Wennton's War

by Fr. Andrew Marr, OSB

One of many cities in the Runwald Mountains is Wennton. Built on a mountain slope, Wennton is surrounded by a rugged gray wall, nine feet thick. Pieces have been cut out of the wall, seemingly at random. Every now and then a fragment of a carving adorning one of the bastions serves as a faint reminder of earlier and better days. One fragment shows a solitary wing, another shows an upraised arm. No carving is intact. If one were so curious as to ask what the carvings meant, a citizen of Wennton will only shrug in reply.

Another curious, but more practical decoration shows itself at each bastion. A long, slender, rounded object sticks up above the wall at regular intervals. This object is hollow so that round pieces of metal can be loaded into it. These pieces of metal have been cleverly designed to explode at a specific time after the ball has been fired. The soldiers and people of Wennton call these objects volcano guns.

The city of Wennton is built as a series of terraces as it slopes up the mountain. At each level there is a wall, complete with bastions, broken statues and volcano guns. As the sun begins to set and the twilight washes the city’s walls, Wennton may appear to be a picture of tranquility. But a closer look is not so tranquil. Many gray houses still stand erect and whole, but others have a roof or a corner missing. There are piles of rubble where once proud houses stood. Hooded dwellers of the city move about the city as if they were mice living in deadly fear of cats lurking in dark corners.

A high-pitched whistle in the air causes the dwellers to scurry faster, and then disappear. The sound grows louder. There is an explosion followed by a burst of fire. In the ensuing silence, smoke floats up into the night sky. A fresh pile of rubble has been formed. No cry of pain breaks the new picture of tranquility. Death is too close a companion to warrant fresh outcries. From one of the ramparts, a quiet order is given. A sharp click follows and a ball of fire rises in the sky in the direction of the city of Bondara.

Any townspeople who had taken cover near the newly-destroyed house soon hear the familiar sound of marching footsteps. The sound grows louder as a small group of men wearing dark gray uniforms appears. Each young man carries a volcano gun over his shoulder. Each face wears the expression of a block of stone. The expressionless faces hide what thoughts might lurk behind them. One of the soldiers, Terrien, wonders if the thoughts floating through his mind and heart are shared by any of the others. He will never learn by asking, for asking the wrong questions leads to punishments that are cautiously whispered about in the barracks.

The officer orders a halt in front of the newly destroyed house. Two battered corpses are threaded through the rubble, a man and a woman. Probably they had been husband and wife who remained united in death. Terrien represses a twinge in his stomach. The Soldier’s Manual reads: “Sympathy is a waste of energy.” The officer barks out another order and all volcano guns aim at the site. Still as statues, but poised for action, the soldiers listen and watch. A moving rock betrays a presence. Volcano guns shift in that direction. As soon as a dark movement becomes visible, the volcano guns fire. Then silence, except for frantic heart beats. Nobody knows if they have hit their quarry or not. The traitors within Wennton are known to be cunning.

Another order rings out and the soldiers return the volcano guns into their slings except for two who are ordered to cover for their comrades. One group of soldiers picks the corpses out of the rubble to take them away to the burial pit. The other group, Terrien among them, searches the rubble for even the smallest scraps of metal. There is little to be found. Terrien uncovers only a small cup. It seems insignificant, but it finds its way under Terrien's shirt. He looks to the side, wishing he could know for sure if any of his comrades had noticed him, or if they had remained absorbed in their search for objects. Terrien was not trying to enrich himself at public expense. On the contrary, handing the cup over to the senior officer would make him richer. He would receive praise from the authorities and might even be promoted. What had happened at that moment was a quiet conversion of heart. At the touch of the cup, a strange feeling had overcome Terrien. He did not know what had happened to him. He only knew that it would break his heart to see the cup thrown into the great furnace that melted down metal for the making of more volcano guns and their shells.

When the senior officer has gathered his charges together after the search, the pile is meager. The officer grunts his disapproval. The soldiers stand at attention for the usual tirade. The words flow as smoothly and harshly as a river of lava pouring down a mountainside. It is the same old liturgy. The soldiers listen in silence. Then the senior officer cries out the name: “Terrien!”

The cup nestled in Terrien's pocket jumps as if it were a live coal. The young man steps forward.

