The Hidden Vale

The forest had been closing in for the better part of an hour.

The canopy thickened overhead until the light that came through was dim and cold. The undergrowth caught at his cloak, pulling at his legs and arms. The wood smelled of rot and wet bark, pressing against him the way his thoughts had been pressing… without malice, without mercy, just weight with no relief.

He had been carrying a great deal for a long time.

Putting his shoulder down Theron pushed through a stubborn tangle of branches.

And he finally broke through.

He stumbled into open air and stilled. He blinked against the abrupt change in light. The towering trees stretched toward the sky, their leaves catching the sunlight and holding it. Luminous, trembling, every shade of gold and green burning from within. The branches were dark, almost black against the light, tracing their crooked architecture in patterns that had no plan and yet were captivatingly intricate.

He stood with his neck tilted back, his breath slow.

Then his eyes followed the light down.

The shafts fell through the canopy in long slow fingers.
They reached down to the moss and it came alive beneath its caress with a warm answering glow of something found. 

He had felt that before. 

In a hand held in the dark. In a voice that spoke your name like it was glad to say it. In an embrace of a mother when faced with disappointment. The kind of touch that doesn’t take anything, only gives. 

The whole floor shimmered quietly in response.

He sensed he had walked into the middle of something that was eternal.

The moss swallowed the bases of stones rising through it in rough uneven rows which were too evenly spaced to be accidental and yet, not carved or set, but arranged as if the earth itself had understood what this space was for.

He was not the first to stand here with his mouth open.

Then he heard it. A single note, held long and unhurried, threading through the light like it belonged there more than the silence did. At the far end of the glen, half in shadow and half in a shaft of gold, a figure sat on the largest stone — cloaked, still, and with his back to Theron. The instrument was small and stringed, held against his collarbone. The sound resonated in Therons sternum before it reached his ears, less a song and more a frequency the glen had always been tuned to.

He did not speak. He was not sure he was supposed to.

The music beckoned him to listen and experience with all his senses, and here there was peace. 

Those cares that had always been asking something of him. The road that asked for his endurance. His purpose that asked for his certainty. His failures that asked for his attention. But this place asked for nothing. The light fell where it fell. The music played whether he was here or not.

He had stumbled into something that did not need him, and it was the most welcome he had felt in months.

The stranger paused for a moment and then kept playing. As if to say: yes. I heard you come in. Stay as long as you need.

Theron sat down on the nearest stone, set his pack at his feet, and stopped moving.

He let the music envelop him in its embrace as his eyes wandered about the glen following the light, and the rustling leaves in the breeze.

But eventually it stopped… the way rain stops. The last note dissolved into the glen’s own quiet music; wind through high leaves, the distant conversation of water.

Theron rose and slowly crossed toward the far stone. The stranger did not turn until he was a few yards away. The face beneath the hood was weathered but kind. He did not smile, but the deep creases around his eyes and mouth bespoke merriment and joy. His eyes, calm, knowing.

“You came through the dark way,” the stranger said. It was not a question.

“I didn’t know there was another way,” Theron said.

“There isn’t.”

“What is this place?”

The stranger looked around in wonder as if he were seeing it for the first time again. “A cathedral. The oldest kind. No one built it… or rather, one did, and he did it the way he does everything.” He paused. “It was made for creatures to come and remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That they are creatures.” He said it with merriment. “We spend a great deal of effort forgetting. Convincing ourselves that if we worry carefully enough we can hold it all together.” He glanced up at the canopy. “But look at it. Not one of those branches grew where anyone told them to. Not one of those stones was set by a hand. And look.” He let the word sit. “You walked in here and your shoulders came down. It happens to everyone the forest sends.”

Theron thought about denying it, and then didn’t.

“Places like this are reminders. That there is a design older than your anxiety. That the one who made the canopy also knows your name. That the things you are carrying were never yours to carry alone.” He touched the strings once, a single resonant note spreading through the glen like a stone dropped in still water. “You come in burdened and the place holds you. You remember that you are loved and that you are not in charge.”

Theron looked at the rocks in their imperfect rows. The branches reaching in every direction without plan or apology.

“I didn’t realize how much lighter I feel,” he said. “I want to stay here forever.”

