There Comes A Prophet

  There Comes A Prophet

  David Litwack

  There Comes A Prophet

  Copyright © 2012 David Litwack

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Double Dragon eBooks

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  Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada

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  Cover art by Deron Douglas

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  ISBN-10: 1-55404-996-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-996-7

  First Edition July 9, 2012

  *

  For Mary Anne, who always knew I'd write again

  Part One

  Little Pond

  "Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods."

  Albert Einstein

  Chapter One

  A Dreamer of Dreams

  Nathaniel Rush stomped down the path, cursing his indecision. Why had he listened to Orah? Stay away from festival, she said. Too dangerous now that he'd come of age. Better to cower in his father's cottage and hope temple magic wouldn't find him. But he'd never run from anything before. And despite Orah's nagging, he wasn't about to run now.

  They'd spent that afternoon on one of the last days before the leaves fell, sitting by the pond and watching the reflected colors of the trees. After her fifth try to convince him, Orah stood and planted her hands on her hips.

  "Don't go," she said.

  He couldn't help but smile. Her looks came from the Weber side of the family, with olive skin and delicate but unremarkable features, more than made up for by flaring dark eyes. The sole gift from her mother was a striking red tint to her hair. Together, they combined into a fierce beauty, especially when she was not having her way.

  They'd been close for as long as he could remember, always wondering what the world must be like beyond Little Pond. But as they grew older, childhood fantasies gave way to the desire to do something important with their lives. Recently, an awkwardness had crept between them. He was now an adult and she on the threshold. He could feel the difference but was unsure what to make of it.

  "Is this what you want me to do, Orah, run like a coward?"

  "Not to run, but to be careful, especially with the vicar so near."

  "Only one in three are taken."

  "It's not worth the risk, Nathaniel. Or have you forgotten the look of those who have been taught? The far off stare, the dreams seemingly ripped away."

  Dreams ripped away. What good were dreams if they stayed unfulfilled? Since coming of age the month before, Nathaniel had brooded on one thought-life was passing him by.

  Sometimes, he blamed Little Pond. Little Pond was the smallest village along the edge of the mountains, much smaller than Great Pond, which had two shops and an inn. The pond that gave his home its name was a fine spot, filled with lake trout and frogs with huge eyes, but Great Pond was triple its size with an island in the middle. It bettered Little Pond in every way.

  Nothing much happened in Little Pond and so, nothing much happened in his life.

  Sure, he was good at many things. He was stronger than most, though never tested in a fight. He was fast, running with the best at festival, though never finishing first. And he had a fine mind. Even Orah said he was smart, and she was the smartest in the village. When he'd been in school, he was always in the top five-sometimes in the top three-but never the best.

  Nathaniel of Little Pond, good at everything, but destined to fall short of greatness.

  When he was little, he imagined the darkness had been lifted not by the Temple of Light, but by a knight charging in with nothing but a sword and his own courage and strength. And though he no longer believed in knights, he still wondered what he'd do if such a moment arrived in his own life: would he charge in, believing in his own courage and strength, or run away? That, after all, was the test of greatness. While he feared that destiny, he was more afraid of a life with no chance to find out.

  Now, a new worry-the teaching. Though one in three was taken to be taught, no one ever explained what happened. Like every other young person in the village, he'd grown up fearing the teaching, but a part of him hoped for it as well. At least he'd get to see Temple City, the light's eternal fortress against the darkness. At least something different would happen.

  As he neared the final bend, he could see Orah and Thomas keeping watch on the twilight shaded woods. Behind them, a bonfire glowed. Each night for the three weeks leading to festival, the mound of logs would grow, burning more brightly until the finish of the games. Then the grand fire would be lit and the feast would be served. Though tonight was just the beginning, this night's fire was sufficient to light up the square.

  Nathaniel hesitated. No sign of the vicar. No tolling of the bell. Spicy-sweet wassail still bubbled in its cauldron. And music still played.

  A trio struck up a tune and Orah turned to watch. Her toe tapped, and one hand patted her thigh to the rhythm. At the fire's edge, a girl bobbed up and down to the beat in a purple hat with three snowflakes embroidered on the brim. Nearby, young couples looked on while older adults sat on the porch of the commons. Firelight flickered across their faces as they watched.

  Thomas spotted Nathaniel and called out. "Well look here. Little Natty's come to do us honor in the village square."

  Thomas had started calling him "Natty" after he'd shot up to over six feet, one of the tallest in Little Pond and a full head taller than Thomas. It happened at that age when boys' voices change and they wonder what to do with their arms as they walk. The name had bothered Nathaniel so much he challenged Thomas to a fight, but it hadn't worked out as intended. Thomas dropped to his knees and begged. "Please, Lord Natty, don't hurt Thomas. Please holiness, no more yelling. Thomas is Natty's friend."

  Nathaniel had laughed despite himself and now accepted the name as a fond memory of childhood.

