sacred Headstones.”
Lloyd again refused to answer-he was too enthralled by the shimmering writings. He reached out his hand again toward the bark section the bearded man held close to his chest, and this time the fluorescence illuminated the whole of the man’s face, as if he were clasping a lidded lantern from which the light wanted to escape.
“My Lord!” a woman on the other side of the storehouse cried. “Look!”
One of the other tablets started pulsing more intently, too. Then another. Murmurs and moans spread throughout the storehouse. McGitney sensed some impending crisis of authority in the presence of this boy and the uncanny effect he seemed to have on the Headstones. But he was curious, too.
“Take out the others,” he directed his assistants.
The remaining Headstones were produced from the strongbox and all were now beaming brilliantly, casting their runic mysteries upon the faces and the walls like magic-lantern pictures. The Quists let out a collective gasp and then turned their frightened, composite scrutiny on the boy.
The Book of Buford had promised that there would be another prophet-a true messianic figure to lead the tribe forward into the light of the future and their destiny as spiritual pilgrims and prosperous citizens in the new America that was to come. It was one of the crucial points of the revealed doctrine that McGitney had unquestioning belief in. He knew in his heart that he was but a chieftain of the moment-a trailblazer to spur them westward. He had no private delusions (or “affinity with divinity,” as he called it), however shrewdly he played upon his role to achieve the ends he deemed best for his flock. Now here was an undeniable call from beyond, in the sect’s own terms. It could not be brushed aside.
“How are you doing this, lad?” he asked, in as calm a voice as he could muster. He was relieved at Lloyd’s reply.
“I don’t know that I am doing it-or doing anything. I just know I’ve seen these kinds of markings before.”
The Headstones sparkled in response, as if emphatically agreeing, triggering more exclamations and whispers.
“Where?” McGitney demanded. The Quists’ claim to be a chosen people hinged on the uniqueness of the Headstones. And yet, had not he, their own leader, always harbored the belief that there was more to the glyphic codes than the Book of Buford had disclosed? Was not the very hope upon which the Quist religion was founded- their fundamental tenet of faith-that revelation was not just real but continuing? The ancient wisdom embodied in the Headstones was alive. That was what the Book of Buford and all the Quists believed. The illumination of the tablets was proof of this.
“Are you some kind of proph-et?” one of the black men on the other side of the circle asked with a tremor in his voice.
Lloyd was not sure how to answer this question, and so repeated what he had said before. “I am Lloyd Meadhorn Sitturd. I have seen these markings before. These things you have are not the only examples.”
“Order!” McGitney called, as the commotion this assertion caused threatened to upset the entire proceeding, not to mention draw unwelcome attention.
“Well, young Lloyd Meadhorn Sitturd. My name is Increase McGitney, and the people you see gathered around you are my devoted compatriots in a holy mission of discovery and fulfillment. We call ourselves Quists. You may have heard of our trials-or have even been warned away from us. That is, provided you are not a spy. Are you a spy, young Lloyd?”
Lloyd shook his head violently. It occurred to him that if he were a spy he was not a very adept one. Hattie would have been dark with him.
“And where have you seen these writings, Lloyd? In a dream?”
“No,” the boy answered.
“Then where? Where are you from?”
“Zanesville, Ohio.”
“And is that where you saw them?” McGitney pestered. Even if by some fluke the boy was speaking the truth, if another example of the Headstones lay at a distance, perhaps lost, his claim could not be proved. Perhaps the effect the boy seemed to have on the tablets could be explained away and they could return to their ceremony.
Still, he could not get around his own intuition that the boy’s appearance was somehow fated. A defining moment in Quistory.
Lloyd hesitated. He had become so intrigued by the sight of markings like the Ambassadors’-and by their unexplained luminescence-that he had forgotten for a moment about his precarious situation. Surrounded by strangers with strange beliefs, late at night in a foreign frontier town-his parents not knowing where he was-he knew that his goal should have been to get back to the Clutters’ in one piece and get to bed without his parents knowing that he had been gone. He realized that he was always endangering their safety, and reproached himself for it. But he could not curb his curiosity-or his need to show these head-wrapped wayfarers the error of their ways.
“I have it with me,” he replied at last, which set the Quists chattering and speculating, while the light from the Headstones held in various hands around the circle bloomed brighter. “A short distance from here,” he added, as McGitney held up his hands for quiet.
“Then you must fetch it,” the Quist patriarch commanded. “Drucker and Soames, go with him. We must prove the truth of this claim here and now.”
“No,” Lloyd insisted. “I will not let you take it from me. It was given to me.”
“Who by, lad?”
“That is not for me to say to you,” Lloyd fired back. “But I will not fetch it for you to steal.”
The circle of faces erupted in discord.
“Hush!” McGitney demanded. “Lad, whoever you are, and wherever you are from, know this: the Quists are not thieves. More honest, law-abiding folk you would be hard pressed to find, wherever laws are fair and allow for freedom of faith. We are merely humble believers in the revealed truth the great Saint Kendrick bestowed upon us. We mean you no harm, as we hope to have none done to us. But see here. You have made a bald, bold claim that strikes at the heart of what we have risked and lost good lives to defend and protect. If what you speak is the truth, then something of your destiny is entwined with ours-whether the genuine nature of this can be fathomed by any of us gathered at this crossroads or not. I say to you-I give our word-you will not be harmed. Your property will not be appropriated. And if you are in the shadow of any danger, as we are, perhaps we may even be of help to you. And yours. You have family, I take it? Unless you just rose out of the ground to haunt us. Or did you fall from the sky?”
This last query had a noticeable effect on Lloyd, for he could not help seeing and hearing the pitiful Ambassadors as they were swept away into the cruel blue above the Mississippi. He had repaid their hermetic trust with betrayal, abandonment, and almost certain execution, unless Hattie’s theory held some hope. In any case, all that remained of them now seemed to be the box he had been given with their cryptic language engraved on it. His head churned with questions and doubts-yet he could not shake free his desire to know if the markings on the box he carried were also capable of coming to phosphorescent life like the Headstones, and he recalled the singular line of speculation that had been triggered by Hattie. He had to know more.
He felt that the Quist leader had spoken correctly when he suggested that his fate was somehow linked to theirs. He did not know how that particular machine worked, but the coincidence could not be ignored. That was what had drawn him to the storehouse. He could not turn his back on the mystery now. He owed it to the monstrous twins. He owed it to the Quists-and to himself. While there was fear and skepticism in their faces, he sensed no ill will toward him. These people were not Spirosians or Vardogers, of that he was sure, and both St. Ives and Hattie had advised him to rely on his instincts in a pinch.
“All right,” he agreed. “But a curse on you all if you do not keep your word and try to abscond with what is not your own!”
He threw in this last pronouncement for theatrical flourish, remembering the professor-reasoning that such a ritually inclined people, so fervent in their devotion to things they obviously did not comprehend, might in the absence of any physical force he could offer be checked by superstition. His threat had the desired result. He could see it in the eyes around the circle, a response enhanced by a chance gust of wind that unnerved the candles and yet left the sheen of the Headstones unchanged.
“Go with haste and with care,” McGitney said, pointing to the heavy door. “We will keep our word, while you
