Flight of the Wounded Falcon

Year 363

  General Lemuel Thorne straightened his already erect back and reviewed the next two hundred troops that paraded before him. He stood on the crest of the manmade hill that crushed an old barn to overlook the parade grounds that were once a farm. The farmhouse had been demolished to make room for the large mess hall that stood near the new main gates of the expanded compound. The first thing soldiers want when they returned from maneuvers is a meal. Thorne knew how to treat his men. It was one of the reasons they were so loyal to him.

  He quickly calculated how many more troops were to come. Two thousand now had already passed him, and five thousand still needed to go by in celebration of his 25th year as commander of Province 8 and the surrounding areas.

  Some older history books said that Administrator/Commandant Genev had been in charge of the fort for two of those years, but Thorne had disposed of those books as easily as he disposed of Genev, and now no one remembered the old administrator or his time in the village that used to be known as the Edge of the World. It was as if he’d never existed.

  The sun beat down exceptionally warm for the 35th Day of Planting Season, but at least it wasn’t pouring rain as it had been for the past three celebrations.

  Already the retelling of Thorne’s defeat of the impotent colonel, his traitorous wife, the sergeant major spy, and the loss of the children twenty-five years ago had been recounted by a major in a loud and dramatic voice, complete with reenactments by troops in appropriate costumes. Special emphasis was given to the fact that their general had been only a captain at the time, received a crippling injury, yet continued on to defeat all those who destroyed their peace. Only through General Thorne’s tenacity and perseverance did he eventually overthrow the commandants themselves, who caused so much chaos which still plagued their splintered world.

  The speech had been honed for years to motivate the young troops to feats of their own glories despite hardship and pain. The greatest moment of the Celebration would be when General Thorne would draw his sword and remind the men of the growing threat of the other sectors, and how for years Edge, now Province 8, has been the most peaceful in the entire world because of the strong army presence. The future of their area, he would remind them, and indeed of the entire world, depended on General Thorne and his men maintaining peace against the rest of the world that no longer knew order.

  But past the gates of Fort Shin where General Thorne stood, through the forest littered with scalding water spouts, deadly gas pockets, and lethal mud volcanoes, beyond the boulder field that could take a full day or more for the average man to scale, up the rocky ridges and slopes of the great and impassable mountains, past the high mountain meadows no one in the known world knew existed, through narrow and confusing canyons that swallowed many stray cattle, and beyond a narrow passageway opened up a valley of immense proportions.

  In that valley grew wildflowers, animals, gardens, crops, orchards, vineyards, herds, and a civilization that kept itself unknown and hidden from the world.

  To the south and west of the main city stood a building designated for the education of older teenagers. And toward that building another general was jogging in a hurry and wondering if this time he’d be too late to prevent a catastrophe.

  Had he lived in the known world he would have been forced into retirement two years ago. But the only ones who retired here were those who were infirm or dying. This general was neither.

  While he wasn’t quite as brawny as he’d been as a younger officer, he was still as fit as men a third of his age. The only way anyone could keep him down was to pile a mountain on top of him. He had far too many responsibilities, and the men in the towers had just signaled him that the greatest concern of his life was currently standing on top of a two-level building, having hatched yet another less-than-brilliant plan.

  His grandson was ready to fly.

  ---

  Young Perrin Shin, named after his grandfather, stood on top of the two-story-high schoolhouse and wondered if the wind would affect his attempt. The breeze was only slight, but it could interfere. Then again, a stronger wind may have been better.

  Well, he’d find out soon enough. That was the purpose of today’s test—

  “You’re going to get in trouble!” whined the voice of a cousin far below.

  Everyone had an opinion, and he’d learned long ago to disregard them because they were usually wrong. At seventeen years old, he’d pretty much figured out everything already. Young Pere wriggled his back to straighten out his wings. Or rather, the blanket strapped to the poles attached to his back with harnesses that were to be considered wings.

  A crowd of children down below, a mixture of siblings, cousins, and friends watched as he fussed with the configuration, trying to shift the blanket back into place as the breeze ruffled it.

  Another girl, about fourteen years old, came around the building. “He’s coming!” the cousin warned Young Perrin.

  He knew by the inflection of her voice that she meant trouble was coming. Peering over the edge, he saw the white hair jogging to the schoolhouse.

  Young Pere felt torn. On the one hand, he wanted to get this over with before any adults arrived. They always complicated matters, pointing out the flaws in his plans and telling him he didn’t know enough to do what he wanted to attempt.

