The Invasion of the Tearling

Tyler paused at the top of the staircase, looking down at its concentric squares as one would face a mortal enemy. His leg was already throbbing, bright flashes of pain that traveled like a current from hip to toe. He wished he could take the lift, which ran a limited service at night to serve the Holy Father’s level. They might agree to lower him down to the brothers’ quarters. But he would have to wait for the lift to come—the platform was stowed on the lowest floor of the Arvath at night—and if the alarm was raised while he was still on it, he would be stuck, held between floors until Anders’s guards came to take him. No, it would have to be the stairs, and considering the way Tyler’s leg felt at the moment, he wouldn’t get far before he had to hop.

Tyler grimaced, clenched his tongue between his teeth, and started downward, leaning heavily on the handrail. His satchel bounced against his hip with each step, rhythmic drumming that did nothing to help his arthritis. One floor down; he clutched the bag, trying to keep it still, and felt the sharp contours of the wooden box inside.

I am part of God’s great work.

This thought had not crossed his mind in a long time. He thought of the woman, Maya, and felt a wave of sick guilt crash through him. He had left her there, in front of a table full of morphia, to endure whatever punishment Anders might mete out. Two floors down. Now Tyler was hopping in earnest, holding his bad foot suspended in midair and clutching the handrail for dear life, using a tiny leap to propel himself down each step. His good leg was beginning to ache as well now, long-unused muscles threatening to cramp. He didn’t know what would happen if the leg seized before he finished the staircase. Three floors down. Both of his legs bellowed in protest, but he ignored them. Four floors down. The adrenaline had returned now, blessedly, singing all through his bloodstream as he began the final set of stairs, and against all odds, Tyler found himself grinning like a boy. He was a bookkeeper and an ascetic … a year ago, who would have guessed that he would be here, hopping like a bunny rabbit down the stairs? Rounding the second corner of the staircase, he caught a glimpse of slumped shoulders two flights down, a man’s nearly bald head. His grin died in its tracks.

Seth.

Tyler paused, hearing a muffled sound high above. One moment more, and then the silence shattered in a deep thrum of bells. The alarm. Shouts echoed down the staircase, and now Tyler could hear pounding feet several floors up. They had not wanted to wait for the lift either. Tyler began hopping again, rounding the corner to the final flight of stairs. As he came closer, he saw that Seth was asleep but perspiring, his skin waxy in the dim light. Seth was not healing. He was not meant to. Once every priest in the Arvath stopped having nightmares, once Seth had outlived his usefulness, the Holy Father would simply have him removed, as neatly and cleanly as he had removed Tyler’s books. Tyler reached the landing, and now he was confronted by the placard around Seth’s neck: “Abomination.” The word seemed to reach deep into Tyler, opening a broad vista of things that should not be. When God’s Church had sprung up after the Crossing, it had been a hard church, a reflection of its times, but a good church. It did not achieve its ends through hatred, through shame. And now—

“Seth,” Tyler whispered, not knowing that he would speak until the words were out. “Seth, wake up.”

But Seth continued to dream, his lips fluttering in the half-light.

“Seth!”

Seth woke with a jerk and a low cry. He looked up with bleary eyes.

“Ty?”

“It’s me.” Tyler grabbed the placard and pulled it over Seth’s head. Footsteps thundered above them; the Holy Father’s guards could not be more than two floors away now. Tyler threw the placard over the edge of the railing, where it fluttered downward for a moment before disappearing from sight.

“Come on, Seth.” He got an arm around Seth’s waist and pulled him off the stool. Seth hissed in pain, but did not draw away.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.” Tyler pulled him down the hallway. “I can’t carry you, Seth. My leg’s bad. You have to help.”

“I’ll try.” But Seth firmed up his own arm behind Tyler’s back, lending support as the two of them limped along. Tyler’s mouth stretched in a grim smile.

What a pair we make. Old, lame, and mutilated.

But even this bit of gallows humor pricked at his memory, and now Tyler recalled something from his childhood, an illustration from one of Father Alan’s tapestries: Jesus Christ, King of the Jews, on the road to Galilee, leading the blind, helping the lame, offering comfort to the leper. Tyler used to sit and stare for long minutes at that tapestry, the only art in Father Alan’s house that did not depict a God of wrath. The Jesus in the tapestry had been mild and benevolent of face, and though the miserable of the world were crowded around him, he did not turn away.

This is my God, Tyler had realized, and now, hobbling down the high stone hallway more than sixty years later, he felt exalted at the memory. His broken leg buckled beneath him and he thought he would pitch forward, bringing Seth down with him, both of them tumbling over the flagstones until they fetched up against the wall. But then Tyler felt them: invisible hands gripping his legs, bolstering his knee, helping him to run.

“Seth!” he gasped. “Seth! He’s with us!”

Seth gave a choked laugh, his hand clenched tightly on Tyler’s thin ribs. “What, even now?”