“Terrien! You are the disgrace of your barrack! You will bow down before the others tonight in punishment!” But then, in a whisper, he had other words for Terrien: “At the turn of the street, double back here in secret and find the person who is hiding. I want that person alive.”

Far from being a relief to Terrien, the secret order is a punishment still more severe. The evening punishment at the barracks would give Terrien another drear morning to look forward to. But soldiers left behind to search out fugitives often did not return. This ploy to fool the traitors seemed to be working less often than it once did. Terrien’s heart still ached for Ronsall, one of the few fellow-soldiers who had been a bit friendly with him. Ronsall had never returned from a similar assignment. The traitors in the city were known to be cunning.

The soldiers march away, the tramp of their boots echoing in the streets. All becomes still. Torches lining the streets flicker. One heart is pounding so loudly that all the citizens of Bondara must be able to hear it. It has been years since Terrien was left alone like this. After joining the army, he had always been warmed by the presence of his comrades. Now he was abandoned. Terrien positions himself at one corner of the pile of rubble, as he has been taught in training. Slowly, he begins a sweeping survey of the area, leaving not a square inch unexamined. When he hears a dull sound, Terrien aims his volcano gun in that direction. A gray figure melts into the rubble. Terrien fires. He hits nothing. Visions of dragons and other monsters fill the mind of the young man hunting for a quarry he knows only as a shadow moving in the darkness. The shadow represents the conspiracy the citizens of Wennton knew is seeking to destroy the city from within even while the city of Bondara tries to destroy it from without.

When it happened, there was no cry of pain. It was almost a relief. Two pairs of arms suddenly wrapped themselves around Terrien to restrain the young soldier. A hand covered his mouth. A faint rustling sound signaled the removal of his volcano gun. His back felt lighter, but he was left feeling half-naked. “A volcano gun is a soldier’s third arm,” says the Soldier’s Manual. Gently, Terrien was encouraged to move. New feelings came to life in Terrien as he stumbled over the rubble and the hands kept him from falling, feelings that he scarcely remembered from early childhood. Avoiding the torchlight as much as possible, Terrien’s captors marched him down one street and then another. The enemy seemed to know where the patrols would be. He never saw a fellow soldier during the journey. When they reached another pile of rubble, a captor opened an entrance Terrien would never have detected. Gently, they thrust Terrien into the darkness.

But it was not as dark as Terrien thought. There was a faint light at the end of the tunnel. The floor was rough, but again, the hands that held Terrien made sure he did not fall. He heard the sound of something boiling. Terrien could think only of a witch's brew. In fact, once he was close enough to see, he saw a large black pot heated by a fire. A few footsteps more, and Terrien stumbled into the witch’s room. So the enemies were witches, Terrien thought to himself. But what Terrien saw standing by the cauldron was an old man, and he did wear a witch’s cloak. The old man was dressed in the work clothes of a peasant, but his face showed a liveliness Terrien had never seen before.

When his captors let go of Terrien, he found himself weak in the knees and he had to steady himself. The old man stared into Terrien’s face. Terrien turned his own face into stone, the way he did when his commanding officer looked at him.

“You aren’t very good at hiding yourself,” said the old man.

Terrien heard one of his captors giggle behind his back. It sounded like it might be a woman or even a child. Terrien blushed, but still he tried not to show any no expression on his face. Out of the corner of his eyes, Terrien saw that three hooded people had brought him to this underground place.

“He should be a keeper,” said a hooded man in a voice that Terrien thought was familiar.

“It seems possible,” the old man said solemnly.

Terrien did not want to think of what would happen to him if he should be considered a “keeper.” Even less did he want to thing about what it would mean if he should turn out not to be a “keeper.” His own consolation was that he would make sure he died honorably for his city, even if nobody knew of his sacrifice or gave honor to his memory. Whatever was cooking inside the cauldron continued to bubble furiously. Terrien wondered if perhaps he would be thrown into the pot and eaten by the starving traitors.

“Will you please give us the gift of your name?” the old man asked Terrien.

“Never give your name to the enemy,” states the Soldiers’ Manual. “Your name is a weapon in your hands that will be turned against you in the hands of the enemy.”

So Terrien held his tongue.

“My name is Voradan,” said the old man.

Before he knew it, Terrien had spoken his own name aloud, yet he did not feel that he had lost anything for his act of speech.

