The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Page 2

  Nathaniel had always been a dreamer.

  When they were children, she’d organize games in the woods, elaborate adventures pitting the light against the darkness.

  Nathaniel would try to add to the game, conjuring up stories based on bedtime tales told by his father, beyond what temple rules allowed. 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’d insist 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, she’d warned him to keep such notions to himself. Nathaniel and his notions. She prayed he wouldn’t pay the price tomorrow.

  She sniffed the air, trying to read the breeze, before glancing 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 its contents 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 2 – A Teaching

  Following his meeting with the elders, the vicar had two hours 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 per step. As each heel struck, it made 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.

  “The autumn’s been warm, thank the light. Did that make for a productive harvest?”

  This brought the trite responses he’d come to expect and was able to ignore.

  Next, he would ease into more personal topics. “Is everyone in good health? Was the medicine sufficient for your needs?”

  Then, intermingled, the contentious questions: “How goes the struggle against the darkness? Have you noticed a change in behavior, anyone showing signs of being tainted, someone who might need my attention?”

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

  “Oh yes, Anne bore Matthew a son. Elder Robert’s daughter married 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 viewed this conversation as another ritual. By midmorning, he was growing impatient and began pressing harder.

  “Do the young congregate in unruly ways? Have some become rebellious?” Then more bluntly, “Do any 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.

  How he loathed this village, a nasty little outpost 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 dared such a quest. Since it was forbidden to speak of the time before the light, at least in civilized places, the rumored trek had never happened. Yet here at the edge of the world, they still told tales.

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

  It was usually the young who deviated. The young, so adventuresome and curious, had not yet learned the full horror of the darkness. Schooling was less strict here, teachings less common than in larger towns, so once each season he traveled to Little Pond and listened in the prescribed way, searching for a candidate for a teaching. For the past three seasons, however, they’d resisted the will of the Temple, tarnishing his record.

  Ahead, the steeple of the commons loomed, the completion of the loop near. Small villages often lacked enough young ones to teach, but if he failed this time, a full year would have passed. Less than an hour remained until the blessing—barely time to communicate to his superiors.

  As he paused to consider his options, a white-throated sparrow landed in a puddle to begin its morning bath. With a blur of wings, it splashed about, lifting its neck and singing with a whistle too passionate for its size. Its song was five notes, two long and three short, with the last ending in a trill. The bird seemed unaware of his approach.

  He knelt down, picked up a stone the shape of an acorn, and straightened, never taking his eye off the bird. Then he took aim and threw, just a flick of the wrist so as not to startle it.

  The rock missed by a feather and the bird flew off.

  He’d redouble his efforts. This time, he’d find one for a teaching, an example so the light would shine forever.

  On the porch of the commons, he found the two elders, John and Robert, who had resumed their game from the night before.

  He strode toward them. “Greetings, my friends.”

  The two barely looked up, but stopped their play.

  “Elder Robert and Elder John, I believe?”

  They nodded.

  The vicar reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a waterproof pouch. He removed a piece of paper from inside, making no effort to hide the printing that the superstitious villagers took to be nothing less than temple magic.

  “Little Pond has had no teaching in almost a year,” he said. “As elders, you know the importance of discipline. I need your help in finding a candidate.”

  The elders looked past him as if wishing he would disappear.

  The vicar stayed quiet, letting the silence become a physical presence.

  The two men fidgeted in their chairs. Finally, Elder Robert spoke. “We’re a small village. Enough have been taught that we can keep the faith.”

  “Children come of age all the time. Surely some need... correction.”

  Robert’s voice grew resolute. “We take care of our own and are loyal to the Temple. We give no reason to believe otherwise.”

  The vicar noted the white mourning sash draped across Elder John’s chest. Perhaps he’d be more pliable.

  “I note you’ve had a passing to the light, Elder John.”

  John looked away, as if the ache inside was none of the vicar’s concern. “I lost my wife of forty-four years.”

  “I’m sorry. May she dwell in the light everlasting.”

  John nodded in gratitude, but the vicar gave no reprieve.

  He pulled the paper closer and read deliberately. “Temple records show two comings of age within the past half year and, as you know, the records are never wrong.”

  John’s voice cracked. “I don’t recall.”

  “Why surely you attended the cere
monies.”

  “I’m getting old. I can’t remember.”