“Everyone does. But here is not what needs you. You were made for something more.” The stranger’s eyes pierced into his soul. And Theron remembered the call in his chest, and saw it, but this time, a little differently.

The sanctuary smelled of burning wood and sulfur. Dragons gathered silently in the last refuge available to their kin, the drakes and those that bonded with them hunted to near extinction. The sounds of iron-shod boots from thousands of soldiers trampled the valley, their home, in their holy quest to rid the world of the demons that plagued it.

Zara knelt at the altar, her prayers whispered quietly, stitching a tear in the thick, leathery wing of an agitated red dragon, his blood staining her fingers. He let out a quiet growl and a puff of smoke at the chaos outside their doors.

“Easy, Bakaris,” she crooned, tying off her stitches with a firm knot. “If you roar, the whole mountainside will fall against us. Save your fire.”

A dull thud echoed from the heavy wooden doors, followed by another and another. Zara shivered despite the heat of the six remaining dragons. The abandoned church nestled deep in the mountain pass, but had now been compromised.

“They're here,” Soren said softly, approaching from the shadows and kneeling at her side. He was dressed in thick dragon scale armor, a helmet tucked under one arm, and a short sword sheathed at his side. His green eyes were heavy with grief and exhaustion. “Their scouts must have tracked us here somehow.”

“Or we've been betrayed,” Zara answered, wearily. Her eyes trailed up the walls to the rafters where a massive black behemoth—the Elder Dragon—perched, tilting his great horned head down at her. His golden eyes glowed.

“The doors are thick, but they won't hold forever,” he rumbled in the deepest baritone. “Shall I burn them all now and save them the trouble?”

“No, Calix,” she replied, shaking her head. “That will only show them we are the very monsters they believe us to be. We need a miracle, and a distraction.”

The great dragon curled his lips from his fangs, grumbling. “It would be my pleasure.”

Heavy wood splintered, and dozens of battle-ready soldiers spilled into the sanctuary. Calix dropped from the rafters like a shadow, hissing, steam billowing from his jaws and filling the room. Voices of the remaining Riders rose in song, the ancient language reverberating and disorienting their attackers. The room pulsed with energy, and Soren raised his sword in salute to Zara.

“Go!” he commanded, and Bakaris surged forward. The back wall shimmered as a veil lifted, and one by one the dragons pitched themselves through the illusion and out into the open, freezing mountain air.

Behind them, the church remained undisturbed once more save for the confused soldiers milling about, their ears still ringing.

The war was far from over, but the Riders would live to fight another day.

I ended up with a story about a hidden church rather than in  a hidden church. I hope you'll forgive me.

“Do you understand the plan?” Piper asked, adjusting his colorful jacket.

“Yes, sir,” Tate replied, pulling his dark cloak around him. “I’m ready.”

He stood off to the side, bouncing with excitement, as Piper opened the door. Piper gave him a wink then stepped out. Anyone who was watching would have their attention on the colorful figure leaving the ship. Tate waited for him to get far enough away then slipped out and into the shadows. Piper pushed a button and the door closed behind them.

It had been two years since Piper saved Tate and his friends from servitude in the mines. He’d taken them when the townspeople had refused to pay him for ridding them of the defective bots that were plaguing them. The other children had found homes in various places, but Tate had stayed. After discovering Piper’s ability to reprogram the bots, even from a distance, there was nothing else he wanted to do but stay and help Piper rescue others.

In town, Tate blended in with the crowd and listened to the rumor of Piper. It didn’t take long for word to spread that he was here to offer his services in getting rid of the defective cleaning bots that were overtaking the place, cleaning things that shouldn’t be cleaned and wearing out the things that should.

The tiny things were everywhere. Tate picked one off his arm and examined it. It was like the drillflies he had grown up with, but these had attachments for cleaning instead of drilling. One by itself couldn’t do much, but when you had millions of them, nothing could get by them. They problem was, they had multiplied and were getting out of hand.

Someone grabbed Tate’s arm. He looked up to find a large man glaring at him.

“Who are you, and where’s your documentation?”

Tate tried to pull away, but the man held tight.

“Documentation. Now.”

“I left it at home,” Tate said.

“Sneaking out, huh?” The man jerked him aside. “Well, your parents can pick you up at the jail.”

