It wasn’t long before night fell and Margaret and Betty returned to the warmer tavern, the glow of a crackling fire offering welcome comfort in the frigid, lonely village. The pair looked slightly disheveled, though both had an air of lightness to them. Betty had a smirk of pride on her lips, while Margaret looked more sheepish.

  “Find anything?” Meera asked. She was squatting by a fire she’d set, tending to it with an iron poker.

  Margaret eyed her, wondering if there was a subtext. She joined her at the fire. “No sign of anyone,” she removed her gloves to warm her hands. “Or recent activity.”

  The tall woman glanced over at Betty, who had huddled up with Erika at a table on the other side of the room, a glowing lamp between them. They were talking quietly, Erika covering her mouth as she tried to hide a grin, Betty beaming and making grand gestures with her hands. Watching, Margaret felt… reassured.

  “Sunrise isn’t until 8:30,” Meera said. “How much time do we have before trouble catches up?”

  Margaret came back to present circumstances. “I don’t know. We should get some rest while we can,” she responded. “But we’ll take turns on lookout.”

  “Just you and I,” Meera said plainly.

  “I agree.” Margaret said.

  “I’ll take first shift,” Meera offered. “I’m sure you could use a little rest.” She cocked an eyebrow.

  Margaret stifled a groan. “Appreciated.” She stepped away and approached the two roommates, who quickly hushed up. “We should eat and get some sleep. Meera will be on lookout.”

  “I’ve got some meals ready,” Erika said. “Let me just get them.” She moved away to another table where she had arranged the small gas burner and rations, leaving the two lovers a moment together.

  “Maybe we can share a sleeping bag,” Betty suggested.

  “I—I’m not…” Margaret stammered.

  “I’m kidding, sweetie,” Betty said. “You turn anymore red your hair will catch on fire.” She stepped by her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Erika returned with warmed food arranged on tin plates and set them at the table along with metal utensils. As they took their seats to eat, Meera walked over, picked up her meal, walked to the front door, and left without a word.

  Betty gave Erika a look of concern. “Think she might split?”

  “No,” Erika said. “I have faith she’ll stick around.”

  Margaret got to work on her meal, a reheated chicken breast before the other two even looked at their plates.

  “Worked up an appetite,” Erika said and then, embarrassed, quickly added, “I mean… umm, you’re rather hungry.”

  Betty stifled a laugh. “She’s a hard worker.”

  Margaret kept her eyes down and continued to chew. She didn’t want any part of this.

  Outside the building, the moon was full and low in the sky, offering a generous amount of light for Meera as she ate her dinner and strolled around the town center. She quickly finished her meal and set her tin plate aside. The small woman kept her movements quiet, her ears perked for any noise out of the ordinary, other than the muffled conversation coming from the tavern. The occasional burst of laughter. Meera felt a sting of loneliness. She’d never been someone who made friends. There were fellow soldiers, and then later professional colleagues she got along with. But suspicion and survival always ruled her life. It seemed imprudent to form attachments, relationships, that could leave you vulnerable. Of course, that’s exactly what had happened, and look where that had gotten her.

  During her time as an intelligence agent, she’d found that everyone had ideals about themselves that revealed their greatest faults. Everyone compensated for their weaknesses. And along with that, everyone was a hypocrite. No one lived up to what they believed they could and should be. Meera didn’t fault them; she was no different. But she found it frustrating how few people were aware of their hypocrisy, or even their most obvious shortcomings and vulnerabilities. This was why she was lonely. Meera thought very little of most people.

  Some time later there was a shuffling of chairs from inside the tavern as the women finished their meal and moved to the fireplace. The sounds of her companions moving about diminished, and a hush settled. Separate and detached, a condition Meera was intimately familiar with, most of her life spent in waiting, with occasional bursts of violence. She couldn’t help but be envious of others, even their ignorance, as they simply took part in living, while she waited. That was something Ravi gave her—a life without waiting.

  The sound of feet shuffling alerted Meera. She spun, hand on the gun at her hip, and saw someone approaching on a narrow path leading from further inland to the west. It was an elderly person, judging from their stilted, slow walk and hunched posture. As they came closer, Meera saw it was a man, his expression solemn but peaceful, wearing handmade furs and leathers, and nit hat covering his head. He looked up at her, just noticing her presence but a dozen feet away and smiled.

  “Oh, good evening,” he said in surprise. “I didn’t know we had visitors.”

  Meera relaxed a hair. “Good evening.”

  “Angajup Erni,” he said, putting his hand on his chest, “Call me Erni.” He extended a weathered, arthritic hand.

  “Meera.” She shook his hand. “You live here?”

  “As much as anywhere,” he said with a tired shrug. “I am a traveler. I move from village to village.”

  “What’s brought you here at this time of night?”

  “Night?” He strained to look up at the sky. “Oh, I suppose so. The days are short, and sleep comes for me like the wind.” He laughed. “At my age, I take the time I’m given, no matter the position of the sun.”

  “I see.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “I think I’ll take a rest now, if you don’t mind the company,” Erni said, walking over to a rock and plopping down, letting out a heavy sigh.

  Meera didn’t say a word. Considering the enemy’s tactics and proficiency, she didn’t believe this man to be a part of them, but his presence was a distraction that would attract attention.

  “You must know Qillaq?” the man asked as he removed his cap to scratch a head full of hair.

  “By association,” Meera answered curtly, turning about to keep a sharp eye.

  The old man nodded thoughtfully. “You don’t look like one from a mining company. They don’t stand about, alone in the middle of town.”

  Meera didn’t respond, hoping he would move on.