  As he emerged from the woods, he felt more than the warmth of the bonfire. The three friends together as it should be. He'd never known life without them.

  Thomas bounded toward him, but Orah held back, letting Thomas make first contact. He tugged at Nathaniel.

  "Come on, I've been waiting for you to get our first wassail."

  "I thought I'd find you with the players."

  Thomas's face sagged. It'd been all he'd talked about the past few weeks-the chance to play the flute at festival now that he was of age. But apparently the players wouldn't dare let him take part. Music was frowned on by the Temple of Light. By rule, a group could consist of no more than a drum and two winds; other instruments, such as strings, were banned as remnants of the darkness.

  "I tried," Thomas said. "But they told me to wait my turn. I'll have to settle for wassail."

  He gestured to the cauldron bubbling in front of the commons. The familiar smell filled the air-fermented apples with cinnamon and honey. Everyone claimed wassail was the best use of the harvest, but only those of age were allowed to indulge.

  Nathaniel shook free. "I
haven't said hello to Orah yet."

  "She can come...Oh, I forgot. She's not of age."

  Orah forced a scowl. "A couple more months and I won't have to take that from him anymore, thank the light."

  Before greeting Nathaniel, she smoothed her gray skirt so it flowed to her ankles and tugged her gray vest until it properly displayed her slender form; her clothing would change to black when she came of age. Once she was satisfied, she stepped halfway to Nathaniel and let him fill the space between them, only then allowing her fingertips to brush his arm.

  "I was hoping you'd make a smarter choice," she said.

  "And miss being with you and Thomas?"

  "Better than taking the risk."

  Thomas shoved between them. "Let's get some wassail before the kettle runs dry."

  Orah's back stiffened. Though only two fingers taller than Thomas, she could loom over him when she wanted.

  "Leave him be, Thomas. He shouldn't stay just because you want wassail."

  "I've always come for the celebration," Nathaniel said. "I don't want to miss it now... just because I've come of age."

  Orah's eyes shifted to him and lingered. She wanted him to stay. But the practical side of her took over.

  "If you're an adult, you need to act it."

  "You both worry too much," Thomas said loud enough to attract the attention of elder Robert and elder John, who were playing checkers at the far end of the porch. Thomas clasped his hands together and pleaded. "Come on, Nathaniel. I missed the music. I don't want to miss the wassail."

  Orah blocked their way. "You should think twice before starting on wassail. It's frowned on by the vicars."

  "So? They don't like music either, but we still play."

  "It's because of the honey, Thomas. The vicar thinks it's a frivolous food. They're trying to help us lead a better life. And they don't like the name either."

  "Oh, I'd forgotten. The name comes from one of the old... " His eyes bulged, his voice rose. "... forbidden languages."

  The two elders glanced toward them with that look of suspicion the old reserve for the young. Nathaniel waved to quiet Thomas, but he wouldn't be silenced.

  "Next they'll ban friends meeting in threes. Come on, Nathaniel. Or are you afraid of the vicar?"

  Enough. Nathaniel yanked him to the edge of the shadows cast by the fire.

  "I'm not afraid of the vicar, but everyone else seems to be. Maybe we should take notice."

  Orah placed a hand on their shoulders and leaned in. "Being afraid is sometimes the wiser choice."

  "Not for me," Thomas said. "I'd welcome the chance to go with the vicar to Temple City, to see the tall spires and the officials standing in line to greet me. After all, they've never met anyone like me before."

  "Well I'm quite sure of that," Orah said, "but not for the reasons going around in your big head."

  "But wouldn't you want to go to Temple City? I'm sure Nathaniel would."

  Orah's response sliced through the night air. "Nathaniel is not going to Temple City."

  Nathaniel grabbed her by the arms before she could become more agitated. He could feel her trembling beneath the sleeves of her tunic, though her eyes stayed dry. He'd never seen them moist. Even as a child, she always refused to waste energy crying.

  "Tomorrow's the blessing, Orah, nothing more. Let's watch our words till the vicar's gone, then meet at the Not Tree where we can do as we please."

  The "Not Tree" was their name for a shelter deep in the woods, built by his father as a place to play their games. They'd named it the Not Tree, using their initials-Nathaniel, Orah and Thomas. Nathaniel doubted his father remembered it, but it remained their special place.

  Mention of the Not Tree seemed to calm Orah. She flicked a strand of hair from her face and brushed it back.

  "Fine," she said. "We'll meet there tomorrow after dark."

  Thomas reached into his tunic and pulled out the wooden flute he'd carved years before and always had with him.

  "And with no vicar, I'll be able to serenade my friends."

  Orah nodded, then lifted her face to the sky and closed her eyes. Her arms extended, palms outward as they'd been taught.

  "Praise the light, giver of life. Let us end tomorrow safely, and then meet at our special place."

  Nathaniel watched as she prayed, marveling at the firelight reflecting off her features. Every arc on her face-cheeks, chin and brows-aspired to the light.

