There Comes A Prophet Read online

  It was usually the young who deviated. They were adventuresome and curious, and 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 made the trek and listened in the prescribed way, searching for a candidate for a teaching. But for the past three seasons they'd resisted the will of the Temple, tarnishing his record.

  He'd nearly completed a loop and could see the square ahead. Small villages often lacked a candidate for a teaching, but if he failed this time, it would be a full year. Only an hour remained until the blessing-barely time to communicate to his superiors.

  He paused to consider his options. Ahead, in the middle of the path, a white-throated sparrow had landed in a puddle to begin its morning bath. With a blur of wings, it splashed about, then lifted its neck and sang 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. It seemed unaware of him.

  He knelt down and picked up a stone the size of an acorn. He straightened, took aim at the bird's head and threw, just a flick of the wrist so as not to startle the bird.

  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.

  When he reached 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 what they were doing.

  "Elder Robert and Elder John, I believe?"

  They nodded.

  The vicar reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a waterproof pouch. From inside, he took a piece of paper, 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 but loyal to the Temple. Enough have been taught that we can keep the faith."

  "But children come of age all the time. Surely some need ... correction."

  Robert's voice became resolute. "We take care of our own and are true to the light. You have 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 see 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 have come 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 must have attended the ceremonies."

  "I'm getting old. I can't remember."

  "Perhaps, if I read the names... " He held the paper up so they could see 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, just a week after coming of age. It was the longest teaching this village has ever known. Is that not enough for the Temple?"

  The vicar pressed his face closer to John's. "I will have a teaching today. If not these young men, then another." He glanced at the paper. "The records show you have grandchildren. A little old, perhaps, but maybe the Temple should choose one of them."

  John's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair and he began to rise. But before he could get to his feet, elder Robert intervened.

  "There's one I've heard making light of the Temple. It's possible a teaching can help him lead a more responsible life."

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

  The vicar's pupils became black beads in white slits. His mouth twitched at the corners. "Elder Robert and elder John, you are true children of light. And once you've given me a name, I'll never need to speak of your families again."

  The elders' every muscle seemed to sag, and they avoided each other's gaze.

  ***

  The villagers assembled in the square, old and young, men, women and children. Nathaniel's father went to the front with the elders, while Nathaniel settled at the rear with his friends. While waiting for the ceremony to start, he took stock of them. Orah sat straight-backed, eyes on the altar, hands folded in her lap. But Thomas only grinned.

  Like Nathaniel, Thomas bore the obligations of a child of light: a ceremonial robe over the temple-prescribed black tunic, the hair cut to the temple-ordained length and the thin beard marking their jaw line. But that was where the similarity ended.

  Though Thomas was several 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. And he was always grinning, his boyish features seeming like they might last into middle age. He behaved younger too. While he made fun of Orah for studying too much, it was she who'd got him through school by keeping him from getting into trouble and covering up when he did.

  A hush settled over the villagers and everyone turned to the stone altar. Little Pond was too small to have a building dedicated to the blessing. The closest was the altar, built at the request of the Temple generations before. With no resident vicar, it was often used for other purposes such as holding festival pies. Such use would have angered the vicar had he known, but the people of the Ponds were practical and made use of what they had.

  Now the altar was 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 the villagers spent little time dwelling on the light or worrying about the darkness-they had enough to do to get by in their daily lives-they were respectful of the ceremony. And they were grateful for the medicine provided for their sick. But the sun icon was different. Through it, they heard the grand vicar speaking to them four times a year from far-off Temple City. And each time, he would 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, Nathaniel held his breath-not because the answer was in doubt, but because he was always inspired by the voice emanating from the sun icon. A crackling echoed from its metallic center. Children would later claim it glowed.
/>   "People of Little Pond." The voice resounded though the square. "This past season, we have felt your love as you walk 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 life?"

  "The people of Little Pond are deserving."

  The vicar turned to the audience. "Then let the elders approach."

  The five elders, including Nathaniel's father, came 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, Nathaniel 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 stored the tithe in his pack and turned toward the icon. "Holiness, will you lead us in the precepts of faith?"

  That was the signal for the crowd to rise. When the grand vicar began speaking, everyone recited the precepts 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 neverending. 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."

  When the voice had died down, a sense of satisfaction settled over the villagers. All waited for the vicar to release them with the usual intonation "Go with the light."

  But he delayed. The crowd grew restless.

  Then 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. Nathaniel turned to his friends. Orah bore a look he'd seen before, that of a grieving eight-year-old at her father's funeral. 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 weakened 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. And now, my friends, go with the light."

  A subdued village repeated the benediction.

  Orah squeezed Nathaniel's arm. "What will happen? Will he be all right? When will he be back?"

  Nathaniel felt a vein in his forehead throb. "I don't know. No one ever talks about teachings. But it's three days to Temple City and three days back, so he'll be gone at least a week." When Orah remained disconsolate, he added: "But he should be home for festival."

  As the villagers began to disperse, Nathaniel peered over their heads and 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 Nathaniel knew him better. Even at that distance, he could see the glow in Thomas's eyes had gone dim.