After what seemed a long silent period of waiting, his captors removed the hoods of their dark cloaks. Without their cover, they hardly looked like people who should be dangerous for a well-trained soldier. One of them was a woman a bit past middle-aged. The second was a boy of hardly more than ten years. Terrien could scarcely believe that he could allow himself to be captured by the likes of those. The third captor was none other than his missing friend, Ronsall. Torn between relief to see Ronsall alive and afraid that Ronsall had become a traitor to Wennton, Terrien tried to show no emotion. But Ronsall smiled broadly, and before Terrien knew it, Ronsall had a tight grip on Terrien’s hand. After giving it a tight squeeze he let go. That was another shock for Terrien. In the barracks, soldiers never shook hands.

“Good to see you!” Ronsall exclaimed.

“I—thought you were a goner when you didn’t come back,” Terrien stammered.

“I was gone, but I had arrived,” Ronsall replied cheerfully.

Terrien did not understand those words at all, but Ronsall’s cheerful tone of voice and bright face had Terrien thinking that being captured by these people might not be as bad a fate as he feared.

“What have you found besides our new recruit?” Voradan asked the three scavengers.

“These!” cried the boy.

Several metal objects spilled out of ragged pockets and clattered on the floor. Terrien was astonished to see that they had found at least three times as many metal objects than the soldiers had. The old man looked over the scraps eagerly, but then sighed with disappointment. The sound of lively footsteps sounded from down a corridor and a girl broke into the room from another tunnel. Three more children and a young woman followed her into the room. Terrien’s heart flipped over when he saw her. The hard life in the barracks had almost made him forget there were women in the city. But quickly Terrien stiffened his face. Pretty as the woman was, she had joined the traitors who were undermining everything he had done for Wennton the past two years.

“Did you get it?” the girl asked, as she practically stuck her nose into the pile.

The old man shook his head sadly.

“We may have to wait another night, maybe another moon.” They all groaned. “But one thing time has taught us is patience.”

“It has not!” exclaimed the boy who had been one of Terrien's captors.

Voradan looked at the boy gently. In the boy’s lively face, all mischief and fiery devotion, Terrien saw a ghost of the boy he once was, but had forgotten since joining the army.

“I realize that nothing teaches you patience, Moravan.”

The children stared at Terrien as if he were an exhibit while the old man sorted out the metal scraps into different piles. When he had finished, Moravan picked up one of the piles and heaved it into the pot. Terrien cried out when a few drops of the boiling liquid splattered him. The attractive woman let out a cry of concern. But more painful to him was the thought of the hidden cup. What if the traitors should search him and find it? If they did find it, whatever death he should die for Wennton would be in vain.

“Your impatience hurts others besides yourself, Moravan,” the old man reproved the boy.

Moravan’s face flushed with shame.

“I'm sorry.”

“There is something you can do,” said Voradan.

The boy nodded, and he let the older woman put a small jar into the palm of his hand. Then he took Terrien's hand where the liquid had struck him and applied a soothing salve to the wound. The scar remained, but the pain was diminishing already. No question about it, Terrien mused, life was strange in this place. In the barracks, if a soldier got hurt, he treated himself, if he could. “Your body’s strength belongs to the city; your wounds belong to you alone,” says the soldier’s manual.

“Are we going to show him—the . . .” a girl started to ask.

The old man pondered the question without looking at Terrien.

“We could consider the matter, Nidria. What do you think, Ronsall?”

Terrien tried as hard as he could, once more, to turn his face into a mask. Perhaps he had a chance to gain secret information that his superiors needed to know. But would he have a chance to escape afterwards? Would he want to escape?

“I think we should explain ourselves,” said Ronsall. “Terrien may well prove to have more heart for our project than for his former role in the war.”

“The officers seem to know the right people to put into our hands,” said the old woman with a shrewd smile, “and they don't even know what they are doing.”

“Very well, Sernadra,” said Voradan. “And what do you think, Lyriana?” the old man asked the young woman.

“We must give him a chance,” she said. with some feeling.

Terrien could hardly believe that Lyriana would be interested in him so quickly, but he dared not give up hope, either.

“We can give our new friend the test.”

“Don't worry,” Moravan whispered in Terrien's ear. “It won't hurt.”

