<< >>
Previously on Hidden Fragments
After a chance encounter at the Black Boar, Calen follows a mysterious blacksmith through rain-soaked streets, sensing that meeting this man may not be coincidence. His pursuit leads him to a fragile house where something unusual is unfolding. Could they be believers?
Torn between caution and calling, Calen risks revealing his faith to a stranger. What begins as uncertainty turns into recognition when the man, Alaric, confirms that there are indeed followers of the Scrolls in that house. For the first time since arriving in Ömstead, Calen finds a flicker of fellowship in hostile territory.
Meanwhile, far away, Marisa and her companions struggle through a dangerous marsh. Tensions rise when they rescue two soldiers of the Council, men who had once hunted them. While Draeven responds with hostility and hardened loyalty, Vorren begins to crack under the weight of doubt and fear.
Faced with a choice between suspicion and grace, Marisa and Ronan extend mercy once more. Vorren, desperate for truth, is welcomed into their company, while Draeven is left behind, clinging to anger as they press forward into the unknown.
Two paths unfold: one toward hidden fellowship in the shadows of Ömstead, the other through peril, where enemies may yet become brothers.
Chapter 38
Safe
The door opened almost immediately.
A husky man appeared in the doorway. Calen recognized him as one of the men who had carried the old woman’s produce into the house.
A broad smile lit his face when he saw Alaric. “Alaric, come in quick… you look like you could use—”
His smile froze as his eyes landed on Calen, darkening instantly. “Who is this?” he demanded.
Alaric shrugged. “He’s alright. Crossed the Bridge of Echoes. Knows Elior.”
The man didn’t look convinced.
Calen swallowed. Would he have reacted any differently, opening the door to a stranger when danger was present?
“I mean no harm,” he said. “I’ve just come from the hermit Elior.”
The man’s expression eased slightly. “What’s your name, stranger?”
“Calen.”
The husky man glanced at Alaric. “You know him?”
Alaric shrugged. “Just met him.”
“And you brought him here?”
“Easy, Boran,” Alaric said in a soft voice. “I believe he’s alright.”
Calen raised a hand. “I am a believer in the God of the Scrolls. I stayed with Elior for a few days. He baptized me… and told me to find Emeth the blacksmith.”
The man blinked.
“Where did he baptize you?” the man called Boran asked, his voice softer now.
“In the river behind his tree hut. You must believe me. I am on a mission.”
Boran sighed. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he gave Calen a short nod.
“Alright. We can’t be too careful,” he said, placing a hand on Calen’s shoulder and motioning him inside. “The name is Boran. Welcome to my home. The government is tightening its grip on us. More than ever, it seems.”
It’s about to get worse, Calen thought as he followed Boran and Alaric inside. The news about the statue that would be raised to persecute Christians was alarming.
They entered a dimly lit hallway that led to a living room, where hushed voices drifted toward them. From the outside, the house had looked worn and fragile. Inside, it was different. Clean. Ordered. The air smelled fresh, a mix of soap and pine wood from the walls and ceiling and a delicious scent of the fresh produce the old woman had just brought in. The place was well kept.
“Come in,” Boran said, his voice warm, though strained. The man was still uneasy about bringing a stranger inside.
The people inside were discussing something serious. Their voices were low, but tense.
“Everyone,” Boran said firmly to get their attention.
The conversation died at once. All eyes turned toward the door.
Calen felt their gazes. Fear, suspicion, caution.
Three men were in the small room, aside from Boran and Alaric. Calen recognized the blacksmith he had seen in the Black Boar. The old woman was near the back. She stood beside a water pump, close to an open fire where a large pot hung. She was cutting crockle roots and tossed them, together with bundles of Mudleaf, in the brew.
A warm scent filled the room. Hearthbroth, Calen’s favorite.
“This is… Calen,” Boran said. “A friend of Alaric’s.” He hesitated. “A friend he just met.”
Alaric shifted uncomfortably, his face tightening.
Not the welcome Calen had hoped for.
Before anyone could speak, Calen cleared his throat.
“I mean you no harm,” he said. “You have nothing to fear from me. I am a believer in the God of the Scrolls.”
The blacksmith rose, his eyes fixed on Calen. “I saw you in the Black Boar. You were watching me. Why should we trust you?”
“Elior,” Calen said. “I stayed with the hermit for several days. He prayed over me… and told me to find Emeth, the blacksmith.”
He hesitated. “I believe that is you…?”
Emeth ignored the question. “Elior is known. Even the Council knows of him.”
