Previously on Hidden Fragments
In the last chapter we took a closer look at the enemies of God. Captain Drenick finally arrived in Ömstead, expecting to meet the mysterious Council of Twelve he had served all his life. Instead, he discovered twelve magnificent thrones standing empty while unseen voices spoke from the shadows. When Drenick dared to ask if he could meet one of the Council members in person, his innocent question was treated as dangerous rebellion. Condemned as a doubter, he was dragged away and left to face an uncertain fate.
Meanwhile, Calen, Marisa, Ronan, and Elior have reached a turning point. Elior has decided to ride alone to Ömstead, while Calen, Marisa, and Ronan return to Grandfather’s farm with the precious Scrolls. There they will begin the dangerous work of copying and distributing God’s Word. But Elior is heading straight toward the Council’s greatest symbol of power: the Image that will soon be unveiled before the people of Ömstead.
Chapter 52
The Image
Dawn had only just broken when Elior rode away from Calen, Ronan and Marisa.
With mixed emotions Calen watched him go. He hated to see his precious friend ride off to certain danger. More than a friend, Elior had become his mentor but this was how Elior wanted it.
I have to go alone, Calen. You have a different mission to fulfill. He remembered Elior’s words as he saw the old man riding away. At the same time, the prospect of now riding alongside Marisa again filled him with joy.
True to Elior’s words they had woken up early while the stars still lingered in the sky. They had to get an early start. After a quick bite of dried Sablewolf Jerky and charred beetroot, they took off. Elior to Ömstead and he, Marisa and Ronan back to Grandfather’s farm and the cave with the enchanted lake where they would start the work of copying and distributing the Scrolls.
When they reached the Bridge of Echoes again, Calen noticed Ronan quietly draw alongside Elior and remain close. He understood, but Ronan no longer had anything to fear. He too had given his heart to the God of the Scrolls. He exchanged a knowing smile with Marisa. She nodded back.
As expected, the crossing was indeed uneventful. Not a whisper of wind stirred around them and no dark voices hurled terrifying accusations at them out of nowhere.
But here, on the other side of the Bridge of Echoes, their paths parted.
After dismounting to say their farewells, the old hermit gazed long and deep into Calen’s eyes. It made him feel small, yet intensely loved, especially when Elior drew him into a warm embrace.
“God bless you, Young Pilgrim,” Elior said at last.
“Are you truly certain?” Calen asked one last time, fighting back rising tears.
“Certain of what?” Elior replied with a grin. The old man knew perfectly well what he meant.
“You’re going to Ömstead alone,” Calen whispered. “The Council is powerful.”
Elior smiled and shook his head. “Not nearly as powerful as you think, Calen. Most of their strength comes from believing they are something special. In truth, they are smaller than the worms that crawl through the mud. Their greed and lust for power have deceived them. Their time is running short.”
Calen blinked, trying to absorb the old man’s words. But right now, he didn’t care for a lesson in wisdom. As far as Calen was concerned, Elior was riding toward certain death, and he hated it.
“Y-you might die,” Calen whispered, gripping the hermit’s hands and squeezing them in one last attempt to persuade him that there had to be another way.
“Die?” Elior laughed. “That will be the fate of every man.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes as he continued. “It’s your fate too, Calen. When the Father calls you home, what will matter is not how many years you were given, but how you lived them.”
Calen lowered his gaze.
The hermit withdrew his hand and placed it on Calen’s shoulder. “Don’t you know, Young Pilgrim, that I die daily in the service of God? If it pleases Him, this may well be my coronation day. But if not, I will simply go on dying daily. Tell me honestly, what can evil do to me except send me to Heaven?”
He looked at Calen one last time, his expression now growing serious. “Your task is to hold fast to the truth that the Kingdom of God is the exact opposite of the kingdoms of this world. That is what you labor for, Young Pilgrim. If you remain faithful to that, you cannot go wrong.”
“I believe you will come back,” Calen insisted, still holding Elior’s hands. “After all, God promised to command His angels concerning us. Surely that applies to you as well.”
Elior nodded. “His angels will surely be with me, Young Pilgrim. Of that you may be certain. But how the Father chooses to fulfill His promises is a matter I gladly leave in His hands. Whether I return or not is for Him to decide. But we shall see one another in eternity.”
