Chapter 349: My Turn

After Pratt compiled the information, he sent it to Harding, who would decide whether to transfer those individuals to the quarantine tents.

Every squad was doing the same thing simultaneously.

The hoarse voice of another squad leader drifted over from the Row A tents next door, audible even through two layers of canvas.

From the direction of Row C came the occasional clank of iron gates opening and closing—refugees marked for quarantine were being relocated.

By the second day of patrols, problems had begun surfacing in clusters.

Richard pulled back the flap of a tent in the third row.

Three families lived inside, totaling five adults and two children.

Camp beds were lined up in a row, with blankets hung between them as partitions.

One of the blankets was knocked askew, revealing a woman inside feeding thin porridge to her child.

"Excuse me," Richard said in Franc.

Most of these refugees came from southern Flanders, speaking a mixture of Franc and Flemish.

His Franc wasn't exactly fluent, but it was enough for basic conversation.

"What day did you arrive?"

The woman's lips parted.

"...Thursday."

"Which Thursday?"

"This..." She furrowed her brow.

"I don't really remember."

"The water rose, so we left."

Richard wrote her statement down in his registry.

As he moved further in, he asked the other two families and received the exact same answer.

The water rose, so we left.

As for how the water rose, where it came from, or how high it reached... they couldn't recall a single detail.

Catherine walked beside him in silence.

Her Nemesis ability allowed her to discern it just by standing outside.

She could tell who carried a heavy "dampness" and who had almost none.

After checking each person, she made a mark in her small notebook.

A circle for heavy dampness, a dot for faint.

When they reached the fourth row of tents, Richard encountered an old woman.

She sat hunched on a camp bed, both hands clutching a sodden, ruined stuffed rabbit.

"This belongs to my granddaughter," the old woman said in Flemish.

Richard could barely understand Flemish.

"Where is she?"

The old woman lowered her head to look at the toy.

She rubbed her thumb over an ear that had been stitched back on.

"She was sleeping when the water rose."

"I called her twice, but she didn't move."

"I thought she was just sleeping deeply, so I picked her up and headed for higher ground."

Her hand stopped on the rabbit's belly.

"When we reached the embankment, I looked down at her."

"Her eyes were open."

"But inside those eyes..."

Outside the tent, the wind picked up again, slapping the canvas against the frame with a heavy thudding sound.

"...It wasn't her anymore."

Richard wrote her words down in the registry, word for word.

Catherine stood outside the tent flap; she hadn't come inside.

But she reached her hand through the gap and drew a circle in her notebook.

The circle was drawn so heavily that the pen tip nearly tore through the paper.

Richard closed the registry and bowed slightly to the old woman.

"Someone will come to help take care of you."

He didn't know what else to say.

Stepping out of the tent, Richard stood in the mud for a moment.

The sea breeze swept over his face, numbing his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Catherine flipped her notebook around to show him.

The page was densely packed with numbers and marks. There were far more circles than dots.

Out of the two hundred or so refugees in the Row B tents, at least a third carried a "dampness" heavy enough to make her uneasy, all concentrated between the third and fifth rows.

Richard turned to the next page of his registry and walked into the neighboring tent.

This tent housed a middle-aged fisherman.

The fisherman sat cross-legged on a camp bed. An enamel bowl rested in front of him, the oatmeal inside already cold.

He wasn't eating, and he wasn't looking at the bowl.

His gaze was fixed on an empty bed on the other side of the tent, its blankets folded neatly.

"What day did you arrive?" Richard asked, sitting on the edge of the opposite camp bed.

The fisherman didn't pull his eyes away from the empty bed.

"Before the water rose," he replied in Franc.

"The well water in our village changed first."

Richard's pen paused.

"It turned salty." The fisherman licked his lips, as if tasting it all over again.

"After you drank it, a... coppery, sweet taste lingered in the throat."

"Like blood, but not quite blood."

He finally dragged his eyes away from the empty bed to look at Richard.

"Everyone who drank that water had the same dream that night."

"What dream?"

"Someone calling our names in the dream."

The fisherman's voice dropped to a murmur.

"Calling us one by one, using the accents of our grandfathers."

"The people whose names were called." The fisherman picked up the enamel bowl, then set it back down.

"The next day, they walked toward the water."

"Walked right over, happily."

"And as they left, they'd look back and say..."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

"My turn."

Richard wrote that sentence in his registry, then drew a line underneath it.

Erudition flipped through the vast library inside his mind.

In ancient Gallic sacrifices, those chosen as tributes would say a specific phrase to their companions on the way to the altar.

Different tribes used slightly varied phrasing, but the core meaning was always the same: It's my turn.

Upon leaving the tent, Richard added this interview to his report for Pratt.

Early on the third morning, Pratt gathered the four of them together again.