Tate argued, but there was nothing he could do. They had heard it was illegal to be in public without some kind of identifying papers. Tate hadn’t believed they would be so strict until now.

The man dragged him into a building and shoved him inside a jail cell.

“You’re going to get it from my dad when he hears about this,” Tate said as the man slammed the barred door in his face.

The man grumbled and walked away.

A teenage boy sat on a bench on the far wall. Tate dropped beside him.

“I hope you’re right about your dad coming,” the boy whispered. “They’re liable to hang you tomorrow if he doesn’t.”

Tate grinned at him. “Not tomorrow. They’ll be busy with other things tomorrow.” He held out a hand. “I’m Tate.”

“Alan.” He glanced toward the guards and said nothing more.

Tate leaned back and relaxed. It was going to be a long wait.

In the morning, Tate lay on the floor, his eyes slit, and watched as their guard checked the locks then left the building. He stayed still and listened to the quiet for a moment before turning to Alan.

“Any other prisoners here?” he asked.

Alan jumped up from the bench, went to the bars, and looked around before calling, “Dad?”

“I’m here, son,” came a tired voice. “You okay?”

“So far. How about you?”

“Trusting God will take care of us.”

Tate smiled. He was now sure he had the right people.

He banged his shoe against the floor, loosening the box he had hidden in the sole. Alan watched in confused silence as he jumped up and joined him at the bars. Holding the box next to the lock, he opened it and released a tiny bot. The thing found the lock and had it open within a minute.

“Whoa,” Alan mumbled.

Tate slipped out and did the same to the lock on the other door.

“Who are you?” Alan asked.

Tate grinned at him. “Let’s get out of here.”

Seeing no one outside, they ran.

“Where is everyone?” Alan’s dad asked.

“Watching Piper get rid of the cleaning bots,” Tate answered as he ran.

“Who’s Piper?”

“Did you see the ship that landed a few days ago?”

Alan stopped and peeked around a corner. “Who could miss it?”

“That’s Piper. This morning, he’ll take the cleaning bots. Tonight, he’ll take you.”

Alan stopped and looked back at him. “What?”

“If you want to go,” Tate said. “You’ll just end up getting killed if you stay here, right?”

Alan looked at his dad.

“He’s offering us a way out of here?” the man asked.

“To wherever you want to go.”

“All of us?”

“Yes.”

The two took Tate with them to meet with others in their underground church. There was a lot of debate, but in the end, they decided to take the chance. Their freedom had been taken away from them because of their belief in God. Their only other choice was to hide and wait for the day they would be killed. Some thought they should stay to look for other converts, but it had been years since they had brought in anyone new.

That evening, they all waited for the sound of the flute. At the first notes, Tate could almost feel everyone relax. Men and women gathered their children and slipped out of town toward the ship.

Piper greeted them there and welcomed them aboard.

“Did you get paid?” Tate asked when he got to him.

“Of course not,” Piper answered, unconcerned. “Let’s get out of here before anyone starts poking.”

“Yes, sir.”

With everyone on board, they took off into space, taking their passengers somewhere they could worship their God in safety.

Team Otter-Melissa Goonan

The Last Church

“Thank you, sir,” I thanked the officer as he handed me the bag with my allotted two cans of beans. I tucked the punch card into my pouch. Dusk was settling and I could see my breath as I rubbed my hands together. I walked quickly as curfew was approaching. Four and a half years into the swine flu I852 epidemic of 2032 and I still wasn’t used to the curfew. We always thought another round of Covid 19 would be our downfall; however, a Swine Flu epidemic was not expected. What happens is never what we fear.

I hurried down the dark cobblestone alley so I could get to Living Community Church. The last church in my small town of Glouster, Ohio. The other churches closed only six months into the epidemic as they learned that the lockdowns that weren’t successful in 2020 would work in 2032. Back then, if you were caught having large gatherings, you would be warned. Now, you would be sent to quarantine centers. What was strange was that no one from the quarantine centers were ever seen again. This didn’t stop our community from meeting as our church believes with our hearts that we must never forsake the gathering together as believers. Oddly enough, no one from our community of believers has ever been ill. And we never turn one away that longs for the fellowship that the body of Christ brings.