At those words, Calen felt tears stinging his eyes. He had tried. He really had, but the hermit could not be convinced. Calen wished he possessed even a fraction of the hermit’s certainty.
Elior then turned to Marisa. “Take good care of Calen, Marisa. He is going to need you more than you know.” His words sounded almost prophetic, and Marisa blushed.
“I will be there for him, Elior,” she said quietly.
Elior nodded, squeezed her hand and said, “I know, Marisa. God’s Spirit goes with you.”
At last he turned to Ronan and gave him a warm embrace as well.
Then he mounted his horse, turned, and rode away toward Ömstead.
When he reached a bend in the road, nearly out of sight, he stopped one last time. He looked back and raised his hand in a final wave.
Then he was gone.
Calen, Marisa and Ronan were alone, their packs filled with the precious Scrolls.
“We’d better get moving,” Ronan said, eager to be on the road.
Marisa nodded.
The three of them mounted their horses and began the long journey back to Grandfather’s farm.
It didn’t take long to realize that Elior had been right about their safety.
The road was utterly deserted. Everyone of any importance had ridden to Ömstead, and apart from a few lizards and the occasional startled turkey darting into the brush, they encountered no one. The world was steeped in an almost sacred silence and traveling was easy.
At this pace, they would arrive at Grandfather’s well before nightfall.
Ahead of them, the road wound through the hills toward Grandfather’s farm. Somewhere behind them, beyond the horizon, Elior was riding toward Ömstead alone.
Calen lowered his head and prayed.
It was all he could do.
***
Ömstead was in an uproar.
Elior did not like the town on the Great Sea. He only came here when he desperately needed something he could find nowhere else. But today he had a mission, and he had prepared well.
While Calen, Marisa, and Ronan had been lost in deep sleep, Elior had spent much of the night in prayer. Now, filled with quiet confidence, he was ready to confront the dark powers that refused to bow before the Creator of heaven and earth.
As the drawbridge of Ömstead came into view, he dismounted. He patted the horse’s neck and whispered into its ear. “Go, boy. You know the way home.”
For a moment, he rested his forehead against the animal’s warm hide before gently swatting its flank. The horse whinnied and galloped away.
Elior watched it go and sighed. Now he was truly alone.
Not quite.
The God of the Scrolls was with him. He carried no sword, no club, and no money. He only had his shepherd’s staff, his coarse brown cloak, and his worn sandals. However, the fire of God was burning deep within his heart and that would have to be enough.
Even at the bridge leading to the city gate, he already heard the shrieking, laughter and drunken brawls of people delighting themselves in a free holiday filled with bread and games and complimentary Ogre Ale.
The vast majority of people had no idea what was truly happening. It was deeply tragic, but it had all been foretold in the Scrolls. Elior recalled the passage about the narrow and the broad road. The narrow road that led to life was far more difficult for human pride than the broad road and the wide gate that led to destruction.
Yet not everyone longed for the broad road. There were still sheep scattered among the crowd, trapped in the web of lies woven by the Council. And for them, he had come to fight.
But the Council and some of their fierce followers…?
A godless mob without restraint, that was what they were. Yet it would not be much longer before this farce would come to an end. Not that everything would be resolved today. That could still take a very long time, for only at the return of the Savior would the age begin in which the lion would lie peacefully down beside the lamb and true peace would dwell in every human heart.
But only God knew when that day would dawn.
Nevertheless, today would be a giant step forward. God’s sheep would be confronted with what truly lurked behind the dark curtains of the Council of Twelve, and everyone would be free to decide whom they would serve: the God of the Scrolls or the worthless lies of the Council and its deceitful Book of Order.
As he walked up to the gate, Elior had expected to be interrogated by the guards.
Gatekeepers were annoying. They always asked irrelevant questions like why he wanted to enter the city. Sometimes they even searched him for weapons. As if a human sword could destroy the lies of the Council.
But today it was not to be.
The gate stood wide open with not a gatekeeper in sight. Apparently, everyone had the day off.
He braced himself and stepped into Ömstead.
What a surprise and what mayhem.
Flags bearing the emblem of the Council of Twelve hung everywhere. From windows, above doorways, and atop the various towers fluttered the colors of the Book of Order. Children ran in every direction, their excited cries bubbling from their throats. A number of rough-looking men, sailors by the looks of them, staggered down the street while holding one another upright and singing wild sea shanties.