“First, can you bear to throw your volcano gun into the cauldron before you?” Voradan asked Terrian as Ronsall held out the weapon he had taken during the capture.

“What will—our officers say?” Terrien stammered.

“Same thing they'll say to me if they ever find me,” Ronsall smugly.

“I see.”

The request went against everything that had been drilled into Terrien the past two years. “To lose or break your volcano gun is to lose or break both of your arms,” says the army manual. But as he looked about at his new companions, Terrien began to understand what was so different about them. To his astonishment, all of them had real faces. It wasn’t just that Lyriana was pretty. Neither she, nor any of the others were trying to hide what lay behind their eyes. He had never known what it was like to look at a human face before. He decided that he would rather live with these people than keep his volcano gun and return to the soldiers who had left him on what they thought would be a fatal mission. He nodded and took the weapon from Ronsall.

Sernadra gently led Terrien up to the cauldron. When he looked over the rim, he saw a swirl of many colors bubbling below him. With so much gray in the city, Terrien did not even have names for many of the colors he saw. Each colorful bubble rose to the surface as if it wanted to fly away and be free, only to burst and fall back into the strange mixture. After having looked inside the cauldron, Terrien knew his life would never be the same again. Suddenly, Terrien felt that the war, and his part in it, had robbed him of his life. The traitors to the city, if they were traitors, waited for Terrien to make his move. They made no attempt to conceal the eagerness on their faces. Even then, it was hard for Terrien to let go of his volcano gun. For over two years it had been the only friend he had, lifeless as it was. His mother had been so proud when she saw her son show off his uniform and volcano gun for the first time. Now her body was deep in the burial pit, a casualty of the war. “No cost is too high to pay when a deed must be done,” says the army manual. Knowing that those words had suddenly taken on a very different meaning than that intended by the officers who wrote the manual, Terrien gently dropped the gun into the swirl of colors. The weapon disappeared in a new explosion of color that left Terrien breathless.

“Did you see that!” Moravan cried. “His heart isn’t doing so bad.”

“Yes, I think we all saw that,” said Voradan.

“He means your heart is pretty good, but he doesn’t like to admit it,” Nidria whispered in Terrien’s ear.

“Terrien,” said Sernadra, “what do you think of the brew you just saw inside the cauldron?”

“Uh—it’s so beautiful,” Terrien murmured.

“But is it beautiful enough?” Lyriana prompted.

“I—don't know,” Terrien stammered.

“Should we tell him?” Moravan asked with all the smugness he could muster.

“Why don’t you give him a hint?” suggested Nidria.

“Okay,” said Moravan. “What did you see in the cauldron?”

“Colors. Beautiful colors,” answered Terrien.

Moravan made a mocking face.

“Moravan doesn’t know how to give you a very good hint,” said Nidria. She ignored Moravan when he stuck out his tongue at her. “He means that the colors in the cauldron are supposed to be somethings, so he means: did you see any somethings in the cauldron?”

“Bubbles,” Terrien answered.

Everybody laughed in a way that made Terrien feel accepted.

“You speak truly,” said Voradan. “We have the colors, but we lack the shape to give them life. I will say more about this when the rest of the community is assembled.”

The old man and his assorted followers led Terrien through corridors and down steps cut out of stone. Lyriana slipped a hand into his. Terrien could hardly believe that she would want him. Nidria and Moravan seemed to be making a point of keeping themselves under foot of Terrien and Lyriana. The hidden cup rubbed against his thigh with each step. As long as he had the cup, he had not lost everything.

“Did you come here when your houses were destroyed?” asked Terrien, hoping to ease the tension with some conversation.

“Yes, many of us did,” said the old woman.

“And there are other ways for a house to get busted,” said Moravan.

The boy's wry smile suggested to Terrien that Moravan had a sad story he would hear some day.

“We wanted more than a place to live in,” said Lyriana. “That's why we came here.”

“How did you know this place was here?” asked Terrien.

“The right people seem to find it,” said Ronsall.

When he was led around a corner, Terrien found that the corridor was lined with shelves filled with old books. He had never before seen more than two or three books in the same place. The army manual was the only book he had been allowed to possess and read once he became a soldier. As far as he knew, no books had been written in Wennton since the war began.

