathed a quick prayer and covered it up, patting the mud firmly with her hand.

She pushed the pump’s handle again until a turbid puddle swirled over her tiny garden. Then, straightening her body, she wiped her hands on her already-filthy jeans and turned to leave. Shiloh might take days to arrive, so why stick around? Finding a way out made more sense than waiting. She could always come back once she found an exit.

Too tired to run, she strolled back to the spot where she had landed. After finding the scuff marks in the dirt where she had touched down, she set her feet over her prints and gazed into the sky, hoping to find the entry hole high above. Her vision remained normal, providing no obvious sign of a portal. Still, it was worth a try, and maybe she was close enough to the old portal to create a new one at this spot, but would it lift her back to Morgan’s dungeon and its three doors, or would it lead somewhere else?

She ignited her cross and swirled it over her head, faster and faster until the wall of fire crawled down and surrounded her with its usual blanket of warmth. When the wall touched the ground, she began to float and rise slowly into the sky. After a few seconds, the air thinned and grew cold, very cold. Now barely able to breathe, she tilted her head upward and caught a glimpse of light.

Gasping for breath, she swirled her cross even faster, hoping it would propel her upward, but her speed stayed constant. Her lungs ached. Her head pounded. The light above drew nearer and crystallized into the shape of her entry hole. She stretched her neck, hoping to draw in the first hint of oxygen. Finally, a breeze flowed from above, and her lungs greedily drank the delicious air. When she emerged in the dungeon, her momentum carried her at least three feet above the hole before dumping her into a headlong fall. As she tumbled and rolled, her wall of fire dwindled away.