  On the other hand, he wanted Puggah to see this. There were times Young Perrin was sure he saw veiled approval—or maybe even jealousy—in his grandfather’s eyes.

  Suddenly there he was, in front of the schoolhouse: large, muscular, and now striding purposefully despite being seventy-two years old. As he reached the knot of children he stopped, put his hands on his waist, and his eyes interrogated each one of them.

  One of the boys pointed upward. “There, Puggah.”

  The older man didn’t move his head but shifted his gaze to the roof. What he saw made his jaw clench.

  “You see these white hairs?” he yelled, pointing to his head. “You’ve given me each one of them! What are you planning now, Young Pere?”

  “Puggah,” Young Pere called down. “I know what you’re thinking, but this will work.” He spread out his arms. “I’m going to fly,” he announced grandly.

  His grandfather shook his head in disbelief. “Boy, where do you get these ideas?”

  “Now Puggah, trust me with this one. I’ve thought this through.”

  His grandfather folded his arms. “Since when do you ever think things through?”

  Young Pere scoffed at the insult. “All the time! Now, I wanted to see what it would be like to jump from this height—”

  “Why?”

  Young Pere, surprised by the question, held out his hands as if the answer was obvious. “It just seems like an interesting thing to do.”

  His grandfather exhaled heavily. “So you think it’ll be interesting to crash to the ground and break something you have yet to break?”

  “I’m not going to crash to the ground,” Young Pere said. “I’m going to float down.” He flapped his arms experimentally. “This will work.”

  “If it were that simple to fly,” his grandfather said, “don’t you think others would have done it by now?”

  Young Pere knew the strategy: logic. He had a way to counter it. “Puggah, sometimes people are just too cowardly to do the obvious. I’ve researched this, and no one’s tried this before. Probably because they were afraid of falling.”

  “Maybe people have tried this,” Puggah acknowledged, “but didn’t survive to write about it. Others just found their flattened bodies on the ground, mysteriously covered in blankets, and had no idea what caused their demise. In all your research did you look up ‘Unexplained deaths in Salem’?”

  Some of his grandsons snickered. Some of his granddaughters wrung their hands in worry.

  “Oh, ha-ha,” Young Pere called down at him.

  “Besides,” Puggah went on, “the Creator didn’t design us to fly.”

  Ah, logic again. Young Pere h
eld up a finger. “But Puggah, the Creator also didn’t design us to move from one place to another quickly, but that’s why he gave us horses. I’m just doing what Muggah says: Test everything. Test what you believe, test what you doubt, find out the truth of all things yourself.”

  Perrin closed his eyes, knowing full well what was to come next.

  “Well, Puggah, I doubt that the Creator did not want us to fly. Therefore, I will test what I doubt!”

  Young Pere could read the cynicism in his grandfather’s expression. “You can learn from other’s mistakes, Young Pere. Remember when Mr. Hint fell from his barn roof?”

  “But did he have blanket wings?” Young Pere asked knowingly.

  “Let me rephrase this,” Perrin said, quietly growling as he always did when he was losing an argument. “The Creator did not design YOU to fly off the roof today.”

  “And where’s that written?” Young Pere countered.

  “It’s Nature’s Law,” his grandfather called up to him. “All things fall to the ground: Law number 1. Look, your mother’s on her way.” He glanced to the side of the building to make sure she hadn’t already arrived, but everyone would have heard her if she had. “Now come down.”

  Young Pere grinned. “That’s what I’ve been planning to do!” and fluffed out his wings.

  “Not that way, boy!” Perrin bellowed.

  “Puggah, didn’t you ever wonder what it’d feel like to fly?” Young Pere called down.

  “Briefly,” Perrin admitted, “but then I worry about what it’d feel like when I hit the ground!”

  “See, there you go again: assuming my failure. But Puggah, what if I don’t hit the ground? What if I can defy Nature’s Law? And even if I don’t, won’t the thrill of falling be worth the pain at the bottom?”

  Perrin threw his hands in the air. “Just how many times do you have to hurt yourself to answer that question, Young Pere? Look, I understand your desire for something exciting, so if you want something to thrill you, come down here the proper way and, and . . .” Perrin looked around, trying to find an enticing diversion.

  “What, race you, old man?” Young Pere sniggered.

  Perrin took a deep breath. His grandson had been teasing him about their last race for years now. Young Pere was almost thirteen then, and already larger than his father. Perrin was sixty-seven, and thought he was still quite fast for his age, so he bragged to the family he was about to humble his boastful grandson.