His gaze hardened. “What proof do you have?”
Before Calen could answer, Emeth turned to Alaric.
“This man is your friend? From where?”
Alaric’s face reddened. “From… here. I only just met him.” He bit his lip and added quickly, “He was… um… spying on your house.”
“Spying?” Emeth’s eyes widened. “And you brought him inside?”
“He said he crossed the Bridge of Echoes,” Alaric replied, trying to defend himself, but even he no longer sounded convinced.
Calen raised both of his hands in defense. “I was chased by soldiers of the Council of Twelve,” he said quickly.
“What soldiers?” Boran asked from the side.
“Men under someone called Slink. They tried to cross the Bridge as well, but they couldn’t. One of them died trying to reach me.”
“And you didn’t die?” Emeth cut in.
Calen couldn’t help a grin from appearing, though he pushed it back as soon as he could. “Well, here I am. Elior said only God’s children can cross and he was right. I crossed it again in order to come here.”
Silence followed, only to be broken by the man seated next to Boran, an older man who appeared more at ease than the others. His calm presence seemed to steady the room.
“Slink?” he said. “I know that name. The bag of his iniquitous deeds is full to overflowing. Why was he after you?”
“To arrest me,” Calen said. “I carried several Scrolls and he wanted to steal them away from me. I was on my way to the hermit to deliver the Scrolls.”
Emeth’s eyes narrowed. “You carried Scrolls?”
“I did.”
“How many?”
“Thirty-some, I believe.”
The declaration Calen made came to the men as a blow. At last Boran spoke in a whisper, “You know there is only one copy of each Scroll? If what you are saying is true, you carried most of the precious Scrolls we even have in this country.”
Calen nodded his agreement, but was quick to add, “That will change soon. I am a scribe, and I already made various copies for believers in the other parts of our country.”
“B-but how… why?”
Calen cleared his throat, feeling his confidence rise. “Elior told me to find other trustworthy scribes to copy all the Scrolls and bind them together in a book. But we will not stop there; we will make many copies.” His voice steadied. “So many copies that the word of the God of the Scrolls will cover the land, like waters covering the sea.”
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
Silence followed.
Only the old woman at the fire continued moving. She stirred the pot of Hearthbroth calmly, as if nothing unusual had been said.
“Come now,” she said at last. “This sounds like the best news we’ve heard in months. We should welcome our guest properly. He is clearly one of us.”
That was enough.
Calen felt the suspicion in the room loosen. He allowed himself to breathe again.
“Sit,” Boran said, gesturing toward a wooden bench near the cooking fire. “Tell us your story.”
Calen sat.
Boran began to introduce the others. “This is Emeth.” He placed a hand briefly on the blacksmith’s shoulder. “You already know him.”
“This is Osric,” he added, nodding toward the calm, older man.
Then to the slender man with deep-set eyes: “Karel.”
Finally, he glanced toward the fire. “And Zelda is the heart of this place. Don’t let her fool you. She keeps us all alive.”
“Tea?” Zelda asked Calen with a grand smile. “The Hearthbroth won’t be ready for another half hour. Will you have tea?”
Calen nodded. “I’d love some,” he whispered and offered her a grateful smile. At last he was among believers again. A jubilant song of joy began to rise in his heart.
He took a deep breath and began to tell his story.
***
When Grandfather rose that morning, the sun was already high in the sky. He cast a startled glance out the window of his little hut and realized he had overslept. It was already past the third hour of the day.
The goats in the pen beside the house bleated an almost deafening protest. They were clearly displeased at having received no food. And little wonder, for by now they would usually have been out in the fields with Bram, grazing.
Bram, that confoundedly lazy lad, had given him more grey hairs than he cared to count. Could he trust that rascal with anything?
Grandfather shuffled wearily through the house toward the small room where Marisa would normally sleep, but which had now been taken by the hired boy.
“Bram! Up!” he called loudly, unable to suppress a sigh. It seemed his arthritis only worsened with each passing day. What was to become of him?
He had hired Bram at the recommendation of one of Marisa’s old friends but, truth be told, he would rather see the boy go than stay. Yet he had no alternative.
Without knocking, he flung open the door to Bram’s little room and stared in irritation at the boy. He was still snoring loudly, with only a tuft of long red hair sticking out from beneath the covers.
“Up, Bram!” Grandfather said, and he pulled the warm, comfortable quilt from the bed.
Bram gave a startled cry of protest and tried to snatch the quilt back, but soon realized he would have to rise. He yawned loudly, stretched his arms and looked at Grandfather with half-sleepy eyes.
