Read The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) for Free Online Page B

doctrines would one day appease their God enough that He would light the world again and bring an end to this unease.
    As the rituals there in the small, humble chapel came to an end, the sacrifices of time and timber would be expected and then reluctantly offered. The Priest would then leave the platform to say his farewell blessings to his gathered congregants.
    The platform would still remain open, true to tradition, for the Poets to come to speak their words and pray their prayers. Such words and prayers would have stood in stark contrast to the rigid cold of the doctrine of the flint and the unwavering fundamentalism of the Priests.
    In the brighter days of old, wise Poets would often postulate with earnest warmth. “A gift of light such as the tree is not given to demand joyless obedience from us! Never! Rather it is bestowed upon all of creation to illuminate the heart of the THREE who is SEVEN towards us.”
    Although rivalry and tension blossomed often between the two opposing brotherhoods, their rituals were once performed with an unspoken peace between them … until that sad and bloody day in the square of Westriver.
    Since the rise of the Priests and the exodus of the Poets, most third and seventh days were now spent gathered in a very one-sided fashion. But there were still a few old Poet friends left within the city walls. When the fires in their hearts burned hot enough to warm their stiff, cold joints, they would make their way to the chapels to speak their words from the aged platforms.
    Most of the congregation had made a practice of filing out after their offerings were given, but not Cal. He was one of the rare few that still hoped to hear the Poetry that was so seldom spoken in this greying town.
    Cal had never known a day in his twenty-one years that was not shadowed by fear of the darkening or the rigid way of the flint, yet the pressing uncertainties of his mind were held at bay by the hope in his heart. Hope that maybe the Poets were not just the crazy, old birds that the Priests accused them of being. Hope that the great THREE who is SEVEN is as good and as loving as the old Poets proclaimed. And hope that light did not make its beginning, nor would it find its ending, in the dying tree of Haven.
    Cal sat on the wooden bench with his hat in his lap as he watched the others leave the humble place of worship. When the last of the muted conversations had faded out of earshot and the slow, shuffling rhythm of footsteps subsided into private silence, Cal raised his head and lifted his eyes to the carved tree.
    “I know there is light beyond that tree, I know there is. I saw it, or … well, at least I saw something that looked a lot like what I would imagine Your light would look like … deep, and purple, and beautiful.”
    As Cal spoke to the image of the dying tree, an old, grey-haired man seated in the back of the chapel silently watched the monologue play out before him. He observed both innocence and defiance in the voice of the young man.
    “The rest of them are afraid. They have stopped caring, let alone looking for true light. It’s as if they have resigned themselves to manmade flames and darkening days … but I know that we were not made to dwell in these dim shadows.”
    Cal ran his hand over his clean-shaven face, trying to find the right words that could convey what exactly it was that he felt in his heart. “I don’t know … I feel as if we should be seeking something bigger or brighter than mere timber and its fleeting light. Something tells me that we should have never stopped looking for it in the first place.” Cal prayed honestly, without pretense or formality, as he stared towards the carved tree.
    “Never stopped looking for what?” came an aged voice from the back of the sanctuary.
    “Oh, horse dung,” Cal whispered under his breath. He stared straight ahead, afraid to make eye contact, sure that he was about to get an earful from a flint-wielding Priest.
    The old man