  It was Perrin who was humbled, or rather humiliated, in front of the entire family who cheered his grandson’s sizable victory. Not even Uncle Shem had any sympathy for him.

  Perrin folded his arms and subtly felt his ample bicep. “Come down here and take me on! You have yet to beat me in an arm wrestle. Today may be your lucky day.”

  His twelve-year-old grandson looked up at Perrin and scowled. “An arm wrestle? Oh, Puggah. That’s not thrilling—”

  “Hush, Hogal.”

  Young Pere wagged a finger at his grandfather. “Not today, old man. I’ll beat you another time.”

  Perrin’s mouth dropped open in feigned dismay. “Again with the ‘old man’? Get down here, boy. Let’s see who the ‘old man’ is!”

  His seven-year-old granddaughter standing next to him grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “You are an old man, Puggah. But that’s all right. I like your white hair.”

  He bent over and gave her a quick kiss on the head. “It’s only starting to go white. But thank you, Morah. Always good to be reminded.” He glanced back up at Young Pere. “Look, my afternoon’s free, so let’s come up with something else exciting, all right?”

  Another young man rounded the school house. Cephas was the same age as his cousin and called up a warning when he saw him on the roof. “Young Pere, Aunt Lilla’s on her way. Better get down, now!”

  “All right, Cephas,” Young Pere said with as much sincerity as he could muster for his ever-obedient, ever-perfect cousin. “For you, I will.”

  He backed up along the roof line, and Cephas and Perrin exchanged looks of relief.

  Until they heard the running.

  They didn’t have time to shout, “No!”

  Young Pere was the first human on that sphere to feel the sensation of flying. And it was as glorious, as he knew it would be! It made his heart quicken, then stop in amazing joy as the air rushed past his face.

  Then . . . he felt the sensation of falling.

  He wasn’t the first human to experience that. But it was still fantastic in its own right—

  Then toppling. All right, maybe not so good—

  Then the sensation of hearing his mother scream. Yeah, getting worse—

  Then the sensation of impact.

  Then pain.

  Then darkness and silence.

  ---

  When Young Pere’s eyes opened, he looked into the face of his mother. She was red, puffier than usual, and her dark blond hair was falling untidily out of its bun.

  She cried out as she looked up to the ceiling. “Thank the Creator!”

  “You don’t have to yell, Lilla,” said someone behind her.

  “Yes, I do!” Lilla exclaimed, immediately smothering Young Pere’s face with sloppy kisses. “It’s the only,” kiss, “way that,” kiss, “my boy,” kiss, kiss, “hears me!”

  He’d need a washing rag later.

  Behind his mother hovered his grandmother. Mahrree Shin looked slightly disheveled, her shoulder-length gray hair dislodged from where it was usually tucked behind her ears. Something about her appearance was weary. Wearier than usual.

  “Say something,” she prompted him, not entirely convinced he was all right.

  “Hello, my name is Young Pere,” he said, a bit groggily, “and you seem like a charming young woman. What’s your name, miss?”

  Mahrree rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s fine.” She exhaled as if she hadn’t breathed properly in hours. “Young Pere, you’re being preserved, but for what I can’t imagine.” Muggah leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t you ever, ever scare me like that again,” she whispered fiercely in his ear.

  Young Pere tried to smile at her often repeated admonition, but every muscle protested in pain. He tried to sit up and realized he was in his bedroom.

  “Wait—I’m at home?”

  Another face came over, belonging to his cousin Boskos Zenos. At the same stature as his father Shem at age twenty-two, Boskos also had his light brown hair and blue eyes, which now peered deeply and analytically at Young Pere. He picked up Young Pere’s wrist, felt his pulse, and nodded in satisfaction.

  “What, I get only the doctor’s apprentice, now?” Young Pere asked.

  Boskos ignored that and looked into each of his dark brown eyes. “How do you feel? Your left shoulder is bruised where you landed on it. Try rotating it.”

  Young Pere did so and winced in pain. “Not dislocated this time.”

  “Didn’t think so,” Boskos said, peering closer and closer into his left eye as Young Pere tried to lean away from him. “My sister said you bounced when you hit the ground. Are your ribs all right? Your breathing’s been clear and we didn’t feel any breaks.”

  Young Pere took an experimental breath. “Nothing feels broken. This time.”

  “Good.” His cousin smiled and stood up. “I’ll tell Dr. Toon he doesn’t need to come by again until morning. I can keep an eye on you until then. You need to stay in bed for the next few days if you want to be ready for next week.”