“What are all these books for?” asked Terrien.

“These books contain the stories that will keep this city alive,” answered Voradan. “If the war destroys our stories, we will have lost the war. We are seeking to bring one of the ancient stories to life before it is too late.”

The old man led the small group around yet another corner and into a large room filled with an assortment of old furniture. Several people of all ages were lounging about and talking softly among themselves. All conversation stopped when the group entered. All eyes focused on Terrien. They seemed to be as friendly as they were curious, or so Terrien hoped. In the corner, an adolescent girl lay on a pallet while a young woman put compresses on fresh wounds on her shoulder. Ronsall went over to the corner, planted a kiss on the nurse’s face, then stooped down to take the girl’s hands in his.

“Are they—okay?” the girl asked feebly.

When it was clear that Ronsall couldn’t answer, the girl broke into sobs.

“I’m so sorry,” said Ronsall softly.

“Did the—the soldiers. . .”

”I’m sorry. We only had enough people to bring you to safety,” Ronsall explained.

By this time, Terrien had guessed that the two people killed by the bomb from Bondara were the girl’s parents. Nidria was on the verge of tears herself, and Moravan looked more solemn than a boy his age should have to be. One other sight near the far wall caught Terrien’s attention. It was a statue of a woman with outstretched arms and broad wings rising from her shoulders. One of the hands was missing. Upon a closer look, Terrien could see several cracks that suggested that the statue had been pieced together from fragments. The thought that the city had once been filled with such statues put a lump in Terrien’s throat. Lyriana gave Terrien’s hand a short squeeze. She seemed to understand was he was thinking.

The old man seated himself in what was obviously his chair, near the statue. Several children jostled with each other to be the closest ones to his feet. When Nidria and Moravan lost the battle for position, they settled for leaning up against Lyriana and Terrien once they were seated on a couch with half its stuffing sticking out. The old man remained silent for some time while a few more people gathered. Terrien was startled when he recognized Murdoch, the tailor who had once lived across the street from him. Terrien had often feared to come near the man because of his temper, but he had worn out many pairs of shoes made by Murdoch.

“The most ancient story of Wennton is the story of the Butterfly,” Voradan began. “It is said and it is written that our people came from the West. Once they were prosperous. But during the years of plenty, they used up all the fruit of the fields and all of the water in their wells. As a result, they became poor. They fought more and more over less and less food. At last, one group left the land in the West to seek food and water elsewhere. They traveled until they reached the Runwald Mountains. Taking a liking to the beautiful mountain range, and an even greater liking to the mountain streams that ran freely in old times, they decided to settle here, on the slope of this mountain.

As it happened, another group of people had come from the East in search of food and water and found it on the slope of a nearby mountain. Fearing they would lose what they had gained, the people from the East tried to drive out the new settlers from the West. In those days, our people could not fight. They could only tell stories. So they hid in the cave where we find ourselves today. Inside those caves, they told the story of the Butterfly. As they told the story, a cocoon formed around our people and they fell asleep. The enemies looked for the new settlers, but could not find them.

“When the sleep of our people came to an end, they broke out of the cocoon and discovered that each of them had grown a pair of beautiful butterfly wings. They could fly! What a glorious sight it must have been to see our people flying all over the mountain slope as they built the city, for each pair of wings sported a different pattern of colors! But then we let evil days come our way yet again. We remembered, in the wrong way, the people who had attacked us. Some wanted to fly over and teach them how to grow wings and fly, but many more of our people wanted to make weapons and fly over to the next mountain and attack them. And so they did. But each time anyone from our town flew to the next mountain with weapons, his wings grew smaller. And not his wings only. The wings of everybody in our city grew smaller each time anyone from our town used the gift of wings to harm another. Soon tension grew within our city as well. People would fly from house to house for the purpose of injuring a neighbor! Again, each time a citizen flew from one house to another to harm someone, the wings of every citizen of this city became smaller. As the years passed, the sons and daughters of our people were born with wings so small that they could not fly at all. These sons and daughters with the stunted wings invented the first volcano guns so that they could continue to attack the city on the next mountain. Before long, our children were born with no wings at all.”

All heads, including Terrien's bowed with shame at the end of the story.

“Will we every fly again?” asked a small girl who had an arm wrapped around Voradan’s knee.

