Amberville - By Tim Davys Page 0,98

Carrer de la Marquesa, the ash-gray street, and finally he knew where he was. The wind was still blowing briskly; it wasn’t too late. He continued running up toward the intersection to dark-blue Avinguda de Pedralbes, from where it was no more than a few minutes up to Eastern Avenue. If he could keep up the pace, he would be at the Star and the cathedral before the storm died out.

The few animals who were outside in the lukewarm Evening Storm in Yok’s run-down blocks were careful not to turn around or stare at Eric as he ran past. A running animal meant bad news.

On Eastern Avenue, Eric Bear reduced his pace, although his stride remained long. When he saw the cathedral’s hedgehog-like silhouette against the cloud-draped sky, he was still so focused on arriving in time that he forgot to feel nervous.

Yesterday morning, when Hyena Bataille had told him about the clothes that were delivered to the Garbage Dump, Eric Bear understood for the first time that he had neither been the first nor the last confirmand chosen to lead a small league of clothing stealers. And it was then as well that he’d understood that it was the archdeacon himself, and no other, who was behind the Death List. It was that simple. That was why it could go on, year after year, with ever-new groups of children taken in hand by Penguin Odenrick.

The wind was milder as Eric went up the stairs to the cathedral’s massive portal and opened the rather modest door that led into the church. He passed through the great halls, across the inner courtyard, and along the colonnade. He continued through the dark corridors with torches along the walls, and only when he came up to the door that led into the archdeacon’s office did he stop. For a moment he was once again fourteen years old. He knew that he had one full hour, no more.

Then he pulled himself together, quickly knocked, and pushed open the door without waiting for an answer.

TEDDY BEAR, 5

Emma Rabbit was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen.

But Archdeacon Odenrick saw her first.

Odenrick stepped into the narthex where Emma and her mother were waiting. He had explained the procedure to us in advance. He wanted to say a few words to the bride and bridegroom before the ceremony itself. Emma and I had chosen the shorter variation.

To me, religion remained a two-edged weapon.

It was a matter of daring to believe in the unbelievable, which in all other contexts was described as stupidity. I’d devoted my life to pure goodness, and I sensed a double standard in the kind of goodness advocated by the church. It focused on good actions, while the soul and the self were allowed doubt and uncertainty. The church in Mollisan Town was a proselytizing church. If for no other reason, the church’s religion was simplified and systematized. Its greatest advantage was that it lessened our fear of death.

Emma and I met Archdeacon Odenrick in one of the meeting rooms at Lakestead House. It was just the three of us.

“And you, Emma?” said Odenrick. “Do you also think that the primary contribution of religion is to lessen the fear of death?”

“I’m not afraid to die,” said Emma.

Archdeacon Odenrick smiled victoriously in my direction.

“I’m not a believer, either,” Emma added.

The archdeacon’s smile disappeared.

We were sitting one flight up. Outside the windows it was already dark. The lighthouse out on the promontory swept its light over us at regular intervals. There was a smell of coffee from the kitchen.

“But you’re in agreement about marrying in the church?” the archdeacon asked with some skepticism in his voice.

“If you’re going to get married, then you should,” said Emma.

“Many times Magnus’s sense of morality coincides with mine,” I said. “In the remaining cases I’m prepared to forgive.”

“To forgive is divine,” replied the archdeacon.

All three of us nodded.

It was going to be a beautiful wedding.

“Emma Rabbit,” said Archdeacon Odenrick as he stood outside in the small narthex only minutes before the ceremony, “you are a very, very beautiful bride.”

“Thank you, Archdeacon,” said Emma.

When the choir began singing I shed tears.

We had come in contact with the Red Bird Singers through Father. Despite the fact that they seldom performed at private events, they had agreed. When the eight, pale-red birds stood on the platform and the distinctive harmony caused the church’s hollow timbers to quiver with hope and melancholy, I knew that it had been worth the trouble.

However much Father had