| |
Alma the Elder
The pulsing of the drums vibrated the walls as Alma the Elder entered his home, frantically searching for his wife and children. "Maia!" he yelled, alarm in his voice betraying the fear in his heart. Something moved in the cooking room to his left, and he spun around. "Maia?"
She stepped out of the late afternoon shadow that stretched across the room, her trembling hands gripping the arms of their girls, Bethany and Dana. "Is it the Lamanites?" she whispered, her eyes wide with fright.
"No," Alma almost shouted, crossing to her in three steps and enveloping his family in his arms. He buried his face against his wife's hair, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. "A mob has broken into the temple."
"What?" Maia gasped and clung to him, shuddering.
But Alma drew away, staring into his wife's dark gray eyes. "Listen to me carefully. Rebels have threatened to destroy the temple before, but now it's happened."
"Who is it, Alma?" Maia breathed. "Who's leading this mob?"
"We don't know. King Mosiah thinks it might be a former Church member or maybe a former palace guard, someone with just enough knowledge of the temple to find the weak spots in our security." His wife nodded, but Alma hadn't delivered all the news yet. "Threats have reached the king's ears—threats against his family . . . and ours. We need to evacuate our property immediately."
Maia stiffened, a horrible understanding dawning on her face. "They've threatened us?"
The girls seemed to melt behind their mother, their expressions anxious.
"Yes," he said, trying to keep panic out of his voice. "We are to take cover at the king's hunting lodge. Until Commander Gideon and his soldiers who are stationed at the borders arrive to offer additional defense, we are in great danger. Some of the king's own soldiers have defected—we don't know who to trust anymore. There's no telling how many have switched loyalties. Two guards are outside waiting to lead us to safety. The royal family has already fled. We need to move quickly. Bring what we can carry."
His wife's gaze faltered, and she looked around the cooking room. "All right. Then we'll put together some food, and the rest will be left behind," she said as she released Alma and turned to the girls. "Go get two tunics each, one extra robe, and one favorite item."
The girls broke from their mother and hurried to their room.
"Cephas is napping in our bed." Maia pushed past Alma and entered the bedchamber. Alma followed, trading his indigo and silver embroidered high priest robes for a plain brown one that hung on a peg by the door.
He crossed to the platform bed where the copper curls of Cephas's head peeked from beneath the rug that covered him. Alma pulled back the rug and touched his six-year-old son's shoulder. "Wake up."
Cephas's eyes flew open. "Father!" his small arms wrapped around Alma's neck. For a second Alma allowed himself to cradle the child's head against his shoulder. His heart swelled, thinking of the sweet innocence of this boy, and how his older brother used to be just like this.
"Come on, son, we're going on a hike," Alma said. "Can Mother come too?" Cephas asked.
Alma smiled and pulled his son close again. "Yes, Mother will come too." He looked over at Maia, who was rifling through a small wooden chest, pulling out pieces of jewelry. "Just take the box, Maia."
Her hands paused as she looked up at him. "I don't need it all—just some things to pass down to the girls in case—" Her voice cut off as her mouth trembled. She bit her lower lip, turning away again.
"What's wrong with Mother?" Cephas asked.
Alma turned to him. "Go help your sisters get ready for the hike."
Cephas looked from his mother to his father, then nodded and scurried from the room.
Alma pulled the rug from their platform bed and spread it on the floor. "Just pile things on this. I'll carry it." She nodded without speaking, and Alma left the room in search of weapons. He hesitated outside of his oldest son's room. His namesake, Alma the Younger, had left months before, after a heated argument—he was old enough to be married and living on his own but had never taken responsibility seriously. His son's last rebellion—at least, as far as Alma knew—had been to quit his position as a temple scribe. Soon after deserting the temple position, his son had moved out of the home, leaving no word of his whereabouts.
Alma walked through his son's doorway, seeing the bow and sheaf of arrows propped in the corner of the room. The bow had been one of his son's prized possessions, left behind in a flurry of anger. Alma gathered up the bow and sheaf, then from a high shelf, he took down a knife with an elaborately decorated hilt—a gift from Ammon, the eldest son of King Mosiah. Ammon had a fascination with weapon-making, and Alma the Younger was the finest hunter in the land of Zarahemla.
And tonight these decorative weapons may save my family, Alma thought. He hid the knife in his waistband and hoisted the bow and quiver over his shoulder. He took a final glance about his son's room before leaving. It felt empty—as if the room had never been occupied by a vibrant, brilliant young man—a young man who refused to believe that a Church member could rely on faith alone, a young man whose intellect was so vast he could not humble himself to ask the Lord a simple question.