“We lost the wings we had because our hearts strayed from the direction in which the wings would have us go,” said Sernadra. “And we will fly again when our hearts return strongly enough to the right Way.”

“Are we turning our hearts the way we should?” asked Moravan.

“Little by little we are.”

“And does it help that we have a new keeper?”

Terrien flushed when everybody looked at him. He could hardly believe that he had expected to be killed by this group of people whom he had taken to be traitors. Lyriana slid her hand up to one shoulder and then across to the other.

“Even you were a keeper,” said Nidria to Moravan.

“Where are our hearts going now?” Sernadra asked, with a raised hand that shut up the squabbling children.

“But the story is not over yet,” said Voradan. “The story is never over. The metal thrown into the cauldron with a good heart is giving us the color and the strength for the new Butterfly. Only one thing is still lacking. In the old days, when we could still fly, there was a craftsman who could make a cup with the design of a butterfly on the outside and the life of a butterfly inside. When all else was lost, only these few butterfly cups preserved a butterfly's life. But as years passed, very few knew what they had. The cups began to disappear. When we started our new work, we could not find a cup anywhere.”

The wounded girl on her pallet let out a cry. All heads turned in her direction. Terrien could have sworn that the cup in his pocket jumped at the words of the old man. His imagination must be playing tricks on him.

“What is it my dear?” Sernadra asked the girl.

“I—I think—I think we had a—a butterfly cup!” she stammered.

“Where?” Ronsall gasped.

“In our house. If only—if only we’d known what it was! And now our house has been destroyed.”

“But we never found it!” Moravan cried out in frustration. “How could I have missed it?”

“The soldiers must have gotten it!?” exclaimed Nidria.

Suddenly, the room was in an uproar. Moravan boisterously insisted on leading an expedition back to the site, permission or no permission. Terrien now knew what he had and his heart knew what to do with it. He picked his way through the crowd to the front of the room. Gradually all became quiet as Terrien stood in front of Voradan and reached into his pocket. As the mouths of all opened in astonishment, the small cup floated out of Terrien’s hand. There were no loud cheers. The joy was too deep. The butterfly cup floated out of Terrien’s hand and winged its way toward the corridor Terrien had just been led through a short time ago. Nidria and Moravan and the other children ran with the cup while the others followed at a slower but eager pace. Ronsall brought up the rear, carrying the injured girl in his arms. The butterfly cup hovered over the cauldron until everybody had reached it and then it dropped itself into the colorful liquid with hardly a splash. The explosion melted the cauldron and gently rocked all of Wennton.

--------------------

Dawn was breaking. The soldiers guarding the ramparts at each level of the city were on the alert. Dawn was a time when the enemy sent a missile. Margan watched his companions, Partek and Skandor with the same suspicion with which he eyed the emerging light. He knew that the two soldiers under him did not to have the disciplined awareness a soldier should have. As a little light, and then a little more, filtered over the mountain and down to the city, the gray walls looked clean. A hooded figure on one street and then another figure on the next street began to emerge. As these people went about their business, their heads bobbed upwards nervously, scanning the sky for signs of attack.

A soft buzzing, humming sound emerged into the morning air. Every volcano gun was cocked, but many faces showed puzzlement. The sound was not the familiar whistle of a fireball coming from Bondara. The sound was both too soft and too near, and the sound was changing continuously. Many could make no sense of it. Others found themselves humming, whistling, or singing along with it. When Margan heard Partek and Skandor hum along with the sound, he fidgeted nervously and waved for silence. His subordinates put their hands over their mouths, and turned away.

Then the rising sun caught a flicker of light floating above the ruins of the city. Every volcano gun was aimed at the spread of color opening in the sky even before any commanding officer gave the order. The cloud of color took shape as a large pair of wings fluttering in time with the sounds that circulated through the city more insistently than ever. Some hoods were drawn back to reveal faces brightening at the strange new sight. Other hooded figures sank into hiding places in the walls and turned away. Partek and Skandor started to lower their guns until Margan ordered them to resume their proper positions for defending the city of Wennton from attack.