  “Perhaps, if you saw the names....” He turned the paper toward them so they could read the bold writing done by no man’s hand. “The records tell of Thomas Bradford and Nathaniel Rush.”

  “Two fine young men,” John said after a moment. “From strong families faithful to the light. The Bradfords work hard on a farm at the south of town. They’re good folks and kind to their neighbors. Nathaniel’s mother died in bearing him. He was raised by his father, William, one of the elders. You met him this morning. You have no cause to bother either.”

  The vicar rocked on his toes. “It’s not for you to say... what’s a bother to the Temple of Light.”

  John slid toward the edge of his seat and matched the vicar’s stare. “William was sent for a teaching when he was young, a week after coming of age. It was the longest this village has ever known. Is that not enough for the Temple?”

  The vicar pressed his face closer to John’s. “I will get my teaching today, if not one of these young men, then another.” He glanced at the paper. “The records show you have grandchildren. A little old, perhaps, but maybe I should choose one of them.”

  John’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair and he began to rise.

  Before he could get to his feet, Elder Robert intervened. “I’ve heard one making light of the Temple. A teaching might help him lead a more responsible life.”

  John turned to him and licked his dry lips, but said nothing.

  The vicar narrowed his eyes into slits. His mouth twitched at the corners. “Elder Robert and Elder John, you are true children of light. Once you give me a name, I’ll need speak of your families no more.”

  The elders’ every muscle sagged as they avoided each other’s gaze.

  ***

  The somber villagers assembled in the square, old and young, men, women and children. Orah settled on a bench at the rear between Nathaniel and Thomas, while the elders moved to the front.

  As she waited for the ceremony to start, she took stock of her friends.

  Nathaniel sat straight-backed, eyes unflinching, focused on the altar like a good child of the light. Thomas only grinned. Both bore the obligations of all males who’d come of age: the temple-prescribed black tunic beneath the ceremonial robe, the hair trimmed to the temple-ordained length, and the thin beard marking their jaw line. But that’s where the similarities ended.

  Though Thomas was a few months older, he looked younger. Where Nathaniel’s whiskers could use filler, only charcoal could make Thomas’s sand-colored fuzz look like a beard. He had boyish features that seemed like they might linger well into middle age, and he acted younger too. When they’d been in school, Thomas loved to chide her for studying too much, but she spent much of her time keeping him out of trouble and covering up for him when he misbehaved.

  The vicar stepped to the front, and a hush settled over the villagers. Everyone turned to face the stone altar. Little Pond was too small to have a building dedicated to the blessing, so its inhabitants had built the altar at the request of the Temple generations before. With no resident vicar, they often used it for other purposes, such as holding festival pies. Such use would have enraged the vicar had he known, but the people of Little Pond took advantage of what they had.

  Now the altar gleamed, covered by a satin cloth, pure white but for the emblem of the Temple, a yellow orb whose rays beamed down on an adoring family: father, mother, and child. A gold icon three hands high stood at its center—an image of the sun.

  While her neighbors wasted little time dwelling on the light or worrying about the darkness—they had enough to do to get by in their daily lives—all were respectful of the ceremony. They reserved their true awe, however, for the sun icon. Through it, they heard the grand vicar speaking to them four times a year from far-off Temple City. Each time, he’d astound them with his knowledge—babies who were born, couples wed, young people who’d come of age. It was a true miracle.

  The vicar approached the altar to the right of the sun icon, and faced the congregation with arms raised and bony fingers pointing toward the heavens.

  “Dear friends,” he intoned. “The Temple brings you greetings. Another season is upon us. Blessed be the light.”

  The congregation responded in a monotone. “Blessed be the light.”

  “The grand vicar is the human embodiment of the light in this world. He sees into your hearts and knows if darkness dwells therein.” The vicar pivoted toward the icon and stared at its center. “Holiness, is this village worthy of receiving the blessing?”

  Like the others, Orah held her breath—not because the answer was in doubt, but because the voice emanating from the sun icon always inspired her. A crackling rose from its metallic center, and children would later claim it glowed.

  “People of Little Pond.” The voice resounded through the square. “This past season, we have felt your love as you walked in the light, and so, you have been blessed with a fruitful autumn. We welcome three new children.”

