Previously on Hidden Fragments
Calen reached the lonely island of Lumenreach and discovered two priceless Scrolls: Genesis and Revelation. But as a violent storm swept across the sea, he faced a desperate struggle to bring them safely back to Alaric’s boat. Exhausted and battered by the waves, he finally succeeded, securing the Scrolls before collapsing from fatigue.
Meanwhile, Marisa and Ronan narrowly escaped Drenick and his soldiers. After convincing their pursuers that a curse had fallen upon those who opposed them, they continued their journey toward the legendary Bridge of Echoes. Along the way, Ronan reaffirmed his commitment to the mission, and the two pressed forward as trusted friends, knowing greater trials still lay ahead.
Chapter 49
Peace in the Shadow
They were riding together.
He upon Hosanna and Marisa upon Whisperwind.
The air was filled with the sweet scent of spring flowers. The sun hung high in the sky, and birds chirped merrily among the trees.
If someone had told Calen he’d arrived in heaven, he would have believed it immediately. Only the dark clouds gathering far away above what appeared to be a city gave him pause. As far as he understood, there were no dark clouds in heaven.
The city … Ömstead, perhaps?
He recognized the towers and far beyond the city, beside a softly murmuring sea crashing against the rocks, he saw a lighthouse.
He glanced at Marisa.
She smiled at him and seemed not to have noticed the clouds yet. She chatted away without pause and turned toward him as though she wanted to take his hand. But Whisperwind made an unexpected movement, and her hand shot forward, striking his chest.
“Ow!” Calen cried out as a sharp, biting pain shot through his body.
He jolted upright, opened his eyes and looked around in confusion.
The beautiful, peaceful landscape was gone. So was Marisa. There were no dark clouds, but he was lying in a bed while someone rubbed some sort of stinging ointment onto his chest.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered groggily. “It hurts.”
“Be still,” a female voice commanded. “You scraped your chest quite badly, and this herbal salve will help. Doctor’s orders.”
That voice he recognized. It was Magdalena’s.
But what was she doing here? And where was the boat with Alaric?
Instead of Alaric’s weather-beaten face, the rough wooden boat and the endless sea, he saw Magdalena leaning over him with a concerned expression. Behind her, sunlight streamed through a window overlooking the ocean.
She pulled a large quilt, covered with flower patterns over him once more.
Warm.
Very warm.
But how had he gotten here?
Slowly it dawned on him that he had been dreaming. There was no smell of salt water here either. It smelled of something else.
Freshly baked bread?
He remembered standing upon Lumenreach… the water, the rocks, and…
The Scrolls.
Two of them.
Genesis and Revelation.
A jolt ran through him. Now he was truly awake and he sat upright in bed.
“The Scrolls!” he exclaimed. “Where are the Scrolls?”
Another voice answered him. “Easy, Calen. Everything is fine.”
Alaric.
Calen turned and looked into Alaric’s smiling face. “H-how did we get here?” he asked hesitantly.
“You passed out aboard the boat,” said Alaric. “You collapsed. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could get us home safely, but the storm… well, it was almost a little miracle.”
“How so?” Calen asked.
“It simply passed.”
Calen stared at him not quite comprehending what Alaric said.
Alaric smiled broadly and said, “The moment you got safely on board, the wind began to die down. The waves became small again and I was able to bring us home without trouble.”
Calen let out a deep sigh and rested his head once more against the large feather pillow. Closing his eyes briefly, he considered what he had heard. He was in Magdalena’s cottage. Not up in the lighthouse where the Scrolls of Leviticus and Isaiah still rested, but down here in her small home.
“The Scrolls,” he murmured, looking back at Magdalena. “Are they still here?”
“Have no fear,” Magdalena replied. “Alaric brought you home safely.” She pointed toward a satchel resting near the fireplace. “I placed everything by the hearth to dry. Did you…um… find the Scroll of Genesis?”
Calen cleared his throat. “Did neither of you look inside the satchel?”
Magdalena shook her head. “No, Calen. Alaric felt it would not be right to look without you present.”
Calen nodded.
Suddenly emotion welled up inside him. He had to swallow hard to keep the tears away.
“Not only the Scroll of Genesis,” he said quietly. “But the Scroll of Revelation as well… the final Scroll of the entire Bible.”
Magdalena’s mouth fell open. “H-how did you find that?”
Calen shook his head. “It was simply there. Jonathan must have hidden it together with Genesis.”
