The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.71 The Fall of Temple Square

June 15, 7:50 pm

The urgency in Tuilla's voice was enough to shatter all the progress Richard had made. Resentment and anger threatened to overtake him as his mind spiraled dizzyingly out of the tunnels and pathways he had been exploring. It was as if a giant rubber band had been released, and it was snapping him backwards at a breakneck speed.

And then he was out of it, and back in the Tabernacle.

He opened his eyes and screamed, his frustration pitching him forward onto his hands and knees. Tuilla was sitting across from him, one gnarled hand in front of her face.

"God damn it! I was so close! I almost had it! Why the hell..."

He stopped when his eyes focused and saw the look of absolute terror on Tuilla's face. There was sweat on her old and wrinkled brow, and her limbs quivered as if she had been undertaking some Herculean task.

He could hear her breathing. But otherwise, the Tabernacle was strangely silent. There was an odd smell in the air, like something burning, far away.

Tuilla spoke with a quivering voice. "Richard Pratt. Thank God you're back. Did you... Did you get through?"

Richard moaned and leaned forward, cupping his face in his hands. "No, I didn't. I don't think I learned a fucking thing. It's just... endless... Maybe my soul is too sick and diseased for this. Maybe my mind is too broken. I don't know if I have enough compassion in me to do this."

When she finally spoke, he barely recognized her voice, it was so full of despair.

"I'm afraid we're out of time," she whispered.

"Out of time? What do you mean? We've hardly begun!"

"Richard, you have been in deep meditation for almost eight hours. I tried to awaken you when... it started. Much has been happening since you slipped away, and I was beginning to doubt that you would ever find your way back to me."

Richard looked around the Tabernacle with a sinking feeling. It all looked normal. Just as he had left it.

And yet, there is that smell, he thought.

Looking closely, he saw a haziness in the air he hadn't noticed before. And waves of smoke rolling past the windows outside. He was now dimly aware of voices—shouts and strange wailings, both human and mechanical. With a sharp intake of breath he locked eyes with the old woman, but she looked even paler than when he had come out of his trance.

Without another word he leapt to his feet, and ran toward the doors of the Tabernacle.

"Richard, prepare yourself!" Tuilla shouted from behind him as he sprinted past the rows of wooden pews. He reached out his hands for the crash bar on the door, forgetting for a moment that he was a ghost. Not getting the resistance he expected, he tumbled through the door and into the courtyard beyond the tabernacle. Right at the feet of two men in uniform.

The first thing Richard noticed was how late it was. He could tell by the angle of the sun that Tuilla had been right. It was now almost evening, and the sun was already behind the tall buildings to the south and west. And yet the top of the Temple itself was still bathed in errant sunshine. Moroni's golden trumpet shone brilliantly in the angled light.

The next thing he noticed was the sound. So much of it had been swallowed up by the Tabernacle, and maybe he had not wanted to hear the rest. But now that he was in the outside air, the sounds were battering him from all sides. There were the sounds of sirens and horns honking. There was the sound of running footsteps. But mostly, there was shouting, and the clanging of metal that rang dully like a fractured bell.