“God awaits you on the other side. First your heart finds Him; then your mind will understand Him more clearly so that all evidence points toward the unshakable conclusion you could not find before, and after that leap, your faith will grow stronger with time. But faith, any faith, is trust and that small leap into darkness.”
“No, Gervaise,” Thomas said aloud. “I cannot do this. You ask too much.”
“After sixty steps, you must make the leap of faith. Understand? Make the leap of faith.”
Yet how could Thomas blindly jump ahead? What lay on the other side? What lay below?
An encouraging thought struck him.
Magnus was surrounded by lake waters. Indeed, the wells of Magnus did not have to be dug deep before reaching water. And this passage was already below the surface. How far down, then, before reaching water from this passageway?
Might he drop his sword to test the depth of the chasm?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No, he could not venture weaponless.
Might he drop Beast ahead to test the depth of the chasm? Or cast the Beast ahead to test the width?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No. He knew that, while his brain compelled him to explore everyoption, his heart would not let him callously do something like this to the puppy. Not to an innocent creature. Not when Beast trusted him so.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas frowned. Had he not regarded Gervaise with equal trust? And if Thomas now showed such concern for the puppy, would not Gervaise show that much more concern for Thomas?
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas finally allowed himself to decide what he had known since recalling the old man’s words about faith.
He must leap into the darkness.
Ten times Thomas paced large steps backward from the edge of the chasm. Ten times he repaced them forward again, careful to reach down and ahead with his sword on the eighth, ninth, and tenth steps to establish he had not yet reached the edge.
“Beast,” he said as he retraced his steps backward yet again, “if leap we must, I shall not do it from a standstill. Faith or not, I doubt Gervaise would encourage stupidity.”
Thomas had debated briefly whether to leave the puppy behind. But only briefly. The extra weight was slight, and he could not bear to make it across safely and hear the abandoned whimpers of a puppy left for death.
Thomas squatted and felt for the line he had gouged into the ground to mark the ten paces away from the edge.
He rehearsed the planned action in his mind. He would sprint only eight steps—for he could not trust running paces to be as small as his ten carefully stretched and marked paces. On the eighth step, he would leap and dive and release the puppy. His hands would give him first warning of impact—how he hoped for that impact!—and at best he might knock loose his breath. The puppy would travel slightly farther, and at best tumble and roll.
At worst, neither would reach the other side of that unknown chasm in this terrible blackness.
Thomas drew a deep breath. He hugged the puppy once, then tucked him into the crook of his right arm.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas plunged ahead.
At full sprint, Thomas dove upward on the eighth step and left the ground.
In the black around him, he had no way to measure the height he reached, no way to measure how far forward he flew, and no way to measure how much he dropped.
It seemed to take forever, the rush of air in his ears, the half sob of fear escaping his throat, and the squirm of the puppy in his outstretched hands.
The puppy!
In midair, Thomas pushed him ahead and released him from his hands. Before he could even think of praying for his safety, or the safety of the puppy, the heels of his hands hit solid ground, and he bumped and skidded onto his nose and chin, then, as his head bounced upward, his chest and stomach.
Time, with him, skidded back to normal, and Thomas could count his heartbeats thudding in his ears.
Was he across? Or at the bottom
“No, Gervaise,” Thomas said aloud. “I cannot do this. You ask too much.”
“After sixty steps, you must make the leap of faith. Understand? Make the leap of faith.”
Yet how could Thomas blindly jump ahead? What lay on the other side? What lay below?
An encouraging thought struck him.
Magnus was surrounded by lake waters. Indeed, the wells of Magnus did not have to be dug deep before reaching water. And this passage was already below the surface. How far down, then, before reaching water from this passageway?
Might he drop his sword to test the depth of the chasm?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No, he could not venture weaponless.
Might he drop Beast ahead to test the depth of the chasm? Or cast the Beast ahead to test the width?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No. He knew that, while his brain compelled him to explore everyoption, his heart would not let him callously do something like this to the puppy. Not to an innocent creature. Not when Beast trusted him so.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas frowned. Had he not regarded Gervaise with equal trust? And if Thomas now showed such concern for the puppy, would not Gervaise show that much more concern for Thomas?
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas finally allowed himself to decide what he had known since recalling the old man’s words about faith.
He must leap into the darkness.
Ten times Thomas paced large steps backward from the edge of the chasm. Ten times he repaced them forward again, careful to reach down and ahead with his sword on the eighth, ninth, and tenth steps to establish he had not yet reached the edge.
“Beast,” he said as he retraced his steps backward yet again, “if leap we must, I shall not do it from a standstill. Faith or not, I doubt Gervaise would encourage stupidity.”
Thomas had debated briefly whether to leave the puppy behind. But only briefly. The extra weight was slight, and he could not bear to make it across safely and hear the abandoned whimpers of a puppy left for death.
Thomas squatted and felt for the line he had gouged into the ground to mark the ten paces away from the edge.
He rehearsed the planned action in his mind. He would sprint only eight steps—for he could not trust running paces to be as small as his ten carefully stretched and marked paces. On the eighth step, he would leap and dive and release the puppy. His hands would give him first warning of impact—how he hoped for that impact!—and at best he might knock loose his breath. The puppy would travel slightly farther, and at best tumble and roll.
At worst, neither would reach the other side of that unknown chasm in this terrible blackness.
Thomas drew a deep breath. He hugged the puppy once, then tucked him into the crook of his right arm.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas plunged ahead.
At full sprint, Thomas dove upward on the eighth step and left the ground.
In the black around him, he had no way to measure the height he reached, no way to measure how far forward he flew, and no way to measure how much he dropped.
It seemed to take forever, the rush of air in his ears, the half sob of fear escaping his throat, and the squirm of the puppy in his outstretched hands.
The puppy!
In midair, Thomas pushed him ahead and released him from his hands. Before he could even think of praying for his safety, or the safety of the puppy, the heels of his hands hit solid ground, and he bumped and skidded onto his nose and chin, then, as his head bounced upward, his chest and stomach.
Time, with him, skidded back to normal, and Thomas could count his heartbeats thudding in his ears.
Was he across? Or at the bottom
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