  “Sure, Bos,” Young Pere said in his best sincere voice.

  Boskos pointed at him. “I mean it.”

  Young Pere sighed while his mother resumed her fussing over him, straightening his blankets and brushing aside his black hair.

  Boskos turned to the older man leaning against the wall with his arms folded. “Uncle Perrin, make sure he stays in bed.”

  Perrin nodded. “I’ll do my best, Dr. Zenos.”

  “I’m not ‘doctor’ yet—a few more te
sts still to pass.”

  “For as much practice as you’ve had over the years with this family, I think they should grant you your certificate already.”

  Boskos grinned. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

  Perrin caught his arm as Boskos started to leave. “After the doctor, stop by and talk to your father,” he said in a low voice. “He was worried.”

  “I was already planning on it.” Boskos headed down the hall, calling, “Uncle Peto, he’s awake.”

  Young Pere automatically stiffened, knowing what was to come, but every muscle ached as he did so.

  Almost instantly his father appeared at the door. Unlike Young Pere, Peto was of average height, with light brown hair and pale gray eyes, but his features were the same as Perrin’s, which meant the same as Young Pere’s. He sat down gingerly next to his son, and when he spoke his tone was tight.

  “The doctor and Boskos said they can’t see anything that will be permanently damaged. Except maybe your head.” He ignored the unnecessary grooming of his wife who was mopping Young Pere’s head with an overly damp cloth. “And hopefully your pride. But I have my doubts about that, son.”

  He gripped Young Pere’s hand which felt fine until his father squeezed it.

  “I’m just so grateful you’ve come back to us again,” Peto said earnestly. “We’ve been praying for you since yesterday afternoon, you know.”

  That surprised Young Pere. “So . . . how long have I been here?”

  He heard his grandfather answer. “It’s nearly dinner time now, so since yesterday when your father, Uncle Shem, and I carried you home after your bird-brained idea. You’re getting heavier, boy. I remember when I could carry your limp body home all by myself.” Perrin’s face was stern but he couldn’t hide the relief in his eyes.

  “Oh,” Young Pere said, making sure they all heard the twinge of regret he added. “I’m sorry about that. I guess it explains why I’m hungry now, though,” and he looked pleadingly at his mother.

  “He’s hungry!” she cried. “Oh, it’s been a cold gravy day, I’ll tell you.”

  Young Pere knew how bad a situation was based on the worst meal his mother could think of. The nastier the items, the more worried she’d been.

  “—A cold gravy day with moldy biscuits and floppy pickles and runny potatoes—”

  “Didn’t he say he was hungry, Lilla?” Perrin mercifully interrupted his daughter-in-law before she detailed the saddest dinner in Salem. It was time to make her son the best dinner, as she always did.

  “That’s right!” she said happily. “I knew I was right to make those first peaches into pie.” She kissed him and leaped to her feet to rush down the long hall to the kitchen.

  But Peto wasn’t smiling. “And that’s all you have to say, Young Pere? ‘I’m sorry, I’m hungry’?”

  “Peto . . .” Mahrree said calmly.

  “No, Mother, he’s old enough to understand.” He looked intently at his son. “Whatever you do affects everyone around you. Last night your siblings and cousins were sure this time you wouldn’t come back to us. Morah cried herself to sleep. Lori even came over to keep watch last night. Uncle Shem and Aunt Calla have been here twice. Cephas did your chores this morning. Young Pere, whenever you do something ‘interesting,’ everyone suffers. Can you please try to understand that?”

  He'd heard this lecture before, and while he was lying in bed, too. He looked past his father and counted the wood planks on the ceiling as he usually did. Eventually he came up with, “It’s not like I’m trying to hurt other people.” He really didn’t know what else they wanted him to say.

  “Young Pere,” Peto put his hand lightly on his son’s broad chest. “I worry about you, immensely. I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t bear for something truly terrible to happen to you. Can you understand that?”

  Young Pere nodded, but kept his gaze on the ceiling. Nothing truly terrible had happened to him before. Why should it in the future? He always woke up again, sometimes in casts, sometimes with stitches, but in a few days or weeks or moons, he was fine again.

  Peto sighed as if wanting to say something else. Instead, he squeezed his son’s hand again. “I’ll go tell everyone else how you’re faring. Although I’m sure your mother has already sung it to the neighborhood.”