  Chapter Three

  The Darkness

  Thomas stared out, trying to see to the opposite wall. It had to be close, because he could feel his boots pressing against it. But try as he would, he couldn't penetrate the darkness. There was no glimmer to help, only the darkest dark he'd ever known. No moon, no stars, no hint of light. A dark to haunt one's dreams.

  He could only guess the size by touch. The floor was at most one pace square, enough to sit up straight with his legs bent The wooden hatch that formed the ceiling was well short of his height. When he tried to stand, he was so hunched over he could sustain it for only a few minutes before dropping back to the floor.

  He'd given up trying to find a comfortable position. The room wasn't designed for comfort. The teaching was to be harsh. No way around it. So now he stared into the darkness with his knees to his chin.

  The voices of the vicars echoed in his mind.

  "Let us record the first teaching of Thomas Bradford of Little Pond, blessed be the light. Thomas of Little Pond, do you understand why you are here?"

  "Yes, sir." He'd been awed by Temple City then. He'd felt privileged to be there.

  "And why is that?"

  "To learn to defend the light against the darkness." He'd been a fool.

  The senior vicar leaned forward and glared. "And do you know what the darkness is?"

  "Yes, sir," Thomas answered. "The darkness is the time before the light, a time of chaos and death." The standard answer learned in school.

  The vicar's response was a slap in the face. "You know nothing of the darkness. You've never been taught. The darkness is too horrible to show children. But you're of age now, Thomas, a full child of light. You've been chosen for a teaching to learn the darkness, and thereafter guide your life to ensure it never returns."

  They'd asked him to say the precepts, an easy test. With a grin, he recited what every child knew. "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... ."

  When he finished, they told him he was "insufficiently sincere" and sent him to ponder the meaning of the darkness. Since then he'd lived in this room. Time had passed, but he had no sense of it.

  At first, he was unafraid. The foundation of the Temple was to do no harm to others. Weapons, war and violence were of the darkness and forbidden. But gradually he understood. No harm was being done. The pain was self-inflicted. The constant dark allowed no sense of space. The constant night allowed no measure of time. He found himself afloat in a pond of nothingness, so large he couldn't see the shore in any direction. He longed for the light of a firefly, for news of which day it was. These thoughts gnawed at him like a physical pain.

  He was brought food and water at intervals, but was unsure if it was enough. He always felt hungry and thirsty.

  His legs began to throb. To escape the cramping, he imagined himself separate from his body, floating in the air above. But he kept looking down at the wretch that was him. In his imagination, he could see himself clearly, all but the eyes.

  Exhaustion reigned above all. At first, he was too uncomfortable to sleep. But after a while, he'd drift in and out, his head nodding until his chin dropped to his chest and woke him.

  Sometimes, he'd startle to the grating of the ceiling cover being removed. Light would pour into the room, flooding him with exhilaration. Such moments meant more to him that the scant food or water he was provided. He'd stand, stretch his stiff limbs and look into the plump faces of the vicars surrounding him, seniors all with their decorated hats. They, in turn, would look down on him sympathetically before beginning a litany of the horrors
of the darkness.

  In the darkness, they claimed, people spoke different languages and worshipped different gods. Their leaders used these differences to separate the people, one from another, and to rail against the others so they might focus on their enemies and not on their own shortcomings.

  They fought these enemies, at first with simple weapons, similar to the pocketknife the vicars had taken from him. But then their wise men studied in schools and toiled for years to create bigger and better weapons to destroy their enemies in greater numbers. A tale to scare children, Thomas thought, and he was not a child.

  Then the cover would close, and the darkness would return.

  After a time, he'd awake, his mind confounded by sleep, and watch the air above his head glow. Visions of the darkness appeared. He saw ranks of people rushing toward each other with strange weapons in hand. And he heard them chanting the name of their god as they ran, each side in a different language.

  It had to be a dream.

  The vicars returned. They questioned why he carried the flute, and warned that music, taken to excess, might facilitate the return of the darkness. They told how, in the darkness, the young had hated their lives and gathered at night dancing to forbidden music.

  Later, his cell was lit with visions once more, this time showing young people, tenfold all those of the Ponds, boys and girls, some not yet of age. They were crowded in the dark with strange lights flashing over them. On their shirts were skulls, and etched into their skin were symbols of death. Then another sensation, a sound so piercing it pained his ears. A kind of music, but played not with the sweet flute and drum of festival but by impossibly loud instruments. And the people swayed to the beat, unaware of each other's presence.

  Another dream? He began to wonder.

  The vicars told how scholars had created a liquid that melted flesh off bone, and the leaders allowed them to drop this liquid from the sky so they wouldn't hear the cries of their enemies. In their arrogance, they even created a false sun, and their leaders let them drop this too, so the heat would burn their enemies, leaving nothing but the outline of their bodies in ash on the ground. This time, when the vision startled him awake, he pressed his eyes shut to block out the light. But the flash of the false sun glowed through his eyelids.