  But just as she finished, the bell atop of the common began to toll. It rang sixteen times, each clang echoing in the night air. The music stopped. Parents took children by the hand. Cups of wassail were set down, and faces turned toward the entrance of the square. Thomas slipped the flute back into his pocket.

  The vicar entered through the east gate of the village, marching with the pomp of temple clergy. He stopped near the fire and confronted the villagers.

  "Greetings," he intoned, enunciating every letter. "Don't let me interrupt your festivities. The blessing is for tomorrow, not tonight. Please, dear friends, continue your celebration."

  No one stirred.

  The vicar approached a table and lifted one of the abandoned cups to his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled, then shook his head.

  "Honey in your drink. We'll speak more about this tomorrow." He twirled one hand in a circle. "But for now, my friends, don't stop for me. Enjoy your evening. Blessed be the light."

  The surrounding people muttered "Blessed be the light." Nathaniel touched hands with Orah and backed away. Although no one appeared to move, within seconds the villagers had faded from the square.

  ***

  Orah lingered behind the trunk of an oak tree, invisible in its shadow. She needed to know more, to understand the threat to her friends.

  Nathaniel had always been a dreamer.

  When they were little, he'd pretend the darkness had been lifted by a knight slashing about with a sword and riding an armored horse, though weapons and the riding of animals had long ago been banned. He invented stories about how the knight had built Temple City, then scaled the mountains outside Little Pond and discovered a great ocean on the other side. As he grew older, his father had warned him to keep such notions to himself.

  Nathaniel and his notions. She prayed he wouldn't pay the price.

  She sniffed the air, trying to read the breeze, then looked back to the clearing where the unattended fire had begun to die.

  The vicar stood alone in the middle of the square. With a sigh, he set down his pack, carried all the way from Temple City. Inside would be two of the Temple's most essential mysteries: the season's medicine and the sun icon, greatest miracle of the light.

  After stretching his shoulders, the vicar squared them to the bonfire, picked up an abandoned cup of wassail and poured it onto the embers, which hissed and spit out a sweet-smelling steam. His lips curled upward into his hollow cheeks, until his teeth showed and his face displayed a rarely-used, but perfectly genuine smile.

  Chapter Two

  A Teaching

  Following his meeting with the elders, the vicar had time to roam the village prior to the noontime blessing. He assumed the posture he'd been taught-back arched, head up, eyes focused on the path ahead. His beard was freshly groomed, a pencil-thin mark that traced the contour of his jaw. His hair had been razor cut to an exact line that intersected the middle of each ear. On his head was the not-quite-square hat of a junior vicar, narrower in front than in back, all black, with no red stripes as yet. Even so, the villagers would treat him as a proper envoy of the Temple. He'd followed the rules and so would they. Little Pond would yield one of its young for a teaching.

  He measured his stride-three foot lengths to each step. As his heels struck, they left a mark that mimicked the hat, forming a sequence of almost-squares in the dirt road. The squares detoured only to avoid the occasional puddle left from an early morning drizzle.

  Whenever he came upon villagers, he tried to engage in conversation.

  "It'
s been a warm autumn. Has that been good for the harvest?"

  This brought the trite responses he'd come to expect and was able to ignore. Next, he eased into more personal topics.

  "Is everyone in good health? Has the medicine been sufficient for your needs?"

  Then, intermingled, the more contentious questions.

  "How goes the struggle against the darkness? Are there changes that need my attention? Anyone whose behavior has altered, who shows signs of being tainted?"

  Most of the villagers, like villagers everywhere, chose their words with care, answering at length, saying little.

  "Oh yes, Anne has borne Matthew a son. Elder Robert's daughter's been married to a young man from Great Pond. The light's strong in the people of the Ponds. We're true to the faith."

  They'd been conditioned all their lives to parrot back the litanies of the Temple and saw this conversation as one more ritual. By midmorning, he was growing frustrated and began pressing harder.

  "Do the young congregate in unruly ways? Are there some who've become rebellious?" And more bluntly, "Have you heard anyone speak ill of the Temple? We must be vigilant, my friends, or the darkness will return."

  Back in Temple City, a red stripe awaited his hat. Others had achieved monsignor by his age. But he sought more than status. A promotion would allow him to pass off the Ponds to a younger vicar.

  What a nasty little outpost this village was, at the edge of the world, bounded to the west by a barrier of white granite mountains ending high up in a sawtooth. Locals claimed ancients had scaled these peaks and found beyond them a sea so great its far side could not be seen. But no one in the age of light would have attempted such a quest. And since it was forbidden to speak of the time before the light, at least in civilized places, it had never happened. But here at the edge of the world, they still told stories.

  Not much changed in Little Pond, and it was his responsibility to keep it so. There were no big problems, only minor distractions. If someone strayed, he had a duty as visiting vicar to correct the transgression before it grew. Even a small change could undermine the light. The line must be drawn, he'd been taught, before the darkness had a chance to return. Be vigilant always.