He knew the way to the marketplace, but the closer he got, the more crowded it became. Just before reaching the square, he was roughly cut off by a group of singing soldiers. They were hard men clad in full armor, loudly singing of the glory of the kingdom. They were accompanied by a fat drummer marching at the front, beating the rhythm far too enthusiastically and way too loudly.
Women leaned from windows framed by peeling paint. They proclaimed their love for the government by wildly waving cloths and handkerchiefs while shouting hysterical slogans, driven on by the suffocating spirit of deception that disguised itself as truth. Did they have any idea what was truly happening or did they even understand the nonsense they were shouting?
Meantime, their husbands were busy indulging themselves at the many stalls where Ogre Ale was distributed free of charge to everyone over the age of twelve.
And this was only the beginning.
Elior sighed deeply and, refusing to look any longer at the debauchery surrounding him, continued onward while murmuring a prayer and soon arrived at the marketplace.
It was packed.
People had poured in from across the entire country and there, directly before the offices of the Council of Twelve, stood the object of their devotion.
The image.
Massive and grotesque it loomed over the marketplace, like a dark king enthroned above his subjects. The statue stood at least thirty feet high, Elior estimated and was watching the crowd with cold, unblinking eyes.
For a moment, Elior could do nothing else but stare. His eyes remained fixed upon the statue, locked in silent defiance against the monstrous image towering above the crowd.
Shock gave way to disgust. Disgust gave way to anger. A fierce rage swelled within him until his hands trembled at his sides. He bit his lip and forced himself, not to surrender to the urge to rush forward and reduce the abomination to twisted shards of iron. Not that he could anyway. Not in his own strength. Only God Himself possessed that power. If he’d fail to remember that and he would lean to his own understanding, even for a moment, he would surely be defeated.
He sighed deeply and allowed his emotions to settle before taking a more objective look.
It was a statue unlike any Elior had ever seen before.
A grotesque cast-iron image of a fat man lounged lazily in a wooden seat. Its bald head, it almost reached to the roof tiles of the headquarters, gleamed in the sunlight, making it seem as though light itself radiated from it. Yet its eyes held no true light. They stared out upon the world with a hard gaze. Its mouth was twisted into a repulsive smile meant to suggest friendship and affection, but it resembled more the greedy grin of an executioner who took far too much pleasure in his godless profession.
The image had a taut, gleaming steel belly and there, balanced upon it and partly enclosed within the shelter of its massive iron arms, sat a collection of smaller figures. They gazed out upon the world with the same cold eyes.
Twelve figures in all.
Elior counted two female figures, and there was even a child among them with a brazen expression, as though he were volunteering for a beating he knew he would never receive. The others were men.
At that moment, a tall man in a torn tunic shoved Elior roughly aside. He reeked of Ogre Ale and snapped at Elior he was blocking the way. Elior accepted it meekly. Behind the statue, on the platform before the headquarters of the Council of Twelve, conditions were far more pleasant. No one was standing there, and from that position he could oversee the entire marketplace.
And so he made his way through the dancing crowd and climbed onto the platform.
What now, Lord?
He tried to listen, hoping the Spirit might impress something upon him, but nothing came. Only the shouting, laughter and restless commotion of the crowd filled the air.
Then he would wait.
When you don’t know what to do, then do nothing, but wait in prayer. That had always been his motto, and it had always led to the best results. He would wait patiently until the Spirit spoke.
Leaning heavily on his staff, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to block out the racket.
Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.
The sudden clang of a gong shattered the moment.
Elior snapped back to attention. Someone, hidden from his view, had struck a great iron instrument and the resonant sound echoed across the marketplace.
Everyone immediately understood that something was about to happen. People surged forward, eager to secure the best vantage point so they would miss nothing of what was to come. They could not approach too closely, however, because a heavily armed cordon of soldiers surrounded the statue.
A captain climbed onto a small wooden stage besides the image and raised his hands, indicating that he wished to address the crowd.
A hush spread across the marketplace.
Even the men who had already been enjoying the free Ogre Ale a little too much, fell silent as a heavy spirit of awe swept across the marketplace, silencing their drunken shouting and babbling. Like obedient sheep, they stood watching to see what would happen next.