"Patrols continue as usual today. This morning, I'll take you through the red-flagged tents in rows three through five again to double-check everything."

"In the afternoon, I'll perform a round of divination. The rest of you, watch closely and learn."

The morning patrol went much like the previous day's.

The only difference was that they specifically re-examined the red-flagged tents in rows three through five.

For two of the red-flagged refugees from yesterday, the "dampness" concentration had dropped below the threshold today.

Pratt had Richard change their marks in the registry, downgrading them from red to yellow.

On the other hand, the concentration for three individuals had grown even thicker. The fisherman's dampness was so overwhelming that Catherine frowned outside before the tent flap was even lifted.

Those three were transferred to the quarantine tents that same day.

When afternoon arrived, Pratt found a relatively sheltered corner at the head of the Row B tents and set a Copper Dish on the ground.

He pulled a deck of Tarot Cards from the inner pocket of his trench coat.

The card faces were worn white at the edges—clearly old companions that had followed their master across many miles.

"I'll do a round of divination in a moment. You all will assist."

He shot Richard a look.

"Do you know Stone Reading?"

"I do."

Pratt didn't pry further.

"Will you use your own or mine?"

"My own." Richard took out the set of Runestones that had been with him for over a year from his canvas bag.

There were over twenty stones, and he could distinguish the weight and feel of each one with his eyes closed.

"I'll draw the cards, you cast the stones." Pratt shuffled the deck in his hands.

"Every time I turn over a set, I'll read the interpretation aloud.

You'll simultaneously cast a round of stones, using your set for cross-verification.

If both sides align, we move on. If not, we do it again."

Catherine stood two steps away, her little notebook flipped open.

Edmund stood at the corner of the tent, gripping a crucifix as his gaze swept back and forth down the aisle.

Maggie crouched further out, her back against a red brick wall, a hunting knife resting flat across her knees.

Pratt squatted next to the Copper Dish, resting the deck face-down on his knee.

"First set."

He flipped over three cards.

Under the gray November light, the faded designs on the cards revealed themselves.

The first card: The Moon, Upright.

The second card: The Hanged Man, Reversed.

The third card: Death, Upright.

Pratt stared at the three cards for a few seconds.

"The Moon, Upright. Ancient things lie hidden beneath the water's surface.

The Hanged Man, Reversed. What was trapped has begun to loosen; the ropes that once bound it are slipping.

Death, Upright. This signifies transformation; a certain cycle is restarting."

Richard grabbed a handful of Runestones and cast them onto his own Copper Dish.

The three closest to the dish's center: the Teardrop, the Spiral, and the Skull.

The Teardrop and the Spiral rested against each other, while the Skull pressed tightly to the absolute center.

"The Teardrop and the Spiral: unfinished matters are recurring.

The Skull rests on the center. It's related to death, and it holds the core position."

He looked up at Pratt.

"The directions match. There's something old beneath the water.

What was previously suppressed is coming loose, and a cycle tied to death is spinning back up."

Pratt gave a slight nod. "Continue."

He gathered the three cards, reshuffled the deck, and drew the second set.

The Tower, Upright.

The Star, Reversed.

Judgement, Upright.

Pratt's finger paused on the edge of The Tower.

"The Tower, Upright. Something structural exists at the foundational level, and it's under intense pressure.

The Star, Reversed. The system originally meant to guide and purify has failed; the direction has gone awry.

Judgement, Upright. What was buried is standing up once more."

The mole by the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Something is heading deep underground, and whatever is down there is responding."

Richard cast his Runestones again.

This time, two landed in the center of the dish: the Hammer and the Concentric Circles.

The Hammer slanted along the edge of the center, while the Concentric Circles stuck exactly to the middle.

"The Hammer has strayed to the edge of the center. Action isn't happening right this moment, but the direction is set. The Concentric Circles are dead center."

He stared at the stone carved with the concentric circles.

"This is a well."

The two men exchanged a look.

Pratt didn't rush to a final conclusion; instead, he studied the relative positions of the second set of cards again.

The Tower on the left, the Star in the middle, Judgement on the right.

Reading from left to right: a structure under pressure, guidance failing, the dead rising again.

Richard's Stone Reading revealed: the direction is set, and the core is a well.

Both methods pointed to the exact same place.

Pratt gathered up the Tarot Cards.

Richard also picked up his Runestones, returning them to his leather pouch one by one.

"Who taught you Stone Reading?" Pratt asked suddenly.

"...A senior."

"They taught you very well."

Pratt stood up, his knee popping with a sharp crack.

"The direction is set. There's a well beneath us. The well and its water are tied to death, and they involve some sort of ancient contract."

"You all wrap up today's patrol first.

I'm going to brief Harding. Starting tomorrow, we'll run ether tests along the pipelines to verify whether the divination is accurate."