later, when Mom was down at the stream washing and Dad
was chopping wood. I went to see Lutha.
“I didn’t knock at the door, because her parents were
probably just as mad at her as mine were at me. Instead, I
went around back and looked in the bedroom window.
Lutha was in there and she was shivering real bad. And her
face was real red. That was the first time I saw the sickness
on somebody. Lutha was the first. . . .”
Gylar tossed a twig into the fire. “I didn’t see Lutha
again.” He wiped his nose. “The day after that, it was the
talk of the village. Lutha had died of a strange sickness.
Then her parents died. No one knew how to stop the
sickness. Everybody went into their houses and didn’t come
out, but it didn’t matter. I’m not sure who died after that,
because Dad closed us up in our house, too. When Rahf
died, my little brother, Mom said it didn’t matter anymore
that we stayed in the house.”
Gylar sighed again. “It was awful. Hardly anyone was
alive in the village when we came out. We went from door
to door, looking for people. Everyone was in their beds,
shaking with the fever or already dead. I wanted to leave.
Since we hadn’t caught it yet, I told Mom we should run
away from it. She shook her head and didn’t answer me.
We helped those who had it. We took care of them, but it
didn’t matter, just like staying in the house didn’t matter
anymore. They were going to die, but Mom said we could
help them. I know now she didn’t mean help them live, but
help them to die better. I guess . . .
“Then Dad died.” Gylar’s voice was subdued. He shook
his head; his cheeks were wet. “He went just like everyone
else, shivering but so hot. I didn’t want. . .”
His eyes focused again on Marakion. “He was one of the
last ones to go, then it was my mother. When she died, I felt
so alone, so alone and numb. I could touch something, like
the blanket, or – or her hand, and I wouldn’t really feel it. I
had to go. I had to get out.”
Gylar looked intently at Marakion. “Why did the gods
do it, sir? I just don’t understand. Why did they have to kill
so many people? It doesn’t make sense. We didn’t do
anything! We just lived. We worshiped Paladine. But Krynn
was still cracked, and then the new marsh rose and Lutha
caught the sickness and now everyone . . . everyone I ever
knew is dead.” He bowed his head.
Then his mouth set defiantly and his brows came
together in anger. “And so I’m going to ask them. I want
them to answer just one question. Why? Why did they do it
to everyone? What did we do wrong?”
Marakion smiled. “Supposing the gods even respond,
they might drop another mountain on you.”
“I don’t care,” Gylar said petulantly, gathering his
blanket around him and resting his head on his pack. “I
don’t care if they do. If they do, they don’t care about us and
it won’t matter. But. . . but I will ask.” He yawned. “I will
ask HIM . . . Paladine.”
Gylar fell asleep. Marakion gazed at the young face.
The flame’s light played off the round, boyish features that
would not fade for several years yet. Marakion sighed aloud
this time. Watching the boy tell his story, the knight had
realized Gylar was indeed no marauder’s lackey. He actually
was what he claimed: a simple country boy in search of
divine answers.
Gylar’s story made Marakion think of all the things he’d
lost because of the Cataclysm. If the gods had not dropped
the fiery mountain, his home would not have been attacked.
“You’re right, Gylar,” he said to the sleeping boy.
“Paladine should be confronted, asked . . .” Marakion’s iron
doors creaked open. “So much like Tagor,” he said to
himself. “A victim, like Tagor. I wonder what will happen
to you?”
Flames and smoke danced in the fire inside his head.
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