  The disembodied voice went on, listing the names of newborns along with their parents. As each was mentioned, eyes turned. Heads nodded approval as if the births were not complete until acknowledged by the Temple. Afterwards, the chief clergyman recognized one marriage, a cousin of Orah’s to Elder Robert’s daughter, and the death of Elder John’s wife. The people took it positively—their communal father dispensing approval and sympathy.

  The grand vicar finished with the usual blessing. “May those newly arrived be welcomed, those departed be remembered, and all be embraced by the light.”

  With this cue, the vicar asked with a tremor in his voice, “Holiness, are they deserving of the gift of life?”

  “The people of Little Pond are deserving.”

  The vicar turned to the audience. “Let the elders approach.”

  The five elders, including Nathaniel’s father, stepped forward, with the two oldest, John and Robert, bearing a sack that contained donations collected in the past week.

  “What is it you bring?” the vicar said.

  “We give what we can to support the Temple,” Robert responded.

  The vicar took the sack of medicine from his pack and handed it to the elders in a simultaneous exchange. The medicine was a gift from the Temple, enough to last until the next blessing. Like every child in Little Pond, Orah remembered the magic in that sack, white tablets for headaches, pink powder for stomach ailments, and miraculous blue capsules that healed infections during cold winter nights. Its contents would be stored in the village pharmacy and dispensed freely according to need.

  “Bless you, people of Little Pond. Through your generosity, the light shall thrive.” The vicar stuffed the tithe in his pack and turned toward the icon. “Holiness, will you lead us in the precepts of faith?”

  The crowd rose to their feet. When the grand vicar began the precepts, everyone recited with him.

  “Blessed be the light. Blessed be the sun, the source of all light. Blessed be the moon, the stars, and our own world which revolve around its light. The light is the giver of life, the darkness of chaos and death. Those who seek the darkness shall be doomed to darkness never-ending, but those who embrace the light shall dwell in the light everlasting. While we believe and are true to the light, the darkness shall never return.”

  Once the voice from the sun icon had quieted, a sense of satisfaction settled over the villagers. Orah waited for the vicar to dismiss them with the usual intonation: “Go with the light.”

  When he hesitated, she grew restless. Her heart pulsed louder with each beat.

  After too long a delay, the voice from the sun icon spoke again. “The light is stronger than the darkness, but we must be vigilant. For hundreds of years, the Temple has armed a few to be soldiers of faith. Little Pond is honored this season to have one of its own chosen for a teaching. Come forward, Thomas Bradford of Little Pond.”

  The crowd went silent.

  Orah
turned to her friends. Nathaniel bore a look she’d seen before, whenever he spoke about the death of his mother. Thomas’s face had gone ashen.

  “Come forward, Thomas of Little Pond, and be taught the horror of the darkness, so you may keep the light shining in Little Pond.”

  Thomas stood and drifted forward on wobbly knees. Orah lunged to touch him, but he’d moved beyond her reach.

  The vicar spread his arms. “Welcome, Thomas. You shall accompany me to Temple City and return to your people wiser. Now, my friends, go with the light.”

  A subdued village repeated the benediction.

  Orah squeezed Nathaniel’s arm. “What will happen to him? Will he be all right? When will he be back?”

  The vein in Nathaniel’s forehead throbbed. “Who knows? No one ever talks about teachings, but it’s a three-day trek to Temple City and three days back, so he’ll be gone at least a week.” When she remained disconsolate, he added, “He should be home for festival.”

  As the villagers dispersed, Orah rose on tiptoes to peer over their heads. She caught sight of Thomas, hands held high in triumph, the mask of his face painted with a grin as if he’d just won a race, but she knew him better. Even at that distance, she could see the glow in his eyes had gone dim.

  Chapter 3 – The Darkness

  Thomas squinted, trying to see the opposite wall. It had to be near, because his boots pressed against it, but try as he would, he couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Not a flicker of light to help, only the darkest dark he’d ever known. No moon, no stars, no hint of dawn—a dark to haunt one’s dreams.

  He could guess the size of the teaching cell by touch. The floor covered at most one pace square, enough to sit up straight with legs bent. The wooden hatch that formed the ceiling hung well short of his height, so he had to hunch over when he stood. He could sustain the position for only a few minutes before dropping back down.

  He’d given up trying to find a comfortable position. The Temple hadn't designed the cell for comfort. They intended the teaching to be harsh. No way around it, so now he stared into the darkness with his knees drawn to his chin.