  Peto looked at his parents since his son wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  They both gave him a quick nod. That usually meant he was expecting them to say something profound in a few minutes, right after he left.

  Peto patted Young Pere’s chest. “Remember that I love you, son.” He stood up and left the room.

  Puggah and Muggah looked at each other, then at their twelfth grandchild who had let his gaze drop to count the boards on the wall. Young Pere wondered who’d go first.

  “Do you know how much he worries about you, Young Pere?” Muggah started, because she usually went first.

  “Yes,” he said dully. Giving them the answers they wanted made the speeches go by faster. He’d learned that when he was fourteen and had run out of the house into a small twister in the pasture to see just how powerful it was. You would have thought by his family’s overreaction that it had thrown him further than a few dozen paces.

  “He gets frustrated because he knows no other way to tell you how much he fears for you,” Mahrree continued. “It’s not really his way to smother you in kisses like your mother does.”

  Young Pere didn’t have enough strength to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward at that.

  She noticed. “Nor would you want that, I am sure!” Mahrree smiled broadly. “You have an exuberant spirit, my sweet boy.”

  Young Pere blushed at his grandmother’s nickname for him.

  “You have the capacity to accomplish great things. But only if you discipline yourself. You need to find a way to harness your impulses, use them in productive ways . . .”

  He sighed and started counting boards again. He’d heard this speech before, several times.

  And Mahrree knew it too.

  She stopped and leaned over to kiss him again on the cheek. “I love you, Young Pere. No matter what you do. Even when you manipulate my words for your own purposes. I would never have told you to test Nature’s Law by throwing yourself off a building.”

  “That’s not what I was trying . . . oh, never mind,” he mumbled.

  Mahrree patted his cheek. “I’ll go check on your dinner. Make sure the gravy’s warmed up.”

  Young Pere watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was giving her husband an, ‘It’s your turn,’ look as she left.

  Perrin nodded at her but didn’t move from his spot against the wall. Instead, he watched for a while until his namesake finally looked over at him.

  “It’s your turn, isn’t it, Puggah?” Young Pere asked his grandfather. He usually began with I’m concerned about you, son. Let’s talk. Young Pere assumed that was a leftover phrase from his years in the army.

  But maybe Perrin was going for a new approach, because today he only shrugged and said, “Do you need anything?”

  “No, Puggah.”

  “All right, then.” Perrin pushed off of the wall and came over to his grandson. For lack of something better to do, he ruffled up Young Pere’s thick black hair.

  Young Pere wondered if he was envious. Supposedly Puggah’s hair used to look like that. Everything about Young Perrin Shin—from his towering height to his massive build to his dark brown eyes—was a copy of his grandfather, or so he was told.

  “You need to rest up. The trail marking trip is in less than a week. Your grandmother in Norden is expecting our visit, and if I don’t bring her her grandson in good health, she just might sit on me.”

  Young Pere couldn’t hide the smile that surfaced to his lips. Grandma Trovato was a hefty woman.

  “I’ll come back and check on you later. If you need anything, remember you can always ask for me.” He patted Young Pere’s cheek gently and headed for
the door.

  His littlest sister Morah bounded in, glanced up at Puggah to make sure he was on his way out, then rushed to Young Pere’s side.

  “You’re awake!” she chirped.

  “Yes, obviously,” he said to the seven-year-old. While he appreciated how she idolized him, it was also quite annoying at times. Except when she was useful.

  “Sorry I got the wrong blankets for you,” she said, her face the picture of disappointment. “I bet it would’ve worked with better blankets.”

  He patted her hand, which sat tentatively on his bed. “That’s all right. I’m not sure that was the problem, but I appreciate you sneaking them out of the house for me.”

  Something still worried her, though. “So . . . you’re not mad at me? I didn’t make a mistake?”

  “No, not mad. You did just fine.”

  “And I didn’t tell on you,” she blurted. “I don’t know who did. But I kept your secret good, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” he assured her. “You’ve proven you can be part of my team,” he whispered the last words, and she beamed like the sunshine. He needed an innocent spy and accomplice, and so far, Morah was showing her worth. Sometimes the adults in the family became too curious as to what Young Pere was up to, and questioned his every movement, request, and effort to sneak off with something tucked under his shirt.

  But little Morah? She could charm the claws off a kitten.

  “When I’m healed and ready for my next project, you’ll be my number one helper.”

  She couldn’t have grinned any wider, showing front teeth which were hopelessly crooked. “All right, Young Pere,” and she put her finger to her lips, just as he had when he’d tasked her to sneak him out blankets for his wings.