Knock, Knock knock knock knock. The secret knocks resounded. It was a far cry from how Officers pounded at doors. I shuddered remembering what happened to large families….

“I have my contribution to our supper,” I whispered to Helen, the pastor’s wife. I longed for some meat and bread, but those delicacies were reserved either for officers, or those that would betray anyone in large gatherings. “Serving their country” they deemed it. I felt it was because they wanted meat.

Helen smiled gratefully. She placed my beans on the long table. It was our favorite service of the week, where we’d eat and talk about God’s faithfulness. We have all lost so much of how we lived but gained a thankfulness that cannot be bought or earned.

Our congregation had 20 members. Five of us were from the original community, but most did not stay when the lockdowns were enforced. The rest were new believers, with three new recruits last week. As there were more knocks, Assistant Pastor Rob stood up to bless the food while Pastors Lonnie and Helen made instant coffee. Rob was one of the original five that helped our community stay open and alive. His wife left in the first enforced lockdown.  Rob also handled our meager contributions to our food storage which helped us keep these Sunday Nights alive.

“Thank you, Father for this bounty we are about to receive,” Rob prayed. Everyone rose quietly to stand in line as there was more movement on the streets on this particular night. Sometimes, Officers conducted surprise visits to homes, but it was not likely this location would be found, nestled underground of where our church used to be before it “closed.”

The congregants filed in line, and the talk was whispered but lively. Rob sat close to a new group of believers, probably to set them at ease, and show them they were in a family. There was a cost in these days to following Jesus as the Bible teaches.

“Trudy, can you grab Laurie some coffee?” Serving Laurie, I smiled softly at her. “We are so glad you’re here,” I reassured.

“I missed the family of God,” Laurie smiled. “it’s worth the risk for community.”

Rob kept watching the door as I had my interaction with Laurie. “Is anyone new coming tonight?” I wondered.

Rob didn’t hear my question. “We should get started, shouldn’t we Lonnie?”

“Why, do you have a party to go to, Rob?” Lonnie chuckled at his joke. Sunday nights were the riskiest as we were past curfew and would need to stay the night.

Rob gave Lonnie a bear hug. “I’m just excited to get into the word of the Lord,” said Rob. “What could be better than that?”

The meal portion of the evening was joyful as always as we all talked and laughed (quietly as the activity outside tonight seemed concerning). Pastor Lonnie opened up with scripture and allowed everyone time to share testimonies. Tonight, the new members would share their testimonies of struggles with this epidemic and how they came to find this last church. I noticed that Rob kept looking at the door. He appeared jumpy this evening. I sometimes forget how even the most seasoned of us can have reactions when Officers are doing their checks.

As we raised our voices for a last song together, suddenly at the door was POUND, POUND, POUND!

“Open up!” demanded the booming voice from the outside. “Or we will kick the door down.”

We all looked at Pastor Lonnie, alarmed. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “I’ll open the door.”

Three uniformed officers filed in as soon as Lonnie opened the door.

“We were given a tip that large gatherings were taking place at this location. Thank you sir for the tip. Meat and Bread are being delivered to your home as we speak.”

We all stared at each other, with broken hearts. One of the new believers must have betrayed us to reap food. Bravely, we all stood to be taken to the quarantine center as we always knew this could be the cost, and counted it worthy.

Pastor Rob stood up and faced the officers. Ashamed he croaked, “You’re welcome.”

I was shell shocked, as Lonnie faced Rob. He had a loving look on his face as he whispered, “Friend, do what you came here to do.”

Shrine of St Terese

By Kim Sullivan, Team Otter      

         In the summer of 1985, I spent six weeks patrolling the Aleutian Islands and the brutal, unforgiving gray of the Bering Sea.  Life aboard the USCGC Munro, the high endurance cutter I was stationed on, had been a relentless cycle of heavy swells, sea spray and howling winds.  My world, defined by diesel fumes, tight quarters, round the clock watches, and the constant boarding of fishing vessels and search and rescue missions. 

            When our cutter finally tied up in Juneau Alaska, for port liberty, I was more than ready to step off the ship and feel the stillness of land beneath my boots.   The plan was to rent a car with my friend Mark and do some camping and explore the area.  I was looking forward to some much-needed time off and was excited for the opportunity to explore the Alaskan wilderness.

