Samuel paused. It was as if he’d forgotten everything. He’d watched his father perform the rites a hundred times over, but this time was different. This time, he was the one holding the knife. He knew he was supposed to read a passage, but he didn’t have the scriptures with him. He closed his eyes.
“What am I supposed to do?”
He waited for a voice, or at least some sort of inward reassurance he wasn’t speaking to nothing. But nothing came. Samuel opened his eyes.
The old butcher.
The verse came back to him. He dribbled the blood over his father’s grave before folding his hands together.
“‘For Azhuel will draw out your flesh and pain, and in Him you will grow again, connected to His roots. In Him, there is always life.’ Azhuel, lord of all, I ask that your roots would wrap around my father. Draw him back into you. Give him peace. Please. Just give him peace now.”
Samuel rested the side of his head on the passenger window. His bandaged hand clutched the strap of his backpack. They made their way past the neighborhoods and over the railroad tracks. The sheriff edged the jeep up to the cabin, parking near the front of the wooden shed. He petted his mustache, and his glazed eyes stared at Samuel through the front mirror.
“Don’t do this.”
Samuel picked his head up. Charles was leaning over the center console, his slicked-back hair glistening. “I could drive you to another town. Somewhere you’d be safe. I’ll even take you to the border if that’s what you want. Let me help you.”
Samuel looked away, watching through the window. The limbs from the pine trees danced in the breeze, their piney branches swaying. He couldn’t hear their rustling over the rumbling engine.
“I have to do this alone.”
“No, you don’t,” Charles said authoritatively. It sounded forced. “You’re not some martyr, you know.”
Samuel didn’t answer.
Charles tapped Samuel’s leg. They looked into each other’s eyes. Heat rose in Samuel’s chest, but he kept a hard face. He couldn’t admit it to himself before, but he could now. He loved Charles as much as he loved Claudette and Zei. He loved things he couldn’t have.
“Charles.”
“I’m the mayor of Haid. I can protect you. You’d be safest with me. Don’t you see that? The dumb citizens will get over their stupid ideas about you. Just give it time. I can have a dozen patrolmen guarding you at all times. At least until things calm down.”
“No,” the sheriff said abruptly. “You’re not about to ask that of my men. Or me. Everyone’s already spooked after what happened. I’m trying to maintain trust and respect. You know that can’t happen with him still around here, mayor.”
Charles let out a groan. He pointed to Samuel’s leg. “What about that wound? You’re still hobbling. We’re just supposed to drop you off and let you stagger out of town like that? What about that butcher girl? You going to leave her too?”
Samuel reached for the door’s handle. He didn’t want to argue.
“Let him be,” the sheriff said calmly. He gave a nod in the direction of the mirror. “Don’t be soft, Samuel. Stay alive.”
“Thank you,” Samuel said.
“You’re family,” the sheriff said with a mumble. “No need to say thanks. Get your ass out of my jeep.”
Charles sank into the seat, crossing his arms. “You’ll come back,” he said stubbornly. “You’ll have to come back. When everything settles down. Promise me, Sam. You will come back.”
Samuel gave a reluctant nod before hopping out of the jeep. It was best for him to do nothing and not to look back. The groan of the engine faded as Samuel opened the front door to the cabin. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the cabin’s darkness. He went to the fireplace and started a fresh fire, the flames illuminating the room. He tossed his backpack to the ground, reacclimating himself with the place that had been his home for so long. He went to the kitchen and grazed the counter with his fingers. The place smelled the same, like burnt wood and herbal spices. He got on his tiptoes and rummaged through the high cabinets, finding the canister of his father’s tealeaves. He brewed himself a cup, the smell permeating his nostrils. He sat down by his father’s desk, staring at the old photograph of his mother. Her dark eyes radiated through her thick-framed glasses.
Samuel rubbed the photograph with his thumb. If only his father had lived a different life. He could’ve grown up knowing a mother’s touch. He could’ve experienced a softer side of his father, one that wasn’t plagued by guilt and regret.
Samuel winced. His breathing stopped for a moment as he waited for the pain to dull. The burned mark on his arm reminded him he couldn’t escape the roots. As hard as he tried to forget, his father’s words would always be with him, pushing him, tormenting him, guiding him. He would rather nurse his doubts and curse his father’s faith as misguided. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know if he could ever be sure if there was some benevolent being watching over humanity. He didn’t know if there was such a thing as life after death. Even so, Samuel hoped against hope that his father’s soul would be forever connected to Azhuel’s roots, that he would rest alongside his mother, and that they both could lie together in peace the way they never could in life.
Samuel’s breaths were constricted. There was a constant weight pressing on his chest that he couldn’t keep ignoring. He hated himself. He was a liar. A coward. And now, a murderer. He was the reason why Claudette’s father was dead. He should’ve stopped Zei, but he didn’t. He was the reason why his father was dead, because he sent him off into a trap. He was the one who slit the mayor’s throat. The citizens weren’t wrong in their resentment of Samuel. He was the reason so many of them had died. He was the reason Claudette would cry herself to sleep for nights on end.
Samuel propped his chin and saw the leather-bound scriptures resting on the opposite end of the desk. He grabbed the book and slid it closer. There was something tucked inside of the scriptures that bulked up the pages. He opened the book and saw the throwing knife he’d given to his father after Wilkens’s funeral. The knife was tucked into the spine.
He carefully lifted the knife and began to read.
The wind rapped against the outside walls, and the wooden planks creaked along with every rhythmic gust. Night had come. Samuel jabbed the smoldering embers with the poker. He scooted back and pulled the ends of the woolly blanket over his shoulders. The flames inside the fireplace cackled as they consumed the glowing logs. The heat rose.
Samuel slipped his left hand deeper inside the blanket and touched the layered gauze wrapped around his forearm. The doctor instructed him to leave the bandage on for another day before removing. She told him the wound was nearly ready to heal. He didn’t believe her. It hurt too much. His fingers moved down from his arm and onto the bloody bandage covering his palm. It took a long while for the bleeding to stop. It was as if his right arm was cursed.
He stared at the old backpack beside his father’s desk. It held so many knives: the hunting knife, seven throwing knives, and the obsidian-colored blade he’d used on the mayor. It also held the scriptures. He would leave the cabin at morning’s light. It was too dangerous to travel through the woods in darkness. He had wasted too much time. He didn’t care. A part of him wasn’t ready to leave the cabin. This was his home. His real home. But he knew he didn’t have a home anymore. He couldn’t stay in Haid. He didn’t know where he would go next. He recalled his father’s pleas for him to seek sanctuary with a nearby cleric, but he couldn’t recall the name. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to do that. He was no cleric or patrolman. He glared at his arm.