On one pile of rubble, Terrien watched the sky with Lyriana. Moravan and Nidria chased each other around the pile and looked up every few seconds. The company had split up into small groups to see what they had done from many different angles. But Terrien still felt as close to Voradan, Sernadra and all the others as he did to Lyriana and the two children with him. When they heard the soft buzzing hum, they all broke out into smiles. Then the Butterfly appeared above them! Terrien and Lyriana tightened their holds on each other’s hands. Moravan and Nidria jumped up and down and let out whoops of joy. But then they became strangely quiet and sat down near Terrien and Lyriana to watch.

As the flying object of many colors hovered over the city, people scurried in all directions. There were excited whisperings that pulled more people out of doors to see what had happened. More voices joined into the strange song and other voices asked fearful questions as to what this new thing should mean. The heavy sound of soldiers’ boots echoed about the city and the percussive sound of orders barked in harsh tones punctuated the buzzing hum and the singing of a few people. As each order snapped like a rifle shot, the sound of heavy running footsteps followed.

Partek and Skandor were on edge by the time one of the messengers ran along their rampart and stopped to speak to each commanding officer on the way. At last, the messenger reached their own station and whispered into Margan's ear. The officer grunted and the messenger was gone.

“General Headquarters has determined that we are confronted with a new and ingenious bomb that is set to explode,” Margan announced to his subordinates. “It was either sent from Bondara during the night or the subversives within our own city have made it to destroy us all. Re-aim your guns and, at the crack of the General's gun, fire at the bomb.”

Partek and Skandor said nothing. They did as they were told, no matter how much their hands shook. “Shaking hands and shaking limbs are not signs that a soldier should turn away from a job,” says the Soldier’s Manual. “They are signs that a tightening of the heart is necessary for the job.” But the Soldier’s Manual has nothing to say about what to do if a soldier is overcome with the impulse to sing while the limbs shake. Only the hard face of Margan prevented Partek and Skandor from singing what their hearts encouraged them to sing. They tried to tighten their hearts as they aimed their volcano guns at the multi-colored winged creature above them, but their hearts were unraveling. The explosion was spectacular. The roar of the guns drowned out the soft sounds of song. A riot of fire and colors spread over the city like an umbrella, then quickly dissipated.

Voradan and Sernadra could feel nothing. The glow in their hearts went out as quickly as a candle's flame in the wind. There was nothing left inside them for tears. Quietly, they picked their way back to the tunnel. The wounded girl, whose hopes had been so high just seconds ago, fainted into the arms of Ronsall, who eased her down to her pallet. The woman who was nursing the girl pulled out some smelling salts from her pocket. Elsewhere, Moravan and Nidria cried with all the uncontrollable energy of children. Lyriana had such a tight grip around his arm that she was cutting off his circulation. Terrien wanted to be rid of them all so that he could savor his grief alone, but he knew he could not break away from them.

The drops of color were so small that nobody thought anything of them. They were surely as inconsequential as snowflakes that melted when they touched the ground. There were some people, though, who wondered why they were still singing to themselves as the small pieces of swirling color landed in their hair, on their shoulders, or on their hands. Some screamed in pain, and others cried out with of delight. The scraps of debris burned some and warmed others. Many soldiers rushed through the streets carrying victims on stretchers. When Margan was carried away, Partek and Skandor sighed with relief. The officer's cries had grated harshly on their ears. Now they were free to sing again with the sound that filled the morning while the colors fluttered about them.

Back in the underground shelter, Voradan felt as empty as a desert. To him, Sernadra was a neighboring desert. No words, no gestures from anyone would ever console him. He would never be able to look at the sky again.

“Why do none of them return?” asked Voradan.

“What is there to return to?” asked Sernadra.

“If even one of them could come and. . .”

”And what? Could the sorrow of any of them lighten our own?”

Voradan shook his head and plunged his face into his hands. The old couple remained as still as if they had been turned to stone. Even when they heard the sound of running feet, they did not stir.

“Voradan! Voradan!” cried a pair of childish voices.

The old man toppled over when the human cannonballs ran into him, but he regained his balance.

“Look, Voradan!”

His eyes opened with a blank look. The names of Moravan and Nidria entered his mind, but the smiles on the children’s faces meant nothing to him. Then he saw what they were crying out about. In the hands of each child was a tiny butterfly flexing its colorful wings. The butterflies' songs reached his ears and entered his heart. Then Terrien and Lyriana followed the children with butterflies circling about their heads.