Chapter Three: The Embassy
(Mid-chapter: Entering the Embassy)
“First, we check in at the registry, and
then I’ll take you to meet my father,” Lottie began. “He’ll need our help.”
They walked a few steps to a desk where a white-haired woman sat,
knitting with red yarn.
“Good morning, Lottie,” the woman began. “Where have you been
the past day or so?”
“Tending to our houseguest, ma’am,” Lottie said.
“Flynn, I’m pleased to introduce you to Mr. Reilly McNamara.”
The woman rested her knitting on her lap and reached a hand
over the desk.
“Hello,” Reilly said, shaking her fragile hand.
“Aye, what a fine young fellow, Lottie.” The woman winked at
Lottie and turned back to Reilly. “And where do you come from, Mr. McNamara?
That name typically comes from the west part of Ireland. Haven’t heard it in a while.”
Lottie interrupted. “That’s right. He is from west of here. On the far coast, actually.” Lottie glanced
at Reilly, who nodded in agreement. She picked up a quill and
wrote in the registry.
Reilly peered at the book and noted that Lottie had signed
both of their names, written in the date and time—July 8, 1896: 11:15 a.m
“Welcome to Wicklow,” the woman smiled. “It’s too bad your
visit is at a time when our village is under attack. And yet, the Deceptors are
always near.” She shook her head and murmured
something as she picked up her needles and continued to knit.
Lottie reached into a basket at the edge of the table and
pulled out something red. “Here, put these wristbands on,” she said, handing
Reilly two knitted bands the size of a dress-shirt cuff. She looped
one around each of her hands, and nodded for Reilly to follow her. He placed a
band on his right wrist. Then he slid his left hand through the knitted band
and placed it a little higher on his arm, so it wouldn’t cover the golden
Thread of Gratitude he’d received from Flavio Xanthipee in Zora.
The old woman mumbled about Deceptors as they walked away.
Reilly tugged at the golden thread.
The building was not as magnificent on the inside as the
jade exterior. They walked down a long, windowless corridor with many closed
doors on both sides. Reilly presumed they must be offices,
but he didn’t ask. A pungent odor he almost recognized made his nose twitch. It reminded him of the Arbutus tea Lottie had given him, but
also a mixture of other unusual plants or herbs. At the end of the hallway,
they came to a steeply ascending stairwell with steps made of
uneven granite rocks.
“The magistrate’s office is on the second floor,” Lottie
said. “My father will be pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Uh … great,” Reilly said hesitantly.
They climbed the stone steps, one hundred in all, which switchbacked
four times until it opened into a cavernous room. Dozens of people worked
busily at long tables, shuffling papers or stuffing envelopes.
Every person wore red knitted wristbands.
“What are these for?” Reilly asked Lottie, tugging
slightly at one of his bands.
“It’s my dad’s campaign color.” She scanned the room and
nodded at red banners and posters draped on the walls to make her point. “And we wear them for protection from Deceptors.”
“Okay, but …”
He still didn’t understand the purpose of the knitted wristbands,
but she interrupted him.
“When a magistrate is
up for re-election, his color is always red. It’s the color of victory.”
“Hmm …” He remembered going through another portal, to
Bozka, where Aka-ula told him red was the color of love, but also the color of
war. He decided to not press her further about
the wristbands. He would ask her about them
later. “How long has your dad been a magistrate?”
“Each term is for five years, and he’s served three
terms already.”
“Since you were a baby?”
“It's been his profession my entire life. I don’t know
anything different.” Lottie waved and smiled at people as she and Reilly walked
toward the end of the room. “When the Deceptors are in full force, and
when Crumbles happen frequently—and during election time—it’s vital
that we protect our wrists.”
Reilly raised his brow. Lottie stopped to look directly at
him.
“During campaign time, anyone at the Embassy could be at risk of being taken by the Deceptors from
here. People
tend to become divided rather than united when they differ on policy or
strategy. So while we’re here, we wear the bands as a reminder
to be on guard.”
Reilly watched Lottie crisscross her hands to clasp both
wrists. Why do the wrists need to be
protected? He wondered, but shuddered with the possibilities and decided he
didn’t really want to know the answer—at least not then.
“My parents and Dillon are over there, at the main Vantage
Post.” Lottie grabbed Reilly’s hand, pulling him forward. They walked quickly
to the far end of the room, where a wall of open-air windows revealed
a panoramic view of the rustic countryside. Six white marble
pedestals, each with a brass telescope securely anchored to it, lined the giant
windows like miniature cannons. Three of them were in use.
“We’re here,” Lottie announced.