He paused. “That husband of yours… now there was a true hero.”
Magdalena’s eyes widened, and a tear formed. “He… he never told me.”
A pang went through Calen. He quickly added, “And I finally understand the song he wrote.”
Quietly he recited:
“I have decided to follow the Light,
The First and Last,
the End in sight…”
Now that he was safe in a warm bed, some of the euphoric feeling he had experienced upon Lumenreach began to return.
Elior had told him enough about these Scrolls. Genesis contained the story of creation. Revelation contained God’s promise that He would gather all His children together into a heavenly kingdom where pain would vanish forever and every tear would be wiped away by God Himself.
“Genesis is the first Scroll,” Calen said, unable to suppress a broad grin. “That’s where it all begins. And Revelation… that is where it all ends.”
A blush rose to Magdalena’s cheeks.m“May we read it?” she asked. “I’ve heard of it, but I have no idea what it contains.”
She hesitated. “Or perhaps you could copy it for me before you leave Ömstead again.”
“Bad idea,” Alaric quickly interrupted. “Calen needs to leave Ömstead as soon as possible. He now possesses four Scrolls. They must be brought to Elior, so they are safe.”
His expression darkened. “I’ve heard the statue of the Council of Twelve, the one everyone is expected to bow before, is nearly finished. They plan to unveil it today or tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
A shock ran through Calen.
“I had hoped for more time.”
Alaric’s face clouded. “It’s going to be one grand celebration. Music, dancing, entertainment…”
Calen sighed. “That sounds bad.”
Alaric nodded. “I’ve heard the Council plans to hand out free Ogre Ale. The children will receive something they’re calling Victory Sausages. I suspect they’re nothing more than Greasy Grillers with a new name.”
“Free Ogre Ale?” Calen shook his head. “That will end in complete debauchery.”
Alaric nodded, but said no more. Calen looked at Magdalena and noticed the longing look in her eyes as she stared at the satchel. After what Jonathan had done to preserve the Scrolls, how could Calen deny her a chance to see them?
“You may have a look,” he said kindly. “I’m not leaving just yet. I’m hungry as a horse, and my clothes are torn and must still be wet.”
“I still have some of Jonathan’s clothes,” Magdalena said. “And I’ve prepared a proper breakfast. While you eat, I’ll take a look at the Scrolls. I would very much like to read Revelation and see how everything ends.”
Calen nodded.
Only now did he notice, the table had already been laid.
A Farmer’s Loaf sat waiting there, while above the fire hung a fragrant pot of Lightkeeper’s Porridge made with goat’s milk.
That looked excellent.
“Go ahead then,” Calen said to Magdalena. “Take a look and see what is written there.”
Neither Magdalena nor Alaric needed to be told twice. Less than a minute later, both of them sat with unrolled Scrolls spread before them while Calen devoted himself to breakfast.
For a good while silence reigned in the cottage. Only the clatter of Calen having breakfast, the rustle of parchment and an occasional cough disturbed the quiet as Alaric and Magdalena lost themselves in words they had never read before.
“Calen?”
He looked up. A troubled expression had appeared upon Magdalena’s face.
“What is it?”
She pointed at a passage in the Scroll. “That book… Revelation… is rather frightening. It is full of monsters and troubles.”
Calen nodded. “Elior said something similar. But he also told me that while most people focus on the judgment of the wicked, the book is really about the ending, which is the victory of the King and the promise of heaven.”
She nodded slowly.
“There is something here about worshiping an image too. And now we’re getting an image here as well. Just as it is written in here, we will be expected to bow before it. Could it be the same image?”
Calen hesitated. What should he say? He had not even read this Scroll himself. Everything he knew came from Elior.
As he considered her question, a deep sense of peace settled over him.
“No, Magdalena. The image you’re reading about is not the same image the Council of Twelve are building. But it is born of the same pride. Men wanting to be greater than they are and refusing to bow before God.”
She sighed. “Just imagine,” she said quietly. “There are still difficult times ahead of us. But then the Lord returns, and every tear is wiped away.”
Calen took another piece of Farmer’s Loaf and nodded. “And that is why I must leave Ömstead as quickly as possible.”
Alaric and Magdalena understood; it was time to return the Scrolls to their protective cases.
“You must go,” Magdalena said. “We will be praying for you.”
Calen felt a deep affection for both these precious friends. He would have never succeeded without their help. How good and how pleasant it was for the brethren to dwell together. He hated to say goodbye, but he had to go. There was not time to lose.
