How long has it been? Foster wondered. Despite living on the island for the better part of ten years, he wasn’t what one would call a social bee. He never saw the point in spending one’s time racing from one place to the next. All it did was delude people into thinking their lives were important. Blinded by their own glamor, it covered their eyes from seeing the bars of the cage that ensnared their lives. The only thing they accomplished was running from one end of the cage to the other. It had to be tiring.

Life in his cage was simple. Do what he could to survive, then return home. Over the years, he had little deviation. This resulted in him not frequenting the many places he recalled from his boyhood. Chief among them was Cain’s Chapel, the second home of his childhood. The place where his parents worked and devoted much of their lives. It was also the last place he saw them alive.

Approaching from the bottom of the hill, he made his way up Ike Avenue. It received that name back in the seventies to honor the late president. Supposedly, he stayed on the island for a brief period. If sources could be believed, he visited Cain’s Chapel more than once and plucked an apple from the old gnarled tree on his way up the hill. That tree was cut down two years before the Brasil council decided on the street name change, a choice which few were keen on. The council was often made of former mainlanders hoping to take that first major step in their political careers. Many politicians spent their summers on the island, where the Brasil council was waiting to grow their network of influence. Regardless of the success of their endeavors, few council members stayed for more than a couple of years.

Perhaps if they stayed a third, they would understand a simple fact about the Brasilian people. Not the well-to-do city dwellers who took the first boat to the coastline when the late summer storms reared their ugly heads. It was the island folk, growing up barefoot and searching for crawdads in the river, that might be understood. They were the same as the rocks on the beach. Their names dated back hundreds of years. For them, years were marked by the storms that came and went leaving a taste of nature’s fury in their wake. This didn’t matter to the Brasilians. They endured throughout the generations; if there was one thing they hated, it was change. No matter what stupid name the council named the street, the Brasilians called it the same name their grandparents taught them. The Petitioner’s Path. Tears dripping from their chins, many faithful trudged up that hill to seek solace from their hard lives.

At the top of the climbing path, Foster found the church of his youth. The grass lay overgrown in some places while dried up and blowing away in others. Snake holes made swiss cheese of the grounds. Off to the side was a collapsed swing resting beneath a knotted tree’s broken bough. Old couples sat on it to watch the sunrises and sunsets on those lazy Sundays. Children tried to swing high and fly off into the sky, often ending up with scraped knees and twisted ankles. Once the branch broke, the swing remained on its earthen seat, where it became forgotten.

The church itself stood as a relic of days gone by straight from Walnut Grove. A cracked bell hung in the steeple by a frayed rope. It was a miracle of God that the cord hadn’t snapped. The steps were rotting, with the fifth step missing. Foster recalled a bad case of termites chewing away at the wood in the load-bearing walls years ago. Old dingy paint peeled off the brittle wood. The brightest white on the boards was where a sign once rested. The sign always bore the pastor’s name. With no current man of God behind the pulpit, no sign was necessary.

It hadn’t changed one bit from those days. As a boy, Foster didn’t understand what drew the faithful to the old building. Even back then, it lacked the flashiness churches by the beach had in plenty. The congregation was no larger than a sixty-two on its best Sunday, a feat never repeated. Still, some were faithful in their attendance. If he remembered right, a few dozen of them never missed a service during the six years his father served as their minister. Looking at the old doors, he felt a boyish hesitancy that made him tiptoe around his father when he raised the old man’s ire. Burying that useless cowardice, he strode toward the door. His desired prize awaited him.

When he made it halfway across the yard, Mutt burst out into a fit of savage barking. Foster shot a passing glance around the hilltop. He found nothing outside of the norm. “Pipe down,” he chastised with an accompanying stomp. The abrupt command did nothing to hinder the dog’s uproar. Blowing off the nonsensical warning, Foster approached the church door. Minding the rotten places, he scaled the steps. Behind him, Mutt refused to give up his series of cries. What’s gotta into him? Foster wondered as he reached toward the handle.

A sudden yelp burst through the wood, splitting through the morning serenity. Backpedalling, Foster ripped his ten-inch commando dagger from his hip. The double-edged blade felt right in his tightened palm. His eyes darted around for any oncoming threat as his feet bounced between the heels and toes. Stay light on your feet, his mentor’s voice echoed in his mind. Don’t let the enemy know where you’re going. Catch him unawares with that toothpick dagger of yours. One summer, he took a knife fighting class, becoming quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat. At least, that was what his instructor told him. “You’re mean in a fight,” the aging fight choreographer said. “Warn me the next time you walk down any dark alleys.”

