Justin sat for a few seconds staring at the rope in his hands as the gravity of the situation settled on him. He was trapped, waiting for Roth. His armor was gone. He couldn’t climb out and stop Wyatt. Unless he could lasso that stake or a tree he couldn’t climb out at all. But Wyatt was depending on him. He had already gone to play his part. Justin did still have the weapon, but without the mail vest he didn’t like his chances of surviving one of Roth’s arrows. Chilling fear crept all through him and he began to look around for a hiding place. There was nothing to see but rock and earth all around. The walls, floor, and ceiling were smooth and even except for a strange curved metal rod protruding from the wall in one high spot. No cracks, corners or crevices, nowhere to hide. “What am I doing?” he silently asked himself. He looked at the opening above and the bright, blue heavens beyond. “How did I ever get here? And why did I think I could take on Roth?” He remembered Wyatt’s father and the farmer and how they’d been mistreated. It still angered him, but he began to remember other things too.
Perhaps it was the darkness of the tunnel that reminded him of the dream of Adlai, and he slipped into a sort of waking dream. The vision of his eyes became blank and he only saw visions in his mind. He saw himself as if looking at a stranger. He couldn’t believe that face was his own as he accused Roth in the street outside Wyatt’s home. He hadn’t seen that much hate even in Roth’s face, when he shot the arrow into the farmer’s field. And his voice when he heard it was so full of loathing. He shook his head trying to force the memory away. But the vision changed and showed him entering the building to steal the mail. Slinking like a thief, but then he was a thief, and the look of obsessive revenge in his eyes. He shook his head even harder. But the vision only moved forward in time to the point where he lied to the boy in the field. Lying, stealing, plotting revenge and murder – what had he become? Suddenly he was nothing but shame. Where had things gone so wrong? He’d started out to stop a tyrant, not become one himself. He wanted to disappear, hide it all, or just run away somewhere and forget everything. Trapped in the tunnel, as he was, these options were impossible. The tunnel! He was suddenly aware again of his predicament. He again looked up at the clear blue heavens beyond the hole, and thought of the way Tory’s people relied on the Great King’s power. He wished he had a way to call on him for help. But he didn’t even have a right to ask for help. He felt as evil as Roth, and knew that he was. He wished he hadn’t judged him in the first place. It was as Tory had said. He had no right to judge or punish. Only the King had that right and the wisdom to temper justice with mercy. Roth was more powerful so his wrath held more fury. But the wrath itself was the same as Justin’s. When had anger given way to pride and wrath and judgment? If only he’d stopped at anger. A sob shook his body as his face sank to the floor in front of his knees. “It was the same with Gareth and Kegan. I let my pride and anger rule me,” he thought, “I owe them my repentance.”
That’s where it had started, he realized, and likely this was where it would end, his end. Even now, though, pride was working against him. Admitting to himself that he’d been wrong was somehow comforting; the thought of repenting in humility wasn’t that attractive an idea. Guilt and fear were growing, though, and he forced his mind to turn away from himself. He could hardly bear to contemplate the holiness, mercy, and love of the Great King being available to him in his unworthy state. He was still crumpled in a heap with the bloody, stinking rags clinging to him. Not knowing what else to do, he lowered his face to the cold stone and breathed the only words that felt true, “Oh Great King, I’m sorry, please, please help me.”
“Ha ha ha,” a low gleeful laugh filled the tunnel. Justin looked up into the evil face of Roth standing about six feet away, a torch in one hand and his bow on his other arm. “Yes, you are in sore need of help, young vermin. Is my would-be judge now come prepared to be my executioner? And your weapon of choice is a garden tool? I don’t know what to make of your filthy attire.” Roth stepped close to Justin and placed the torch in the metal bracket on the wall that Justin had noticed earlier. “All right! You have obviously trespassed my home armed, to attack me, so stop cowering. Stand and face me!” With the last command Roth landed a kick on the side of Justin’s head. It blurred his vision for a second, caused him to drop the scythe, and left his ear ringing, but even the pain somehow seemed secondary to a surreal calm that was settling on him.