After retrieving the Scrolls of Isaiah and Leviticus from the lighthouse, Calen mounted Hosanna and, after a warm and tearful farewell, rode away.
Back to Elior.
It was already late afternoon but if he rode fast, he could still reach the Bridge of Echoes before nightfall.
What a story he had to tell.
And how delighted Elior would be.
Yet the danger had not passed.
Not with the statue nearly complete in Ömstead.
No, the battle was far from over.
***
Ronan slowed his horse as they approached the narrow path. The forest seemed darker somehow, quieter too, as though even the birds preferred to keep their distance.
“It was just like this the first time I came here with Slink and the others,” he said quietly.
He could feel his heartbeat quickening already, and even his own voice sounded strange to him. As they continued, the forest thinned and they entered the barren, mountainous fields he remembered so well from his first visit to the Bridge of Echoes.
He brought his horse to a halt and looked at Marisa. “Do we truly have to cross the Bridge of Echoes? Perhaps the hermit lives somewhere else. Who knows… there may be another road that leads to him.”
Marisa gave him an encouraging smile, though Ronan could see she was not entirely at ease herself.
“What do you think?” he asked again.
“I do not know much about the Bridge of Echoes,” she said slowly, “but I have heard there’s only one way to the hermit and that is by this bridge. I understand the hermit’s dwelling is a kind of sanctuary. Not everyone is welcome there, but people with clean hearts can pass without danger.”
Ronan swallowed hard. That answer did not comfort him at all.
“Exactly,” he muttered. “That’s precisely the problem. I doubt whether I am welcome there. Terrible things happened when Slink sent me across that bridge to hunt for Calen.”
The moment he spoke the words, the memories returned with terrifying force.
The dreadful wind howling through the abyss. The bridge swaying violently beneath his feet. And the voices…
Horrible voices whispering through the darkness.
You are a horrible, wicked man.
Hopeless.
Beyond saving.
As the words struck him again like fiery darts, burning and tearing at his mind, he found himself back on the battlefield. He had done horrible things there. He had been cutting men down without mercy.
He remembered an old man who had not even been an enemy soldier, but whose house stood in the middle of the fighting. The man had been trying to protect his wife from the carnage and yet Ronan had been driven by a blind, violent fury that longed only for the kill.
The memory had haunted him ever since.
He saw himself in taverns, drinking until he could no longer stand upright… times when he lied, cheated and knocked weaker men down for the sheer amusement of it.
The voices kept screaming at him and exposed everything he had ever done.
Wretch.
Coward.
Filth.
Away with you.
Ronan had never spoken of these things to anyone. But now that he was about to cross the Bridge of Echoes once more, every memory came flooding back like black water bursting through a broken dam.
His hands began to tremble. Panic tightened his chest. To his horror, tears even stung his eyes.
He did not care anymore. He could not go through that nightmare again. He turned helplessly toward Marisa.
“I… I cannot do it,” he whispered. “I do not think I can go any further.”
Marisa stared at him in astonishment. “What are you saying? We are so close now.”
“Exactly,” Ronan replied, his whole body shaking. “I am undone. I am close to my last step. And this time, Calen will not be there to save me.”
A strange determination suddenly appeared in Marisa’s face.
Ronan blinked in surprise.
For a moment it seemed as though light itself radiated from her.
Ronan lowered his gaze. Was he losing his mind? Things had been so good… for a while. But not anymore. There was no redemption for him. Impossible.
From afar, he heard Marisa’s voice; strong and filled with authority, like a shepherd confronting a wolf that had dared to attack one of her sheep. And yet beneath it, there was something gentle too, steadying his shaking nerves.
“God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “Look at me, Ronan.”
He obeyed, feeling as though she could see straight through him.
Who was this woman?
“May I pray for you, Ronan?” she asked softly.
“P-Pray? Y-yes… of course.”
He did not understand what was happening, only that he felt like a child being lifted up after a devastating fall, everything inside him shaken, yet unable to resist the comfort that was offered.
Marisa wasted no time. She guided Whisperwind beside his horse, leaned forward and placed both hands on his forehead.
Then she closed her eyes and spoke with quiet authority:
“Jesus, I rebuke this spirit of fear that is tormenting Ronan. Leave him now. Be gone, evil spirit and do not return. In the name of Jesus, amen.”
That was all.
Yet the moment she finished speaking, Ronan felt something rush through him like warm, living water.