Taking deep breaths, Foster struggled to maintain his composure. Mutt’s barking persisted; for the first time, he considered the dog’s plea. Perhaps it was best for the pair to walk away. Whatever waited behind that door was not something any sane man should want near. Still, he couldn’t turn back now. Whether obsessed or possessed, he refused to leave the Pendragon’s Blade hidden in the chapel one last day. Besides, whatever caused the cry might not have the best of intentions for his desired treasure.

Dagger in hand, he crept toward the door. Ignoring the dog’s warning, he exercised caution, testing the door’s lock. At the gentlest tug, the door slid under his hand’s command. Taking a shaky breath, he steeled himself for what foul thing that laid in wait. In one fluid motion, he flung the door open and leaped over the threshold. Eyes stabbing around the sanctuary, he found the old worn-out pews that must’ve been carved during the Revolution, tattered imitation tapestries of famous stained-glass portraits covering the walls, and a crooked wooden cross slouching behind the pulpit.

Standing behind the preacher’s podium, hands raised high as if reaching the climax of a powerful ceremony, a man in a dark hood stood facing a small congregation of similar hooded figures. There were ten in all, but only the false preacher caught Foster’s eye. Bright red blood marred the black folds of his robe’s sleeves. The stream of life dribbled off one opened palm. In the other hand, he clutched a bleeding knife. Gore matted the pulpit, his father’s stage. Tears welled in his eyes. He was not sure if they came from heartbroken shock or twisted satisfaction.

“My brothers and sisters,” the lead hooded figure roared with all the fire and brimstone Foster’s father had behind that same pulpit. “Today is our day of reckoning.” When the man’s voice hit the last syllable, a savage chorus of approval burst from the nine followers. “Yes, long have we waited in the shadows. Our numbers have waxed as a new candle and dwindled underneath the melting flame of our burden. I recall when my predecessor passed this very artifact into my care.” He waved the knife over his head. It was hard to see it from the back, hidden inside the man’s bloodied fist, but Foster caught a glimpse of a long fang-like barb protruding from the hilt.

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“Weary from years of service, he lamented that the appointed day hadn’t come in his time of service. When he passed this torch into my care,” he shook the knife again, “he gave me one final order. If the day should make itself known to me, I must remember those who came before. Now, just before the day, I command that you help me fulfill this task. We are the blessed who bear witness to this day of our lord. Do not forget those that died waiting on this time. Together, we bear their desires. Do not falter. Show no hesitation. You cast that aside long ago. The faint illusion that planted itself into our subconscious sprouted a vision. That elusive vision grew into a dream. This vivid dream will soon come to fruition. My brothers and sisters, let us harvest the fruits of the labors our forefathers worked their lives in futility to witness.”

Foster felt his knees quiver. Outside, Mutt’s muffled yelps pounded into his ears. Common sense told him to flee, take Mutt, and race to his home. If he pushed the furniture in front of all the doors and windows, perhaps he could hide until this day of our lord had passed. When it was over, he would return to the school and give thanks for the cage that ensnared him long ago. There was safety in its bars.

No, he resolved at once. There wasn’t an icicle’s chance under the Devil’s armpit that he’d do that. If this was what awaited him outside the cage, he’d face it all with a welcome grin. He had passed his inciting incident and there was no way he could tuck tail to drag himself back to the beginning of this story. Straightening his quivering knees, he refused to turn away from whatever horrors these hooded figures had in store. He never loosened his grip on the dagger. Only a fool releases their only protection against the horrors of the world.

“Ah,” the hooded man called, extending one bloodied hand toward the audience. A bony finger singled out the foreign observer. Following his finger, the nine followers turned as one. Their hoods hid their eyes that Foster felt piercing his flesh. He wondered if he made the right decision. Hopefully, the dagger would be enough to fend off the hooded cult should they choose a human for a twisted sacrifice. To his surprise, no one approached him. They remained in their places as statues.

Instead, the head figure gestured to him with a gentle hand. “Come,” he called. “We have been expecting you.” Foster held his position. Fools did as they were told. After a moment, the leader laughed. “You are a stubborn one, I see. Do not fear. We bring you no harm. In fact, I am delighted by your arrival.” Extending his palm to the left, he gestured to the end.