Alma turned from the emptiness and left the room, dreading the position that he was in tonight with his family. When he had arrived at Zarahemla more than twenty years before, he had thought he'd never have to gather up his loved ones and run from hatred again. And now it was within the city that the hatred had festered.
"We're ready," Maia called out.
He walked into the front room, where his family stood holding separate bundles. At their feet lay a larger bundle for him to carry. Even Cephas carried a rolled up bundle. Ten-year-old Dana's angelic face was paler than usual, her gray eyes—so much like her mother's—blinking back tears. Bethany, at fourteen, had a protective arm about Dana's shoulders.
Alma's gaze moved to his wife, and emotion rocked through him. Maia knew that the bow he carried was their son's. If the rebels invaded their home, it might also be the last remaining item they'd have to remember their son by.
"What if he returns and we're gone? How will he find us?" Bethany asked, the boldness of her words hidden by her dark eyelashes that fluttered nervously.
"Your older brother has had plenty of chances to return," Maia said in a dejected tone. "He'll certainly hear of what might happen to our home, wherever he is." Her gaze met Alma's again over the head of their daughter.
"Can we leave him a scroll with a message?" Bethany asked, her eyes hopeful.
Alma shook his head. "It could fall into the wrong hands." The unending pulsing of the drums from the city brought back the sense of foreboding, and a new urgency filled him. "We must go." He reached for the bundle and swung it onto his back with a grunt. His days of hard labor were long over. Although he still spent many hours overseeing his crop workers and fields, the majority of his time was spent in the temple. This trek would be physically hard, yet he hoped it wasn't a permanent sign of things to come.
He grasped his wife's hand as they followed the girls out the door. Cephas ran ahead, only to be called back to wait for the rest. The drums were louder now, vibrating through the warm afternoon. The thudding echoed the sick feeling in Alma's stomach. From their property they could just see the roof of the temple over the trees.
In his mind, he pictured the edifice perched on top of a western hill above King Mosiah's elegant palace. It was as if the building were set in its own grove of beauty—luxurious gardens surrounded the temple, flowers blooming along the edges of the stairs, creating a heavenly scent that reached down the hillside. But he suspected that tonight the gardens would be trampled. He hoped the priests had been able to get most of the records out of the archive. A single flaming torch could destroy the stories of their people forever.
The two guards waited by the gate of the courtyard. They nodded a silent greeting, then led the way, avoiding the wide road that led into the heart of the city. The center plaza at the foot of the palace would certainly be crowded with the mob. The guards guided them along a narrower side path that was used mostly for leading animals to market.
Suddenly Dana broke away from them. "My goat. Eli!"
Maia handed her bundle to Alma and hurried after their daughter. She reached Dana before she could get very far. "We'll be back," she said, putting her arms around Dana.
But she shook her head, the tears coming fast. "Who will feed Eli in the morning?"
Alma would have chuckled if his daughter didn't look so pitiful. Her favorite goat would have no trouble finding something to nibble on.
Reluctantly, she returned to the family, and they continued following the guards along the bumpy trail. Just before the path joined the main road that led into the city, the guards stopped. "We'll cut through the trees until we have circled the palace," one said. "There will be a lot of hill climbing once we reach the king's preserve. We should arrive at the lodge before it's too dark for traveling."
Cephas still ran and skipped, his energy far from depleted, but the girls looked exhausted, so Alma redistributed their bundles and put more weight into his. Dana's eyes were bright with unshed tears; Bethany's lips were pursed with determination. His wife cast him a grateful glance, and they set off through the trees.
As the trees thinned, the temple came into view. It stood on the opposite side of the grand plaza, a centerpiece to the orange sun to the west. The brilliant architecture rose from the escarpment, seeming to touch the sky. Alma stopped, and the guards paused. He stared at the people who had gathered in the plaza. At least a dozen drummers had set up in front of the temple steps, pounding on their instruments in powerful unison. All three tiers of the steps were occupied by various groups, and others hovered by the sacrificial altars on the platform that surrounded the temple mount. His gaze moved to the tower that had been erected by King Benjamin at the side of the temple. Just beyond the tower was a smaller building, used to archive the priestly records—where his son had once served as a scribe.
At least the door to the records room remained shut. For now.
Northeast of the temple stood the palace, surrounded by King Mosiah's royal soldiers—at least the ones who had remained loyal. The palace seemed well protected, but the king's soldiers made no move to scatter the temple intruders—there were just too many of them. Alma knew they were waiting for Gideon and his border soldiers to arrive and offer reinforcements. The king's soldiers kept an eye on the mob in the plaza below and those above at the temple but didn't attempt to intervene or control the crowd. Alma shook his head in disbelief at the number of rebels mixed with defected soldiers milling in the plaza. There were more than he could have ever anticipated.
