has been informed that you will be late arriving to your duty assignment. This meeting will be to discuss the future duty assignments for yourself and your brother, James Roe.
I dropped the note and tore open the box. Inside were two stacks of MREs. I shuffled through them. Meat loaf. Burritos. Chicken teriyaki. As hungry as I was, I set them aside and dug until I uncovered the three asthma inhalers hidden beneath. I held my breath when I saw them. For novices like me and James, medical care meant herbal tea and prayer. These inhalers might as well have been made of solid gold. I couldn’t imagine the look on James’s face when I put them in his hand. Never mind when I told him about the rest of Captain Monroe’s promise.
For years the word had seemed too impossible to even speak, but here it was, a day away. Better jobs. More access to medicines. A private room with actual beds, doors, and windows. After six years of struggling, James and I would finally have a place we could make our own.
Outside, the Lighthouse bells began to toll. I pocketed one inhaler, then hid the rest of them with the MREs under my bunk’s mattress.
I stopped at the shared latrine on my way out, hoping to scrub the grime off my face before Lighthouse. The line of sinks and mirrors gleamed in the lantern glow. I turned one of the faucets, thankful that the Path didn’t consider hot running water as corrupting as radios and electric lights. I leaned over the sink to fill my hands but drew them back when I saw the white of the cast Dr. Franks had put on my arm.
I stared down at the cottony fringe where my fingers emerged from the plaster, each one bruised black and blue. A dull throb built in my head and I felt a sick whirl in my stomach. The flow of the water through the chrome rose in pitch until it sounded like a chorus of screams. I lurched forward to turn it off, striking my cast against the fixture. My body shook with the pain of it, and I nearly called out before I managed to pull back and stagger away from the sink.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe slow and deep, willing the shaking to subside. When I opened them again, a stranger’s face glowered at me in the mirror. My eyes were surrounded by kaleidoscopes of black and red and blue. There were two crusty gashes on my cheeks, and bruises on my neck and shoulders. I moved my fingers lightly over the wounds, wincing at their tenderness. The faces of Camp Victory crowded the edge of my mind. Connery. Franks. The little boy who was so eager to thank me for saving them all. I could hear their voices. The gunfire—
The bells tolled again and I left the barracks, striding up the hill to the Lighthouse.
The Lighthouse was full by the time I got there. I pushed my way through the ranks of shuffling novices to my place in the rear of the hall. Down below, the soldiers and citizens were laid out in a fan around the simple wood-plank altar. Beacon Thomas hadn’t appeared yet, so I turned and looked for James. He should have been behind me, just ahead of the white-robed companions who haunted the very back of the Lighthouse, but I didn’t see him. Jimmy Wayne and Rashid James, officers’ valets just like James, were there, but I couldn’t catch their eye to ask where he was.
Beacon Thomas came out onto the stage below, and a hush spread through the crowd. The soldiers and citizens took their seats on the rows of benches, while us novices and the companions remained standing behind them. We folded our hands before us, our heads slightly bowed.
Beacon Thomas took his copy of
“With these words, I consecrate my life to the Glorious Path,” he recited.
“With these words, I consecrate my life to the Glorious Path,” all of us echoed, beginning the call-and- response opening to service.
“God, lead me to my Path. Let me be a light in the darkness and the rod that falls upon the backs of the defiant. The lives of my brothers and the lives of the Pathless are in my hands. If I allow them to fall into the darkness, then so must I. Their loss is my loss. Their death is my death.”
Once the congregation fell silent, Beacon Thomas set the book down and lit a single candle in the center of the altar.
“There is but one God and he sent us Nathan Hill to light the Path that leads to his kingdom.”
Beacon Thomas continued the service while Beacons Quan and Rozales stalked the aisles, their eyes sharp for the insufficiently reverent. I dropped my head as they passed, my eyes closed tight. Looking distracted during Lighthouse was a ticket to hours of hard labor. Of course, seeming too enthusiastic led to the same thing if a beacon decided you were mocking the service. I had fallen on either side of the line more times than I could count. James was the real master. Over the years he had figured out how to play the game perfectly. Back flawlessly straight, his copy of
Once Quan and Rozales passed, I turned and caught Rashid’s eye. I nodded over to James’s spot, but he shrugged and went back to praying. My stomach sank. There weren’t many reasons why a novice would be allowed to miss Lighthouse.
My hand went to the inhaler in my pocket. One day the previous April, I had returned to the barracks to find James clawing at his chest, nearly purple from lack of oxygen. Had it happened again? Was he at the infirmary? The attendants there wouldn’t know anything about the deal I made with Captain Monroe. They’d just stand there mumbling prayers while James struggled to breathe.
The beacons had now descended to the front of the Lighthouse to help Thomas with the Receiving. The soldiers and citizens stood up and moved toward the central aisle. One by one, Beacon Thomas lifted a lit candle to their foreheads and said a prayer. The novices and companions would follow. If I had a chance, this was it. When the time came for our row to move into the aisle, I pretended to retie my boots, fumbling with the laces because of my cast.
Novices huffed and jostled by me, putting me at the end of our line. I shuffled up the aisle between the rows of companions making for the back entrance. My fingers hit the door handle, and a voice stopped me in my tracks.
“What are you doing, Mr. Roe?”
Beacon Quan stood in the aisle behind me, frowning, his shaved head gleaming in the lantern light.
“I’m, uh…” I mumbled, hoping to buy some time. “I wasn’t feeling well. I thought—”
“You thought you would skip the service and head to the infirmary without informing anyone.”
“No. I mean… I guess I’m a little light-headed.” I held up my cast. “My arm was hurting. I wasn’t thinking. I can—”
“I think you can figure things out while you’re digging latrines tomorrow. Wait here and I’ll get Beacon Rozales.”
Quan passed me and headed down the aisle. My heart pounded, thinking of James in the infirmary, suffering and alone.
I lifted my cast and slammed it into the corner of the pillar next to me. The pain was an explosion that flipped the entire Lighthouse upside down. My knees turned to jelly, and the ground slammed into my side and then into my head. The last thing I saw before passing out was Beacon Quan running up the aisle toward me.
4
I sat up in the infirmary cot, pushing away the third cup of herbal tea a companion had tried to force on me