  He winked at her, and added an eyebrow raise, as if they were conspiring on the greatest adventure Salem had ever seen. “Now, go see if Mama saved me any extra pie. If she hasn’t, slip one into the cabinet for me, all right, my number one helper?”

  Her hand did something odd around her forehead, until Young Pere realized she was trying to salute. But, since they didn’t have an army in Salem, and Morah had only met a handful of former soldiers who never saluted—at least, they never did twice, since General Shin despised it when any refugees tried to salute him—her attempt was bizarre at best.

  “Uh, thank you for that,” he said to her. “Dismissed,” he said, more as a question than an order. But when he said, “Check on that pie?” it was clearly an order.

  Morah grinned and bobbed out of the bedroom, just as a slew of siblings and cousins came flooding in.

  ---

  The flow of family visitors continued as Young Pere ate his dinner, and second helpings, in his bed. Mahrree sat in the gathering room with an eye on the hallway to see who went in and out, and if her most troublesome grandson needed anything.

  But mostly she was watching for . . . Ah, there he was, with his arms full of chopped wood for her and Perrin’s fire. Cephas Briter, only three days older than Young Pere, nodded once to Mahrree before heading down to her wing to deliver the wood. He returned a moment later and made his way through chatting relatives to check on his cousin Young Pere.

  Mahrree caught Perrin’s eye across the room, but already he was striding to the hallway and his namesake’s bedroom.

  The boys’ relationship was an application in natural laws, Mahrree had decided some years ago: for as much as Cephas tried to pull toward restraint and care, Young Pere provided an equal, and often greater, opposing push for recklessness. At times Mahrree wondered if there hadn’t been some divine appointment as to who was in each family. The Creator must have known someone like Young Pere would need someone like Cephas to provide some balance. Although they had been best friends when they were little, they became opposites as they aged, and now that they were nearly eighteen, they could barely abide being in the same room.

  Still, Cephas seemed intent on making an effort, likely because Young Pere was too sore to put up much of a physical fight.

  Cephas went into the bedroom only after a younger brother bounded out of it, and Mahrree and Perrin tiptoed up to the door to listen.

  “How are you feeling?” Cephas asked amiably.

  “Fine,” was the short response.

  An uncomfortable silence followed, then, “Don’t worry about your chores for the next few days. I’ve got them covered.”

  “Don’t bother,” Young Pere’s response was crisp. “I can do them.”

  Cephas scoffed, likely trying to sound light-hearted, but it wasn’t light enough. “No, you can’t. Boskos said you need to rest at least a week, and I imagine you can barely walk. How can you take care of the morning firewood?” In his tone, Mahrree could hear his genuine concern.

  But that wasn’t what Young Pere heard.

  “Cephas, just do your own chores. I don’t need your charity.”

  “Charity? It’s not charity,” Cephas insisted. “I’m doing it for . . . Muggah. She needs the firewood.”

  “I can take care of my Muggah. You stay at your house; I’ll stay at mine,” said Young Pere firmly. “Take care of your own family.”

  “Muggah is my family, and so are you, Young Pere.”

  “And how often do you regret that?”

  Cephas groaned, all diplomacy flying out the window. “What, this again? That was three years ago! And I never said I regretted you being in my family. What I said to the lumberjacks rescuing you was that I was sorry that they had to come out all that way. Honestly, Young Pere—you hear only what you want to hear, don’t you?”

  “What I want to hear,” Young Pere said in a measured yet hostile tone, “is you not lecturing me anymore. That’s what my parents and grandparents are for.”

  “Well maybe if you actually listened to them once in a while, I wouldn’t have to tell you the same things!”

  Mahrree and Perrin exchanged the same look, and Perrin cleared his throat loudly to announce his presence before pushing open the door. “Time for family prayer, boys!”

  Cephas stormed out, apologetically patting his grandmother’s arm as he passed, and stomped to the bustling gathering room.

  Mahrree peered into the bedroom to see Perrin hefting Young Pere, who insisted on getting out of bed. Even now Perrin was still so strong, yet so gentle. He readily hoisted his groaning grandson who matched him in height and bulk, and put a steadying arm around him. After a moment Young Pere nodded that he wasn’t about to topple over, and the two of them slowly lumbered to the door. Mahrree stepped back, knowing her grandson wouldn’t want her to see him so frail, and sure enough, once they finally made it to the hall, he shrugged off his grandfather and shuffled on his own down the long hallway. He had a point to prove to his cousin Cephas, although it was a stupid point.