Maia's hand rested on his arm, pointing toward the temple. "What are they doing?"
His stomach knotted as he spied men running through the carved stone archway leading to the temple entrance, their bare heads and torsos painted with dark crimson marks—as if they were ready for war. Then his heart jolted as a man was dragged out of the temple. He was clearly a priest, wearing the indigo robes trimmed in silver embroidery that marked his temple office.
"Ben," he whispered. Ben was a master blacksmith and newly ordained priest.
Maia grabbed Cephas's hand and drew her daughters closer as they watched Ben fight fiercely against his captors, but he was outnumbered. The unbelievers forced Ben to his knees, and one of them struck the priest on the side of his head, finally bringing him into submission.
"No," Alma said, jerking forward. His mind raced. There was one of him, and hundreds of unbelievers—but something had to be done. Maybe he could urge the palace soldiers into action. Ben was struck again, and this time the force sent him sprawling.
Maia put a hand over Cephas's eyes, and Bethany and Dana cried out and clung to their mother.
Alma turned to the guards. "take them to the king's lodge. I'll meet you there."
"No, Alma," Maia said, and Dana started to cry.
He met his wife's gaze, feeling her fear pierce him straight through.
"Hurry," he said, then looked at the guards. "Keep them safe."
Maia backed away, pulling Cephas and the girls with her. "Please Alma, come with us."
"I can't," he said in a pained voice, watching his family leave with the guards. When they had disappeared into the thick of the trees, he tore his gaze from the last glimpse of his family to look at the temple mount.
Ben had rolled over, and one of the men kicked him in the side.
For an instant Alma couldn't move, his gaze locked on the horror before him. His head throbbed as the drums seemed to grow louder, faster, matching the rhythm of his pounding heart. No man deserved this treatment, especially Ben. He was no criminal facing his fate. Ben was a man who had been orphaned as a child, stood up to a wicked king, suffered wrongful imprisonment, traveled the length of a country with Alma, been forced into servitude by the enemy, and . . .
Now several men were on top of Ben. They're tying him up.
Memories flashed through Alma's mind—prisoners tied up, prisoners killed for little more than a small infraction, prisoners beaten to death with flaming sticks . . . Burned alive.
Like Abinadi.
Not again . . . Something snapped in Alma's mind. It didn't matter that he was armed with only a knife and a few arrows. He was not a soldier commissioned to protect an empty palace, but the protector of his people as the leader who delivered them from the hands of King Noah and Amulon.
Alma started running toward the plaza.
Withdrawing the knife at his waistband, he pushed through the last of the brush, his eyes focused on the limestone platform at the top of the temple steps.
His feet hit the hard earth of the plaza, and he jostled his way through the crowd. It parted, letting him through, as if the men were curious to see what this madman would do.
Alma kept the knife low and angled downward; he didn't want anyone to know his plan before he reached Ben. He sidestepped the rebels on the steps leading to the temple. His legs burned as he leapt up the stairs, but he ignored the deep ache, focusing on the laughing men who had started to kick Ben again.
A man moved in front of him, and a fist slammed into Alma's stomach. He reeled back. Losing his balance, he stumbled backwards, his hip then shoulder crashing against the stairs. He slid down to the base. In the fall, he'd lost hold of his knife. The rebels buzzed around him, but it was difficult to understand what anyone was talking about. Alma rolled over and moved to his knees. His shoulder pulsed with pain, and his left hand was badly scraped.
He scrambled to his feet again, scouring the ground for the fallen knife. He wiped at his nose, coming away with blood on his hand. He turned, scanning the stairs to see if the knife had tumbled down, but the moving feet made it impossible to see much. A few men gave him curious looks, yet no one asked him questions.
Alma took a deep breath and turned toward the steps. As he started to climb, he noticed stone idols perched on the top platform. They were in the form of a woman, a warrior woman. Before he could guess which pagan goddess the statue was, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and a large man moved in front of him. "You didn't learn your lesson the first time? Where's your armband?"
Alma looked the man over, noticing the red leather armband with the imprint of a half-moon. Was this their leader? He certainly looked ferocious enough. The man's dark hair was long and filthy, and his skin and robe reeked of spoiled wine.
"No armband, no access to the temple," the man growled.
The increasing weight of the man's hand on his shoulder caused Alma to stagger down a step. "I want to free that man up there—the man wearing the blue robes."
"The king's priest?" The man's eyes narrowed. "You know him?"
"He's done nothing to you. I'll give you whatever you want."