A figure stepped to the center aisle. Wrapped in the dark hooded robe, there was nothing to tell him apart from the others...except for the long rusted claymore he cradled in his grasp. Glancing above his head, Foster realized the horrible truth. The metal pegs were empty. This cloaked man had the Pendragon’s Blade. “My sword,” Foster exclaimed, taking a challenging step forward. He hesitated, realizing that he was abandoning what little common sense he still had. With a ten-inch dagger, there was nothing he could do if that man chose to swing the large blade at him. Even in its dull, rusted state, it would kill a man without the swordsman breaking a sweat.

“That’s right. Don’t be shy. Take it,” the leader suggested. “It’s yours.” His generous offer made Foster falter. He knew better than to take a handout. Gifts of that nature had nasty little habits of turning dangerous in some manner or another. In spite of that, he wanted it. Was it boyish greed or something deeper?

“Why are you giving this to me?” Foster found himself asking.

“We can’t be stingy with our brother, can we?” The other nine agreed as one. “Each of us has a role to play on the day of our lord. Yours begins with taking up Lotan’s talon.” Dropping to one knee, the swordsman offered the blade to the newcomer as a knight gave his own weapon to a king. “Come. Take it.” Foster’s feet remained frozen to the boards. “Why do you hesitate? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted your whole life?”

His guts quivered. How could this mysterious man speak the very doubts lingering in his mind? “My brother, there is nothing to fear,” the man explained. “This moment was prophesied, written on stone tablets destroyed long ago. I saw you in a dream as clear as I see you now. I know your pain. Do not doubt. Trust your basest desires. They are His will. We welcome you with open arms."

Foster recalled what his mother said about free gifts. "They are the blessings of Heaven," she said, offering wisdom he often ignored. For the first time in years, he found himself agreeing with the old woman. With this coveted sword awaiting him, how could he resist? Placing one foot firmly in front of the other, he marched toward his prize. Trembling, his hands reached toward what his heart desired. The current holder made no attempts to keep the weapon for himself. The hooded man knew who deserved the sword. At last, Foster’s fingers clasped the hilt. Raising it from its mortal pedestal, he lifted the blade high. It surprised him how lightweight it was in his grasp. He wasn't sure if this was due to his own strength or if only the chosen could bear its weight.

Either way, a smile stretched across his face. "It's mine," he gasped, unable to believe this moment was real. Does a childhood dream ever seem real once it's within one's grasp?

The kneeling hooded man rose to his feet, bowing to Foster as he gestured toward the pulpit where their leader awaited him with open arms, just as he promised. Ignoring the caution in his gut, Foster made his way to the dark minister's side as the former sword wielder returned to his place in the audience.

As he reached the podium his father spent years behind, Foster found a sight that took him aback. Drowned in a pool of blood laid the torn carcass of an ugly, short-haired dog. His hind end was chewed up by constant gnawing. There was no doubt about it. He'd found Nelson. The poor pup was ripped open from the throat to the pelvis. A cruel way to die, but anything had to be better than the deteriorating life he and his master, Mr. Felix, had.

"A necessary sacrifice," the leader noted, following Foster’s gaze. "One of many, but not one lacks purpose." Turning back to his congregation, he shouted, "Rejoice for our unsuspecting brother has arrived." A cry of merriment rose and fell quick. "Brothers. Sisters." His voice grew thick, sounding close to tears. "The night fades. Our time grows short. No longer must we wait. Make haste for there will be no second chance. Come. Let us be about our father’s business.”

“We live to serve,” their voices agreed. Needing no further orders, they took their leave, hurrying through the entrance as one. The church sat undisturbed as if this dark meeting had never taken place.

Before following his people, their leader took one last look at Foster. For a quick glimpse, he saw two eyes boring into his own. They were old, bloodshot, and quaking in delight. "Have no fear. No knowledge is required. All must go according to design. Lay in wait. Your time is coming. However, let me pass this warning. Whatever you do, stay out of the affairs of your brothers and sisters. Their business is no concern of yours. Wait until your appointed time."

Before Foster could reply, he flew down the aisle and burst out the doors. Foster was alone. If it were not for the sword in his hand and the dead dog on the floor, he might've convinced himself the entire thing was a dream. Standing behind the pulpit, little dead Nelson at his feet, Mutt barking at the door, and Pendragon’s Blade in his grasp, Foster looked out at his father’s empty congregation in stunned wonder. Little did he notice that at the ajar entrance, the fog rolled in.