In Search of Fate
Chapter 1: The Monastery
Even at near midday, his pupils needed time
to dilate from the lack of light. His sense of direction was guided by the
obvious distinction of up from down. He was climbing now. Even if he was unable
to retrace his steps, he could steer himself downwards. In due course he would
either encounter the Monastery or intersect the road leading up to the
Monastery somewhere in its winding path around the mountain. Recklessly, he
pushed forward through the underbrush. The overhanging canopy not only shielded
him from the light; it also provided cover for the dark premonitions that
crawled below the surface of his consciousness. What he was about to encounter
could be more than he was prepared to handle. Ralph never did things halfway.
Obviously, he had Questor followed; he likely still had somebody watching and
perhaps waiting. Questor had no idea what mission might be given to a potential
tracker or what would happen if he was unexpectedly encountered in this forest.
He only knew that he had rather confront him than not. It would be better to
meet his suspicions in the flesh than allow them to haunt him indefinitely.
Blindly, he pushed forward and upwards, generally in the direction from which
he thought he saw the flash.
After about half an hour, he admitted to
himself his mistake in taking on this venture without a plan. He was more than
just lost in an unfamiliar environment. His very mind was in chaos. Should he
trust his suspicions or any of the actions he had taken in the last two days?
John’s death began to play in his mind. Images of John fitting his coffin lid
and then doping himself with a hypodermic needle paralyzed Questor. He fell to
the ground and started to cry. Slowly, he rolled onto his back and let his eyes
fix on the flickering light seeping through the ceiling of leaves. Their mild
wavering in the passing breeze seemed to promise a brief exposure to sunlight.
But the promise was unfulfilled. The covering canopy was too thick and
unyielding. Questor felt himself sinking into a kind of oblivion. He knew he
was not capable of following John’s chosen path? Would he ever be that sure of
a course of action that even the surety of his own death would not stand in the
way?
A face suddenly appeared in his line of
vision. Somebody was bending over him. Questor jumped to his feet. He felt the
heat of blood rushing to his head and adrenaline energizing every nerve in his
body. When his mind finally caught up with his animal reactions, he found
himself facing a strange apparition. Those eyes he could not fail to recognize.
They had fixed him yesterday morning in front of the chapel. What had otherwise
left only a hazy impression the previous day was now the very corporeal
presence of a man of the mountains. He was wearing a monk’s habit, but it was
ragged and dirty. His face was almost indistinguishable within the unruly beard
that enclosed it. Only his eyes demanded someone’s attention. They seemed
grounded in eternity.
“You are Adam Questor, I presume? Are you
lost?”
Questor stumbled for words. He was shocked by
the hermit’s manner of speech as much as he was mystified by his seeming
apparition. “Yes, I suppose I am . . . lost, I mean. That fact is easily
presumed, but how could you possibly know who I am?”
“I overheard your
name in a conversation, and I know something about why you’re here.”
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