Feeling a strange peace, considering the circumstances, Justin slowly rose to his feet and looked steadily at Roth, ready to meet his end, knowing that he was no better than Roth who would now kill him. After a few long seconds of waiting, however, he became aware that Roth wasn’t shooting him or even talking. He forced his eyes to focus, and looked on in confusion as Roth’s face contorted strangely as if he was in great pain. Finally, when his expression settled, Justin was surprised to see it was one of horror, and he seemed to be starring at Justin’s chest. Suddenly he remembered the bloody rags, but there was no conceivable reason that they would cause this reaction in Roth. Justin was dismayed and started to look down at the rags himself, then he heard a clatter as Roth’s bow hit the stone floor, and the sound of Roth’s retreating run.
For a short moment he simply stared unbelieving after Roth. Then his shock subsided and he stepped forward and bent down to pick up the bow. As he did so he heard a clinking and felt the weight of the mail on his shoulders. The vest was back; he looked at it in astonishment. The rags were not to be seen. The beautiful mail vest was back, but it shone in a different way, glistening and wet. He turned back toward the hole in the tunnel ceiling to get light for a better look. It looked red and shinning in the light and now bore a plate in the center, etched with the crest of the Great King that Justin had noticed on some of the jewelry of Tory’s people. Justin lifted the smooth metal to turn it in the sunlight and was surprised to find it felt, as well as looked, wet. And when he dropped it his hand was wet with fresh, red blood. Alarmed, he checked his head first, then the rest of himself, for injuries, possibly incurred from the kick or the drop through the hole, but found none. It was very puzzling to him. He had no more idea what had transformed the vest back, or where the fresh blood had come from, than he did what had changed it to rags full of filthy blood in the first place. And unlike the blood on the rag shirt, this actually seemed somehow clean to Justin, and seemed to make fresh the vest and his hand too. If he hadn’t been able to see it, he would have thought his hand was wet with some cool, miraculous water that was alive. As his skin tingled at the touch of the blood, he couldn’t resist the notion that somehow it had the power to purify and transform. He regarded it for another moment, and then came to himself, remembering where he was and what had just happened. A wave of relief surged over him that he had escaped being killed by Roth. As he was reveling in this thought, he remembered his quiet outcry to the King. “Thank You, Great King,” he breathed. Suddenly Justin felt uncontrollably light as if he could even float up out of the tunnel. He hadn’t forgotten his confessions of a few moments earlier. The oppressive guilt, however, had completely vanished in his repentance, and acceptance of the forgiveness, that he felt sure the Great King was giving him.
Suddenly he remembered Wyatt and the danger he was in, with Roth likely approaching him any second. Justin wondered how long it would take for the fear of seeing the vest transformed to wear off of Roth. He imagined that even though he was shaken, Roth would still have the control to take Wyatt captive. Justin grabbed up the bow and arrow that Roth had dropped and quickly tied his rope to the arrow. Without hesitation he fired the arrow toward the branches of a tree that was barely visible outside the hole. He missed, pulled the arrow back with the rope. He fired again and hit his mark. The arrow swished through the leaves, then the rope got caught and the arrow flipped once around a small branch. He pulled hard, testing to see if it would hold. The rope-caught branches bowed almost to the ground. He wasted no time. Hurriedly he climbed the rope and pulled himself out into the bright day. He dropped the bow back through the hole, then began running back toward the tunnel opening where he hoped he would find Wyatt. As he ran he emptied his lungs of the stale, dank tunnel air and filled them with the sweet, warm air of the late morning. His thoughts raced ahead of his feet and he hoped that he would be in time to help Wyatt. When he reached the hole and saw the stake and rope above ground he was glad that Wyatt wasn’t underground, both for Wyatt’s sake, and because he hadn’t relished the thought of returning to the tunnel. But he was also immediately wary. If Wyatt wasn’t underground he should have met him. This meant that he had encountered trouble before he had a chance to go through with his part of the plan. Justin looked around. There was no one in sight and nothing to see that could give him a clue as to what had happened. Justin knew that Wyatt wouldn’t have deserted him so he had to have met trouble…and trouble came from Roth. Again Justin began running, this time straight for the manor and faster than before.
