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 A Day Will Come  (1 rating)by B.D. Fielding Page 1 of 1 Mary knew she was taking a chance, but she couldn't help herself. She gazed
intently into the ball, watching the world go by, the years moving past into
the unknown. She was only partially aware that the sun was rising; that she
might
be caught this time. The orb was telling her more than ever and she was loath
to
stop.
Finally, after watching strange birds in some future sky, she pulled herself out of the orb. She gasped when she realized how late it had gotten. Surely the Preacher was well into his rounds by now, and could show at any moment. Mary carefully placed the orb into its hiding place, smoothing the floor of her tent over the hole, settling the rug over the spot where she had slit the expensive silk. She'd surely be beaten if the Preacher ever found out. Magic was one thing, forbidden as it was, but damaging the Preacher's goods was far worse. Mary wasn't too concerned about the Preacher; she had seen his future after all. She couldn't wait to see the windmill stark against the horizon. She knew once she saw that, the Preacher would die. They were on their way out of the mountains, finally, the oppression soon to be over. It was hard for Mary to keep her faith when she knew the windmill was nowhere near. She held to that vision, knowing that someday they'd leave the mountain for the plains, and that there, she would see her windmill. "And just what in the hell are you looking so smug about, you Gypsy whore?" Mary was startled by his sudden entrance to her tent. "Nothing, Preacher, just reflecting on your sermon from last night", she lied. The Preacher merely grunted and reached out a rough hand to Mary's face, twisting her head this way and then that. "Not bad, they hardly marked you, you'll fetch a fair penny in town." Mary's eyes clouded at this reminder. The Preacher noticed and began to laugh. The sound was like an avalanche, his voice always closer to two rocks rubbing rather than anything remotely human. His great misshapen form bent as he exited her tent, his laughter frightening the wildlife to silence. He didn't belong to this world. He was cruel and hateful to be sure, but that was nothing new to her world. It was his strength, his incredible size. He stood a full head taller than any horse, and could easily hold one still for branding. His face seemed human, but everything was too broad. A gigantic nose hung above a mouth full of uneven teeth that a beaver might envy. All in all, he was a frightening man, if man he was. Mary cried to herself for many nights after that, afraid to look into her orb, wondering if it didn't lie. She despaired when she first saw signs of the town, nestled to the edge of the mountains, and no windmill in easy sight. The Preacher had taken to visiting her during their journey, to keep her in line, and for his own amusement. It pleased him to keep her down, defeated. At the beginning of this journey, she had shone some spirit, some life. The Preacher hated that, and was glad to see she crumbled more as each day went by. The town was small, but wealthy, as all had to pass through to leave the mountains. They stayed a few days, and Mary was forced to endure a few nights work, but she was happy to see no pens, or auction blocks in the square. They left before the townsmen got too rowdy, for which Mary was profoundly grateful, and it was another few days before they emerged from the cover of the trees. It was the next day, when the Preacher called a sudden halt to the caravan, that Mary first knew hope. Off in the distance could be seen a small group of men. The sun shone off their armor, and they sat their mounts like gods. The pennant that flew from one of the lances was a familiar one to Mary. She had seen it in the orb. She had never seen anything so beautiful; the wind whipped the silver lion to and fro. Mary felt tears coming but held them back. She had yet to see the windmill, after all. The Preacher seemed to recognize the pennant as well, for his voice boomed in rage. His body tensed and blood seeped from his pores. He was the visage of death, and Mary grew quite afraid. Perhaps the orb was wrong? Surely, no mere man could stand up to the Preacher, not when he was in such a rage. The Preacher bounded off towards the shining men, waving his huge sword over his head, and Mary ran after him. The men were on a rise, waiting calmly for the Preacher. The Preacher crested the first low hill between him and his enemies and continued on. Mary crested this same hill and stopped dead. For there, off in the distance, she could now see it. It was so beautiful. Never had she thought to so love the sight of so familiar an object. Yet, she found herself on her knees, crying and laughing. She blew a kiss to the windmill and watched as the Preacher ran to his doom. B.D. Fielding
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