And a gnawing in Mahrree’s heart said, This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
Guide Hierum knew it, and Mahrree knew it too. But she didn’t know what to do about it.
She stared at the page, not really seeing it, but still pondering the pleas of Guide Clewus: this world was freely given, and meant to be freely shared. Her thoughts travelled back to Idumea. While all that she heard about it, that Idumea was the pinnacle of progress and achievement—except in Perrin’s eyes—there was no denying it: Idumea was founded by traitors and murderers who restructured the entire way of life the Creator established for them.
And, Mahrree suspected, Idumea was still run by traitors and murderers who ignored the Creator’s teachings. Maybe that’s why Perrin hated the city so much. He likely felt the evil that still lurked there, lying in disguise beneath every distinctive building and unique feature. The elaborate garb of the power-hungry kings was now replaced by the red coats and white ruffled shirts of twenty-three Administrators. Even evil can appear lovely in the right hat.
She shook off the thought, disappointed that she couldn’t think of any way else to honor or follow the early guides.
Except . . . maybe harvest neglected apples and give them away.
Mahrree noticed the water in her mug on the side table begin to tremble. She instinctively grabbed the sides of the table to steady it and glanced around the room. Some of the books stored loosely on the shelves began to shiver, and the floor beneath her chair rolled ever so slightly. She waited patiently, looking back again at the words in The Writings:
. . . a land tremor more powerful than ever experienced.
Tremors like this one happened at least once a season. Her family would sleep through this one, as would most of Edge. During Perrin’s first year in Edge he always woke up when the ground shook, unaccustomed to the force and frequency of land tremors in the north. Pools and Idumea, where he was born and raised, noticed the land shift only a couple of times a year. And in the far south of Flax and Waves, where Shem came from, land tremors were rarely felt.
But Mahrree never dove under the table like her husband and their favorite soldier did when the ground moved. She could tell from the outset just how bad each one would be. Her main concern right now was making sure her water didn’t slosh out and dampen any of her papers. She lifted the mug to lessen its shaking. The motion around her finally slowed, then stopped, without water spilling anywhere.
Mahrree smiled stiffly and patted The Writings. “Definitely not the Last Day yet, is it Guide Hierum!” A land tremor in early Weeding Season was much stronger, allowing everyone in Edge, Moorland, and Quake the opportunity to rearrange their shelves and wipe up the dust shaken down.
But in the back of her mind a sense of immediacy gripped her, just as it had when she read Guide Pax’s words about the Last Day on the morning after Perrin had proposed to her, more than three and a half years ago. The words from that later prophecy bounced around her mind again, committed to her memory despite her effort to not remember.
Before the Last Day even the aged of my people will strike terror in the deadened hearts of the fiercest soldiers.
On the Last Day those who have no power shall discover the greatest power is all around them.
On the Last Day those who stayed true to The Plan will be delivered as the destroyer comes.
And, even more tragically:
On that day be one of the many standing with the guide . . .
There were no guides, not anymore.
And Mahrree didn’t know what to do with that terrible truth. Maybe it meant to stand by their words, what they’d said in the past, to remain faithful to their memories—
She sighed. Why did the Creator allow the last guide to die at Mt. Deceit? What was the purpose of that? Surely they still needed guidance, didn’t they? Why would the Creator suddenly decide, “I’ve said enough. Go figure out the rest on your own”?
They still needed guidance, and protection, and . . .
For some strange reason she found herself remembering the old stooped man from last year, the one who caught Jaytsy as she ran past him at the village green, and patted Peto to sleep in a way she and Perrin could never replicate. His dark skin was faded, his curly gray hair was thinning, but there was something bright and lively and intense in his eyes. And he said . . . what was it? Something about the Creator preserving their family?
The ground shifted abruptly again, sloshing a bit of water on to Mahrree’s new book. Growling under her breath, she snatched up Jaytsy’s dirty dress from yesterday, still lying on the floor, and quickly mopped up the spill.
“Will wrinkle the pages,” she mumbled in aggravation. “Only thing worse than complicated math problems are wrinkled pages!” She looked outside her window and towards Mt. Deceit in the west, pretending her view wasn’t obscured by the Hershs’ house. “Any more little quivers and quakes this morning?” she asked crossly. “Because I have a few things to do today, and I’d like to get all of this trembling over with!”