  Mahrree caught her husband’s arm. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to ask either of them to offer the prayer tonight,” she whispered. “We don’t need another ‘Please bless that my cousin will realize he’s a big dummy,’ prayer tonight.”

  Perrin smiled as he likely remembered the prayer recently offered by Morah Shin after she had an argument with Young Shem Briter. “Agreed. Tonight’s my night anyway.”

  Perrin kept that family prayer full of civility and gratitude for the welfare of their family. It was nights like that when Mahrree thought maybe he had learned something in his negotiation classes years ago. But it was more likely the tutelage of the Creator over the years that had turned Perrin into the remarkable man that he was now. He had a way of soothing every conflict, of understanding each grandchild, and of always being at the right place at the right time.

  ---

  “I know I’ve asked this of you before, but any suggestions?” Peto said as he looked at his mug and slowly turned it in his hands. His brown hair seemed to have added a few more gray strands around his temples since yesterday afternoon. They complimented the lines that were etching deeper around his eyes.

  He sat at the eating room ta
ble with Deck and Perrin. The younger children were asleep, the older children were in their rooms in the western wing, and the women were talking in the gathering room, leaving them alone.

  Deck, sitting next to him at the large table, slowly shook his head. “Young Pere is . . . an interesting young man.”

  Peto stopped turning the mug, looked at Deck, and said, “Well, that was helpful.”

  Deck smiled faintly. “I don’t know how else to put it. He’s not a bad boy. It’s as if he’s gotten into a batch of bad feed and can’t get it out of his system. If he were a bull I might have more helpful ideas. None of my sons have been quite as lively as Young Pere. Yet.”

  Perrin chuckled softly from across the table. “If Young Pere were Deck’s bull, there’d be a way to steer him to be calmer, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, I’m not suggesting that!” Deck protested while his father-in-law and brother-in-law smiled.

  “I know you’re not,” Peto assured him. “It’s just that Lilla and I don’t know what more to do for him. We run from one disaster of his to another, praying he’ll survive long enough to learn some sense. Of our thirteen children, we spend most of our time on him.” He sighed miserably. “I just worry how it’s all going to end,” he whispered.

  Perrin leaned forward. “You can’t think like that, about the ‘end,’ whatever it may be. You can’t assume it’ll be for the worst. Miracles still happen, all the time. You of all people know that.”

  Peto nodded feebly, staring at his mug again. “I know all about miracles. And I’ve been praying for one for Young Pere. But the Creator can’t force anyone to do anything.” He looked up briefly. “It would be a lot easier if He could.”

  Deck nodded in understanding. Some of his brood of twelve had given him and Jaytsy many moments of fear and grief, and with Young Shem only seven years old, there were undoubtedly many more years of worry to come. His children didn’t cause his hair to go gray, they just caused it to go. By the time his youngest would be a father, Deck was sure he’d be completely bald.

  “So, Peto,” Deck said gently, “what would Rector Shin say to a discouraged father?”

  Peto scoffed. “Has anyone in our congregation had a son like mine? It’s true: the rector’s children are always the worst.”

  “But who else in Salem,” Perrin began, “besides a rector who grew up in the world, could have enough patience to handle such a spirited boy? What other grandparents have had so much experience with reckless teenagers? Who else here could possibly help rein in this one before he does permanent damage? Can you imagine if Young Pere was in Edge? Or whatever they’re calling it now?”

  Deck shuddered.

  Peto remained unmoved.

  “This family was prepared to be sent Young Pere,” Perrin assured his son. “The Creator knows you’re the best man in Salem to be his father.”

  Peto only shrugged.

  “I remember Rector Shin giving a talk not too long ago about choices,” Perrin said, looking off in the distance.

  His son looked down at the table and smiled dimly.

  “I believe he said, we all make our choices, we all live with the consequences. We all mess up. We learn from the mistakes, hopefully, and make better choices the next time around. Some people take a lot longer to learn a lesson than others do. But that’s why we’re here, working the Test, enduring to the end. And so we sit around the table patiently hoping we see the boy get some sense knocked into him.”

  Peto examined his mug. “I didn’t put it exactly like that. But at least I know someone picked up the general idea.” In a whisper he asked, “What have I done wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, Peto!” Deck said earnestly. “You have five older children who have matured very well and they know their Creator. You have . . .” he counted quickly, “seven more children who love you and Lilla and show none of the wild tendencies of Young Pere. Some are watching him, that’s true,” Deck’s eyebrows furrowed in worry, “and some of mine watch him too, but I have to believe that everything he does is because of who he is, not what you have done, right or wrong.”