            The Glacial Highway hugs the coast, as it passes through the dense, green woods of the Tongass National Forest.  I watch out the window of our rental car, the panoramic view of the vast Lynn canal and the snow-capped Chilkat Mountains with their lush, spruce pines in the backdrop.  “Wow,” I said eyes wide and looking over at Mark as he drove.  “It’s so beautiful out here.”  Mark seemed not as impressed, “I’ve got to take a leak.”  He said as we passed a sign for the Shrine of St Terese.  “Can you hold on for a few more miles?”  I asked, “We can make a stop and check out the shrine.”  He grumbled and picked up the speed in urgency. 

My mind drifts along with the momentum of the car, and I see her.  Face up, just under the crystal-clear water.  A halo of brown hair floating out around her head.  Arms bent up at the elbows, and fists clenched as if still holding pom poms in cheer.  She smiles and her lifeless brown eyes look up to the heavens.  

 Her face snap-flashed into my memory as our search crew reached together and pulled her out of the water.  We begin CPR immediately, and our helicopter rescue meets us to air-lift her to the hospital.  She was only thirteen.  I am nineteen.  Only six years older and as of that moment, I feel so much older and unsure if I’m ready for what life has to offer. 

The car comes to a stop and brings me back from my torment.  Mark hops out and dashes into the thickness of the trees.  I climbed out and looked around.  There are no other cars or people.  It’s so quiet but for the sound of the ocean water lapping against the rocky shore, and the gulls cawing as they fly about.  

“Some kind of shrine huh, Kim?”  Mark says from behind me.  “I don’t know what kind of shrine it is, but it must be out there.”  I point out the island thick with spruce trees.  “Come on, let’s go explore.”  I start off down the stone causeway ahead of him not waiting for his approval.  We made our way through the misty grey that we have come to know so well from our time in Alaska. 

            Once within the tree line, we followed along the path, surrounded by dense spruce trees and rocks covered by a thick carpet of dark green moss.  It doesn’t seem real, like we’ve stepped back in time, and I immediately feel my mind, body and spirit relax.  I look up and suck in my breath, “It’s a hidden church!”  I exclaimed.  Standing there in front of us was a rustic chapel constructed with round beach stones.  Gothic style, with a steeply pitched, front facing gable roof.  The door and windows with pointed arches and the bell tower are like a castle.  There is a statue amid an overgrown garden, and we stop to read the plaque.  St. Terese of Lisieux, known as the Little Flower of Jesus.  She was known for her spiritual approach called the ‘Little Way’, a path of spiritual childhood, trust, and love achieved through daily acts of kindness, rather than large deeds and is the namesake for the island shrine. 

The cornerstone on the front of the church is dated 1938.  We pulled on door and were surprised to find it unlocked.  We stepped inside the tiny chapel that looked dusty and unused for some time.  The ceiling trusses, wood trim and pews all made of Alaskan yellow cedar.  I spotted an information board near the altar and moved closer to read it.  I read the history out loud, “Bishop Joseph Raphael Crimont was the first bishop of Alaska and had a deep devotion to St Teresa and wanted to dedicate this retreat to her.  He is buried here in the crypt below the altar.”  “That’s pretty creepy.” Mark said while inspecting the altar about how they interred him.  “Let’s go check out the rest of the island.” I nudged him, a bit too squeamish being this close to another dead body. 

The fresh air relieved my lungs and head as we left the church.  We made our way down the path that wound around the island’s edge.  As we walked, there were stations of the cross, many of which were damaged and crumbling, but still beautiful and constructed of the same round beach rock.  Our heads turned up at the huge flapping sound above our heads.  “OMG! How cool is that?”  I gasped.  An eagle took off from a nearby tree and circled gracefully above.  “Very!” agreed Mark. 

We found a bench and just sat there looking out, both of us lost in our own thoughts.  This place, so peaceful, brought me exactly what my soul needed, time to relax, far from the stress of shipboard life.  The sound of a deep breath releasing, not mine, but of an Orca breaching offshore.   I’m emotionally awakened.  I can feel her.  The girl, and the connection of the physical and spiritual worlds.