  “You’re worried about something. You shouldn’t be,” he said, putting his hat in his lap. “At this moment, in this place, there’s nothing to be done about it. Whatever it might be.”

  Meera sneered at him.

  “You’re tired, but here you are. This must be a painful journey. But there is a time to walk and a time to rest. I believe you need a rest.”

  “I’m fine. Maybe you should find somewhere else to sit.”

  Erni grunted in response. “You think you’re in danger here?”

  She looked him over. “What do you know about it?”

  “We’re in the shadow of a great Qammaq.” He gestured to the grand stone building. “Havens of humanity. Nothing has touched it for thousands of years.”

  “One window is smashed,” Meera said.

  The old man studied her skeptically. Then he bolted up and marched to the towering structure, hobbling up the stone steps and pushed open the huge wooden door. Meera sauntered nearer but stayed outside.

  Inside the Qammaq, the old man pulled a hand-powered dynamo flashlight from his coat and pulled the chain, charging a dim beam of light with a whirl of its clockwork components. The interior was a single round room, the floor a series of descending steps into a depression where a stone sculpture of two huge hands held up a large, cracked globe. Evenly spaced along the building’s exterior were four stained glass windows, some ten feet in height and a quarter that in width. The old man gasped and stumbled backwards as he looked upon one destroyed.

  Meera heard the man’s reaction. She waited some time, uncomfortable leaving her post outside, but after more than a minute of silence, she took out her flashlight and headed in to make sure the old man hadn’t keeled over.

  She found Erni sitting on the upper level of the recessed floor, staring at the shattered window, moonlight pouring in and illuminating him in the darkness.

  He looked at her forlornly. “This place has stood for a thousand generations. Uncorrupted and unmarred by the outside world. After all that time…”

  “This window is that old?” Meera asked skeptically.

  “Yes. The oldest record of our human aspects.”

  Meera scanned her flashlight across the three remaining windows. They were the same design but with notable differences. At the top of each was a distorted face looking down with inhuman eyes upon a simple yet precise geometric shape. Meera recognized these as platonic solids—simple three-dimensional shapes made of identical flat sides. Below each was a singular figure, small and indistinct, and at their feet was some representation of an element—an ocean, rocky earth, blowing wind. She turned to the remains of the broken window. Remaining in the shards at the bottom were flames; at the top only the jagged remains of ghastly eyes.

  “What human aspect?” Meera asked. “I don’t see anything human about these.”

  “The four aspects that granted us lasting life while our ancestral cousins died.” He gestured to the window with the floating shape made of eight equal triangles, like two pyramids connected at their base. At the bottom was a depiction of blowing wind. “Our desire for knowledge. To accumulate it, build upon it, and share it.” He moved his hand to another window, the floating shape with many triangle sides, almost round, splashing water at the bottom. “Our love for our neighbor, community and even the stranger.” He moved his hand to the window with a perfect cube and rocky earth below it. “There is a drive within us to become greater—ambition and vision garnered and inspired through leadership.” And then to the broken window, “And our aggression, the violence we commit. Allowing us to survive in the face of mortal danger, a deadly impulse that has driven us to kill when necessary.”

  Meera felt uncomfortably related to the last one. She stared at the broken shards and the jagged glass flames. Eventually, she looked at Erni again, finding him staring at her.

  “You know this one,” he said.

  “I… I’ve killed many people. More than anyone should have.”

  “You’ve seen it before. At devekut.”

  “Where?”

  “What did you see in the painting?” he asked.

  Meera shifted in her stance. She knew what he was talking about. “It was a triangle, just four sides.”

  “Merkaba.” He straightened up. “A tetrahedron. The most primitive shape. For our most primitive instinct.”

  She recalled what she saw at Guff, over the fireplace. “It was over a dark land, cold… desolate and dark.”

  “They hid them in the furthest reaches,” he murmured.

  “They?” Meera asked. “Are you talking about these temples?”

  “Tīrtha. Makom shel kedushah. ?aram. Holiest of Sites. They have many names.” He shook his head. “Your questions are for another. But I have one for you. Do you believe in destiny?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” He got to his feet again, a spring back in his step. Something had relieved him. “Now I must be going.”

  “Wait, what are you not telling me? How do you know about the painting?”

  He smiled and came closer. “The painting is your vision. You see with your eyes, what your eyes tell you is the truth. But only to you.”

  She scowled at him. “I hate this mystical nonsense.”

  “Yes, so do I!” He called out as he moved to the exit, walking back outside. “But the older you get, the more truth becomes… muddled.”

  “Maybe you just need glasses,” Meera suggested as she followed him.

  The old man laughed. “Yes. Maybe. Let me give you some words of advice and encouragement. Trust yourself and your friends. Together, you will find the way. For us all.” He smiled at her and then started walking again, continuing his aimless wandering.

  “We’re here to save my husband and his friend. We’re not on some… holy quest or whatever it is you believe.”

  “I believe all of it. You’re on your way to somewhere we’ve been walking to since we left it.”

  Meera sighed. “Which is?”

  He stopped and looked up at the sky. “Even HaShetiya. The black stone. The omphalos of Delphi. Golgotha. Shiva Lingam.” Turning back to her, he added, “the beginning.”

  “You’ve got some high expectations,” Meera answered as he resumed his walk. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “The painting,” she called out, “Have you seen it?”

  “One like it,” he said as he approached the far edge of the town center and a bend in the road around a hill.

  “What did you see?”

  “My father,” he said and walked out of sight.

  “His father?” she repeated quietly. And she thought of her own and a warm calm came over her.