Free Ashes of the Earth by Eliot Pattison Page B

mourning the loss of the colony's first steamboat,
the Anna,
in a storm, listing the names of the two men who drowned and mourning
the loss of the sturdy little fishing vessel, named after Jonah's
long-dead daughter.
    Hadrian
arranged on the desk the shreds of Jonah's last ornamented page, more
frustrated than ever by his inability to understand the real reason
Jonah had tried to destroy it.
    He
lifted the magnifying glass, then examined one piece of the colored
margin after another. He studied the vines, looking for a pattern.
Their twists and turns suddenly seemed to him not entirely random. He
spotted a numeral two formed by the vine over one pumpkin, then saw a
three in the one at its side. He found another number, then a letter.
Stopping for a moment to reconsider the image as a whole, he began a
more systematic search, starting at the bottom of the page.
    As
his eyes adjusted to the puzzle, the words leapt out to him. Aurihus
tener lupum. I
am holding a wolf by the ears. He stared uneasily at the declaration,
then worked his way up the unbroken left side and along the top. But
there were no more words, only letters and numbers.
H2GMAN4MGSS3GBC2CC, the series began. The remainder had been in the
pieces his friend had bitten off.
    "Jonah!"
he cried out in frustration, pounding the table with his fist. Why
had it been so necessary to hide the words and letters? From whom was
he hiding them? Surely his friend had not died over a jumble of
letters and numbers. He did not know how long he stared at the paper
fragments but at last he returned the journal to its stand, blew out
the candles, and left.
    Back
in the cabin, he replaced the key behind the chimney stone and made
himself some tea in the kettle hanging in the fireplace. It was two
hours before dawn, but he could not sleep. He carried a rocking chair
out onto the porch where he and Jonah had spent so many evenings. His
gaze drifted up toward the moonlit clearing on the cliff where the
old bell had stood. It had hurt to find the secrets in the hidden
chamber, but he slowly realized that Jonah had kept the secrets from
him to protect Hadrian. Something in the vault, Hadrian was certain,
was the reason Jonah had been murdered. He had held the wolf by the
ears, but the wolf had turned on him.
    As
he watched the stars setting, he felt more alone than ever in his
life. His discoveries had brought back pains he believed he'd
banished years earlier. Distant memories flickered in his
consciousness, and suddenly he smelled licorice and was with his
long-dead son, teaching him the constellations, hearing the boy
whisper his questions, as if he feared to upset the beauty. His son
reached to hold his hand as a shooting star streaked overhead. He
felt the touch, as real as the stab of a blade. Tears welled in his
eyes. In the early years Jonah had often assured him that in time all
wounds would heal, but it had never been so for Hadrian. His soul had
been cauterized twenty-five years before, but the scar kept cracking
open, letting the pain ooze out again and again, numbing him to the
life around him. It had been the reason for his recklessness, why he
had lost everything in the colony.
    He
blinked through his tears, struggling desperately to keep his son
with him, whispering to him the names of more constellations and
planets, now pausing as a new, brighter star appeared on the horizon.
Suddenly he froze, scrubbing at his eyes.
    It
was not a star but a lantern, a bright lamp blinking on and off in
the clearing above the lake. It was, he recalled, where Jonah's
telescope on the opposite side of the ridge would be aimed if it was
aligned with the easternmost mark on the railing.
    Ten
minutes later he stood behind a tree at the edge of the clearing,
watching two men with a large box lantern into which baffles had been
inserted. They were using it to send signals toward the lake as they
spoke in low, urgent tones. Hadrian dared a step closer, desperate
for a glimpse of their faces, then