Somewhere in the crowd, a child cried. A father roughly attempted to silence it. High overhead, a raven crossed the sky with a harsh caw. The bird was searching for scraps of food and seemed entirely unconcerned with the affairs of mankind.
The captain surveyed the crowd. Satisfied that every eye was upon him, he nodded and began to speak in a voice that carried across the marketplace.
“Citizens and visitors,” he said. “I welcome you on this glorious day. For those of you who do not know me, I am Captain Malren of Ömstead, and I have the great honor of presenting to you the statue of the Council of Twelve.” His face was turning red with the effort.
“After today,” he continued at the top of his lungs, “everyone in the land will know who is worthy of worship and who is not. Therefore…,” he paused and turned to the statue, “The Council will now take over and explain matters themselves.”
He had barely finished speaking when a wave of voices rolled across the marketplace.
Cries of alarm rose from the crowd. Many stumbled backward, staring at the statue in disbelief.
The image spoke…
The voices were hollow, harsh and metallic, yet unmistakably real. They spoke in perfect unison and sent a shudder through everyone present.
Deep men’s voices.
A few women’s voices.
Even the voice of a child.
“We are the Council of Twelve,” the image spoke. “We are your leaders. Your only leaders. We have passed through fire for your sakes and brought you prosperity and abundance.”
Elior watched grimly.
He saw no leaders. He only saw that vile and repulsive statue. His anger began to rise again.
The image continued.
“Yet hostile spirits are at work within the land, refusing to submit to our authority. Hostile elements that pose a grave threat to our beloved society. Dishonorable agitators…”
Elior now noticed that some people were dropping to their knees and others followed their example. Overcome by the heavy spirit of fear that had descended upon the marketplace, they wanted nothing more than to secure their own safety by submitting themselves to the mighty Council of Twelve, whose statue could even speak. Yet it appeared, not all were yielding.
“What shall we do with these agitators?” the voices asked, rolling across the crowd like a wave.
Elior saw some people rise to their feet again. One man was waving his fist wildly in the air while shouting back, “Get rid of the agitators!” Another voice from somewhere near the back of the square joined in and soon other voices took up the cry. Within moments nearly everyone was shouting the same thing. The deafening roar swept through the crowd like a storm.
“Get rid of the agitators! Get rid of the agitators!”
“Silence!” the statue thundered.
At once the savage outcry died away.
The image continued with its chorus of sound. “The people have spoken. It has been decided. Everyone must bow before this statue, and whoever refuses to bow will be punished. We will no longer tolerate the presence of a rebellious nature in our beloved country.”
Loud, hysterical cheers of submissive agreement rose. “Punish the rebellious ones! Punish the rebellious ones!”
Captain Malren, still on his wooden stage, raised his arms again and encouraged everyone in the outraged crowd to join in the chants.
Everyone?
Not everyone. Elior could see it clearly. Quite a few spectators thought differently. Not everyone was ready to surrender to this deception.
Two elderly women turned away from the crowd, their faces a portrait of horror. A soldier at the edge of the square slowly shook his head. Somewhere in the middle of the mass, a man shouted a curse at the statue.
He did not get far. Those around him silenced him quickly, dragging him back; friends, perhaps, trying to protect him from the wrath of the Council.
And there were more.
That was encouraging.
Elior waited yet.
He still had not gotten the Spirit’s nudge, although he couldn’t stand listening to the godless drivel much longer.
And then, he felt the whisper of the Spirit.
It’s time.
Strength and energy coursed through his body. This was the moment he had been waiting for. What would happen he did not know, but that was of no consequence. He just had to step out by faith and challenge that wicked image that dared to defy the living God. There was no fear. How could there be, when you were enveloped by the God of the Scrolls?
Raising his staff high into the air, he let out a loud and deafening cry as if he were a warrior who sounded the battle cry.
Malren turned, his face pale. “W-what’s that…?” The captain stopped mid-sentence. Another hush settled over the market square. Every eye turned to that strange man in front of the Council’s headquarters. Even the statue ceased its speaking.
Elior wasn’t sure what he was to do now, but instantly felt the Spirit talking to him.
“Behold, I will make you a new sharp threshing instrument having teeth: you shall thresh the mountains, and beat them small, and shall make the hills as chaff.” *
Then he knew.
He cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice rolling over the market square like thunder…
As he spoke, he knew his life would never be the same again.
____
* Isaiah 41:15