It felt as though invisible hands from heaven itself had wrapped around him.
Peace.
Strength.
Rest.
The tearing panic vanished completely.
Ronan stared at Marisa in bewilderment.
“W-What just happened?”
She stared at him with a serious expression. The light that he thought he’d seen in her was gone. Perhaps he had just imagined it.
Marisa opened her mouth. “You were being attacked by a spirit of fear,” she said simply.
“A spirit?” Ronan asked in confusion. “But… I did not see anything.”
Marisa gave him a faint smile.
“Just because you didn’t see anything, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Not every enemy fights with a physical sword.”
“I-I guess not,” he muttered, while looking around. The forest that had seemed so dark only minutes ago, no longer held its grip of fear. The light shone brightly through the rustling leaves and a quiet rest filled the atmosphere. Gone was the oppressive darkness, his heart was light. A deep longing to throw himself in the arms of the Savior had taken its place. He was loved and not condemned for all he had done. God loved him deeply, because that’s who God is: The loving, forgiving Maker who cared and restored.
Oh, if he could just bathe in the sparkling waters of life; to be immersed in the cleansing streams of heaven that washed away all impurity. What joy there was in knowing the God of heaven.
“Ronan?”
Marisa’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Are you ready to continue?”
He nodded. “I am ready.” How could he not be ready after what had just happened?
He urged his horse forward and rode on ahead of Marisa.
They had now left the forest. Before them lay a dry, sandy ridge scattered with thistles. A few yards ahead a startled snake slithered away from a warm patch of sunbaked earth.
Beyond this hill lay the Bridge of Echoes…
He glanced back over his shoulder. Marisa followed closely behind. The almost supernatural calm still lingered in his heart, though it was fading. The crippling fear, however, no longer held him in its grip.
A few more steps, and there it was…
The Bridge of Echoes.
The path led downward here. Ronan could see the place where he and Slink’s men had once gathered. That had not been so very long ago, but it seemed like ages. So much had happened since. His throat tightened as he tried to peer into the deep ravine below from his position on the ridge.
Somewhere down there lay Morren…, the soldier who had been sent with him across the Bridge of Echoes. That unfortunate soul had not survived. Would he still be able to see the man when he crossed?
Not a pleasant thought.
“The Bridge,” Marisa said as she put her horse next to his.
Her face was tense and she bit her lower lip, though a faint smile still lingered. “Come on, Ronan… let’s go. I’ll go first.”
She did not wait for his reply and guided her horse down the path. Ronan followed at a cautious distance.
She came to a stop right at the foot of the bridge.
Ronan pressed his teeth together. Would the wind rise as it had before? Last time, the bridge had swayed violently and the sky had turned black as ink. Now everything seemed calm and peaceful, as though it were nothing more than a small bridge over a stream near Bramblebrook.
He watched breathlessly as Marisa placed her first steps onto the bridge.
Nothing happened.
A gentle breeze brushed through her hair.
She was halfway across now. She turned back. A wide grin lit her face, and she beckoned him forward with her arm, as if she had stepped into a warm, pleasant lake and was calling him in to join her.
He could not very well refuse that.
For one last moment he looked back at the safe-looking sandy path behind him, with its snakes and thistles, and then guided his horse onto the bridge.
The worn wooden planks creaked and swayed beneath their weight.
Now it would happen.
Carefully, he rode forward.
Nothing.
Nothing happened at all.
The bridge shifted slightly under the weight of the two riders, but that was all. Clouds did not gather. No voices rose from the depths. Only the cry of a distant eagle and the soft groan of the old wood broke the silence.
No accusations.
No whispers.
And this was what he had feared all along?
What had Marisa said again? The spirit of fear had been rebuked… He did not need to be afraid.
And so, within moments, they reached the other side.
As he stepped onto the safety of the rocks again, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Well…” he began. “That was… um… easier than I expected.”
Marisa smiled at him. “Our hearts are clean, Ronan. Not because of our works, but because of God Himself. I told you, if your heart is right with God, you can cross without fear.”
“A true miracle,” Ronan said.
He was about to say more when a voice came from behind them. Someone cleared his throat.
Ronan and Marisa turned around and found themselves looking into the warm eyes of an old man who nodded kindly at them.
“There you are,” the old man said warmly. “I was expecting you, but I began to wonder whether the Bridge would let you pass.”
He smiled faintly. “My name is Elior. I am the hermit you are looking for.”
____