The man threw his head back and laughed. Then he sobered and glared at Alma. "I don't want your silver, old man. I'm afraid it's too late to help him. Maybe you'd like to join him, though?" His grip tightened on Alma's shoulder, and he leaned forward. "You can stay in the plaza and watch the ceremony, but if you try to step on temple steps again, I won't be so kind."
Alma took another step down, reaching ground level. His gaze swept upward, seeing the red leather bands worn by the men surrounding the temple. They no longer seemed to be a random crowd milling about looking for trouble, but were organized in groups of twelve. Each group formed two lines, some stationary, watching over the crowd, others walking in unison along the limestone platform. The men surrounding Ben were also an even twelve. He had stopped moving. Alma's stomach tightened, and bile rose in his throat. He had to get past these men and reach Ben before it was too late.
The crowd quieted, and the drums dimmed to a soft rumble. Alma looked around him, then followed their upturned gazes. Someone walked out of the temple toward the tower. He wore a deep scarlet robe with a hood, and the unified hush that had fallen over the crowd told Alma that this tall man was their leader. His mere presence seemed to command attention without a word.
The leader climbed the ladder, and eleven other robed men, all wearing matching scarlet hoods, exited the temple and formed a line in front of the tower. The sun had sunk behind the temple mount, casting its brilliant orange and yellow across the gardens, turning them from green to golden. Darkness would quickly follow, and Alma knew he was not safe among these rebels, but still he could not move.
This is the leader of the opposition, he realized. The man who has incited this rebellion and those all over the city over the past few weeks. Alma's throat constricted as the leader reached the top of the tower. This man dared to preach from the very place that King Benjamin, beloved former king of Zarahemla, had uttered his final blessings upon the people of the Church. This man defiled the tower with his very presence. He raised a hand and the drums silenced at last, creating an eerie quiet.
"Greetings," the leader's voice bellowed out over the crowd. "Tonight is the first step we take in reclaiming what we have lost!" his voice carried well across the plaza.
An unexpected chill spread through Alma's entire body as he shuffled against the crowd to get a better look at the man at the top of the tower. He recognized that voice. It can't be.
A shout went up among the crowd, then the leader raised both hands for silence, and the noise abruptly died. "Tonight marks a new beginning—one that allows every man to choose for himself!"
The crowd responded with shouts and cheers again, but Alma had stilled, his eyes locked on the red figure above. He knew that voice, had heard it every day for twenty-one years, each inflection and tone etched into his soul.
No! It's impossible.
The crowd cheered wildly at something the leader had shouted. The man raised his arms again, and his hood slipped from his head.
Alma froze. My son.
Even as the realization tumbled into his mind, Alma couldn't grasp it. His own son . . . The leader of the revolt to bring down the Lord's Church. His mind argued with his heart, but there was no doubt as he gazed at the man at the top of the tower. His son had shorn his thick wavy hair, but the chiseled face was the same. Nausea rocked through Alma. His heart felt as if it would explode. But he kept his eyes focused as dread flooded his soul, his hands clenching into fists until his fingernails broke the skin of his palms.
His son was grinning, basking in the mob's ecstatic yelling. The yelling formed into a chant until hundreds of people were chanting the same words. "Save us! Save us!"
Alma spun, looking about wildly. What did they mean? He turned back to the tower; his son had his hands clasped together, head bowed.
Then his son raised his head and held up a single hand. The crowd's shouting faded. "Your cries have been heard. Tonight we will sacrifice the old church upon the altar of the new church—our church—the Church of Liberty." He pointed to the steps as the crowd hushed further.
Alma looked to where the men surrounding Ben had moved aside, and the scarlet-robed men started to walk toward the prostrate figure. Four of the men lifted Ben, then carried him toward the tower. The drums started up again as the crowd chanted, "Save us! Save us!"
With horror, Alma watched the robed men carry Ben to the sacrificial altar.
Alma's knees buckled as he gasped for breath. They can't. They won't.
"No!" Alma cried out, pushing through the frenzied crowd. The drums kept beating, drowning out his voice, and the robed men continued tying Ben to the altar as Alma plowed his way to the temple steps. He leapt up them, and no one tried to stop him this time. He was almost to the top when he was sure his son had spotted him. They locked gazes, and for an instant, Alma thought his son would come to his senses and abandon the sacrifice, but his eyes were cold, dead.
Then a man in a scarlet robe blocked Alma's way. He wore the crimson hood, his face shadowed. But Alma recognized him. The king's oldest son—what is he doing here? Why isn't he with his family at the hunting lodge? "Ammon?"
"Sorry, old man," Ammon said, then shoved Alma backward down the stairs.