  Peto looked to his father for a second opinion.

  “I agree. You’re a good father, Peto. Better than I was. Just love him. And make sure he knows you do. But I do have another suggestion. Ask the guide what he thinks about you and Young Pere. He can help you understand what the Creator wants you to know. I think you’re too close to the problem to see it clearly.”

  Nodding in reluctant agreement, Peto said, “Huldah was at the schoolhouse yesterday, and she’s quite the informant for her father. I’m sure Shem’s just waiting for me to ask his opinion, but he won’t share it unless I ask.”

  Perrin had a look on his face that suggested he had one more thought.

  “What is it, Perrin?” Deck asked.

  He hesitated before saying, “I’m only going to say this once, because I know neither of you would approve, but I’ve thought this for quite some time.” He paused.

  “Well?” prodded Peto.

  “With his daring, his ingenuity, and his charisma,” Perrin said, “Young Pere would’ve been a great army officer. He could’ve been the next General Shin.”

  Peto and Deck stared at him before turning to each other.

  Perrin winced with worry.

  But his boys howled with laughter.

  “He’d destroy Idumea!” Deck declared.

  “Then he’d destroy Salem!” Peto added.

  Perrin shrugged. “It’s just that with all the mandatory discipline, the outlets for pent-up energy—”

  “You mean forced regulations and trained violence?” Peto restated sharply.

  “Yes,” Perrin conceded, “you could put it that way. I think he would’ve responded to the kind of life the army affords. Or rather, afforded when I was his age. I can’t imagine what the state of the army of Idumea might be now. Or the factions. It doesn’t matter, though,” he ended quietly.

  “Perrin, he’s already a member of your army,” Deck offered.

  Perrin scoffed at that. “Even Mahrree’s a member. And it’s only a militia. There’s a big difference between a standing army and a bunch of farmers, children, and great-grandparents with pitchforks.”

  Deck looked a little hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Deck. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  Deck nodded. “I do. I just didn’t realize until now that you missed the army so much.”

  Perrin looked like he had been stabbed with a pitchfork by a rancher. “I . . . I don’t,” he stammered.

  “Oh come on, General. Not even a little?” Peto asked him, suspicious.

  Perrin searched for the right words while his sons eyed him warily. “There are aspects that I miss. But there’s far more that I’m glad I’m rid of. I wouldn’t trade my life here with you boys and your families for any command. Truly. I have my own little army right here.”

  Peto and Deck exchanged doubtful glances.

  “Uh-huh,” Peto said. “But aren’t there days when it was simpler to rally hundreds of men to arms than to get the entire family gathered together for your nightly roll calls?”

  Deck laughed while Perrin objected good-naturedly to what he insisted on as a family tradition, but the rest of the family regarded as a joke. “Roll call is important. What if one of your little ones has wandered off and no one noticed until bed time?”

  “That’s never happened!” Peto countered.

  “Because of roll call!” Perrin insisted. “It even helped Salema find Lek once, remember Deck?”

  “Lek wasn’t missing, Perrin. He was just avoiding you,” Deck declared. “You scared him to death with your little ‘grandfatherly talk’ right before their wedding. As if that poor man wasn’t quiet and shy enough as it is. You never gave me that talk. He still won’t tell me or Shem what you said, and it’s been six years.”

  Peto and Deck laughed as Perrin sighed. “We get along fine now, right? All my married granddaughters are treated
very well by their husbands, aren’t they?” Perrin turned to Peto.

  Peto pointed at his father. “Lori’s Sam dared to talk to you again only after I told him about Lilla’s ‘Papa Pere’ nickname. You big, old, soft bear, you,” he teased. “Fortunately Jori’s fiancé-to-be was there at the time so Con was prepared for your little chat.”

  Perrin tried to look stern as Deck and Peto laughed again. But he was glad to see them lighter again, now that the latest storm had passed.

  Eventually, Peto sighed. “At least Young Pere has the general as a grandfather, and two uncles who are always neutral parties. Someone else he can turn to when he and I can’t seem to connect. Will you promise me, if either of you sees something we should be doing differently with Young Pere, please tell me?”

  “Ah, Peto,” Perrin sighed and ran a hand through his whitening hair. “That’s what our wives are for.”

  Chapter 2--“You’re as bad as your father and grandfather.”