Lottie’s mom turned around first. “Oh, yes, my dears!” She
walked toward Reilly with outstretched arms and hugged him tightly. “You look
much better after your long rest.” After releasing him, she turned to her
husband. “Quin, here is the lad.”
“Lad? I should say not,” Quin said, shaking Reilly’s hand
vigorously. “He’s nearly a man, no doubt.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Aye. And this is my son, Dillon.” Dillon barely stepped
away from his telescope and nodded briefly, pulling a
strand of oily reddish hair from his cheek.
“What’s it like in The Library?” Dillon blurted, with a warm smile that revealed two buckteeth.
“Dillon!” scolded Brigid. “Not now!” Dillon’s smiled vanished.
“Yes,” Quin agreed. “The man surely does not want
to remember his suffering more than is necessary.”
“Well, actually, I didn’t really—”
“No, no. Not here, not now,” Quin insisted. “But if you’re
willing, we could use your help. With so many details of the campaign still
underway, it’s difficult to keep the Vantage Post fully staffed.”
“Of course, I’d be happy to help. What are we looking for?”
Reilly stepped to one of the telescopes and ran his fingers across the smooth
brass.
“Patterns. Any pattern that would indicate a Crumble is
beginning,” Quin said. He stepped up to the telescope Reilly was touching.
“From the Vantage Post, we have a complete view of Wicklow, and
all the roads coming in and going out. We survey for unwelcome
intruders entering our territory.”
“Like Deceptors?” Reilly asked.
“Yes, but they usually
appear in disguise. They rarely reveal their truest
self.” Quin adjusted the focus. “In any event,
the most effective way to prevent Deceptors from attacking, and avoid
an imminent Crumble, is to strengthen the homes’ aura.”
Still not understanding, Reilly barely smiled then shook his
head.
“A Crumble is when a tree home is completely destroyed by
the Deceptors, ususally in disguise,” Lottie
tried to explain. “They chop away a little at a time with their silent saws and
axes, often without the family members even knowing. The trunk gets
so weak and narrow from all the chopping that it can’t support the home,
and it crumbles to the ground. Anyone from the home who has not already been
captured must run for their lives and find shelter elsewhere. The Deceptors
take the fallen wood from the Crumbles and burn it at their great bonfire. Or
make their prisoners carry it.”
“Why?” Reilly asked. “Where?”
“The bonfire burns on the Cliffs of Black Castle of Wicklow,
just beyond the far glen. We can see the flames from our scopes, but we can’t
get close enough to save those who are led into captivity,” Quin continued. “As
I said, the best way to prevent a Crumble is to strengthen the aura above each
home. Look here.” He stepped to the nearest telescope, adjusted the focus bar
as he looked into it, and motioned for Reilly to take a look. “Notice the
patterns in the aura above that home. There’s a lot of white and soft yellow,
indicating stability. But see the deep orange on the outer edges?
That means someone in the home is at risk. It
begins with some form of disrespect for others or with dishonesty. When
the colors blend to crimson, a Crumble has already begun. We keep a close watch
on every home, making notations in the log of any changes or patterns.”
Reilly stepped back from the telescope and looked first at
Quin, then at Lottie. His mind raced with possible conditions that might put
one of their homes at risk of a Crumble: lying, cheating, stealing, abuse, or other secrets. He
wondered if homes in the 21st century had auras, too, considering
the fact that with a click of a button or a tap on an electronic device,
filth and violence invades almost every home. He
realized millions of people might be living secret lives of deception and
despair. Reilly couldn’t imagine a force or shield of any kind that would be strong enough to
protect against human dysfunction like that.
“When the colors get muddy and you can’t
distinguish one from another, it’s too late,” Lottie said. “By then,
the best we can do is to warn the family to get out safely, if they choose.
Some refuse to believe the strength of their aura has diminished,
and they get captured.”
“Stubbornness runs deep,” Quin added, shaking his head.
“Where are they taken?” Reilly held his hands to his
stomach.
“To the bonfire, carrying the tree limbs from their own
homes. Every Crumble contributes fuel to the Deceptors’ black, billowing aura,”
Lottie continued. “It’s a dreadful sight from the Vantage Post.”
“But why would anyone give up their home to join the
Deceptors? That doesn’t make sense.” Reilly looked to Quin and Brigid, then
back to Lottie.
“Now, now, dearie, remember you have been through quite an
ordeal yourself.” Brigid stepped closer to Reilly and patted
his arm. “The fact that you escaped from The Library is more than commendable.”
Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “We’ve never personally known anyone
who has done so, and lived to tell about it.”
“But I—”
“Enough!” Quin asserted. “This is not the time or place.
Meanwhile the telescopes are unattended to.”
Why won’t anyone let
me talk about the library? Reilly wondered.
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