“Is it the first hour already?” he asked carelessly. “I was sleeping so well.”
“It is much later, boy,” Grandfather replied, looking at him with a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “I have overslept. Will you never get up on your own and do your work? I can’t do it all, you know. That is why you were hired.”
Bram shrugged. “Sorry, but I had such a strange dream.”
Grandfather looked up. “A dream? And what did you dream?”
“Oi, it was strange,” Bram said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting up. “Your granddaughter, that Marsa, or whatever her name is, she came riding up in my dream.”
“Marisa was in your dream?”
Bram nodded. “Oi, that’s what I said. Marizzah. Never seen her, but I know it was her.” He laughed aloud. “In dreams, you actually know more than you do when you’re awake, so I know it was Marizzah.”
“And?” Grandfather asked.
“Nothing,” Bram said. “Just a dream. Dreams are silly… though sometimes,” he paused, “I’ve been told that sometimes they can be a sign.” He scoffed and added, “But if that’s so, then it wasn’t a good dream. She came riding with two soldiers of the Council of Twelve.”
Two soldiers?
That did not sit well with Grandfather. He remembered all too clearly the trouble with that Slink, just before Marisa had left with that young man, Calen was his name. A fine lad. Far better than Bram. But Calen had a purpose. Bram was merely a hired hand.
In his mind, Grandfather saw it all again:
The goats in the house.
That raging Slink.
Calen fleeing to gather the Scrolls.
Marisa had followed at once, and since that day, he had heard nothing more of her.
He had prayed, though.
Every morning.
Every evening.
And now that lazy Bram had dreamed of her?
Was she safe?
Fear gripped his heart. He looked again at Bram, who now sat idly on the edge of the bed, as though it were a day of rest and he had no intention of hurrying.
“Come now, boy!” Grandfather burst out. “The goats must be fed, and the pastures are waiting to hear their bleats!”
“Oi,” said Bram, “I’ll eat first, won’t I?”
“I will pack you a hunk of bread in a knapsack, and you may see to the rest yourself,” Grandfather grumbled. “I hired you to tend the goats. And do not forget to take Winston.”
At least Winston was someone he could count on. The faithful dog was far more reliable than Bram, who would sooner lie stretched out in the grass among the daisies all day, dreaming of pretty girls, without a care for his duties.
Bram muttered that life was unfair and that no one truly understood him.
Grandfather walked off in irritation, called for Winston and fetched the bread.
He wanted to be alone.
Alone with his heavenly Father.
To pray for Marisa.
Before long, Bram had departed, driving the goats into the hills with Winston at his side. Grandfather sat down on the small bench behind his house, beneath the great apple tree where he would often pray when the weather allowed.
He gazed out over the rolling fields and hills before him and let the quiet of nature settle upon his soul.
“O God,” he began, “I pray for Marisa every day… but now Bram has dreamed of her, and I am afraid. Protect her, dear Lord…”
And so he continued in prayer.
How long he sat there, he did not know, nor did it matter. It was enough. To be near to God was all he truly wanted. The fear he had felt when Bram spoke of the dream slowly melted away. A deep peace filled him, the quiet assurance that God held all things in His hand.
God was sovereign.
Nothing could change that.
Not even the rough, unbelieving soldiers of the Council of Twelve could stand against the God who made heaven and earth.
Just as he rose, intending to tidy his little house, he saw dust rising on the horizon.
He narrowed his old eyes and, faintly now, heard the sound of hoofbeats.
It was already past the ninth hour, and Bram would soon be returning with the goats and Winston.
But who rode on horseback?
Bram’s dream came back to him.
For a moment, fear knocked at his heart. But after all that time with God, it found no place. Grandfather was not about to let the peace of God slip from him.
He steadied himself and kept peering toward the distant hills.
It would not be long now before he’d be able to see them clearly.
The sound of hooves grew stronger.
Louder.
The cloud of dust moved swiftly toward his home.
Then a rider appeared over the hill.
A soldier.
The sun glinted on his silver cuirass. Behind him, someone clung to the horse.
A woman…
How strange. A second rider followed. It was a young woman and her hair was in a braid.
It was… Could it be?
Marisa. There could be no mistake.
She shone with joy as she sped toward his house. A boy sat with her on the horse, shouting with delight.
A third rider came over the hills. Another soldier, but the atmosphere was calm and clean.
There was nothing to fear, just as God had told him.
“Grandfather!” Marisa cried from afar. “How glad I am to see you again!”