There Comes A Prophet Page 3

  Perhaps the horror had been real.

  Again and again, the vicars told of the darkness. Again and again, the visions of the darkness appeared. And what the vicars described showed in the dreams.

  The vicars came so many times he lost count. Each interview would start with a question.

  "Do you know the darkness?"

  "Yes, sir," he always replied.

  Each time, he was asked to recite the precepts. Each time, he tried to be more sincere until he was sobbing and hardly able to get out the words.

  And then, the interviews stopped. No more questions, no more visions of the darkness. He waited in silence.

  His cracked lips measured the passage of time. With no taste, no smell, no sight, no sound, he groped at the walls to exercise the last of his senses. They had the feel of stone, rough-hewn by unskilled workers, but worn smooth by thousands of desperate fingertips. Like so many before him, he'd been abandoned. If light was the giver of life, his would soon end.

  Then, as he was about to despair, a new vision appeared, no longer a nightmare from the past. On the wall before him was Little Pond in the spring, its sparkling waters, its hills strewn with apple trees, its granite mountains in the distance-and he was struck by the utter loneliness of his circumstance. He imagined Orah and Nathaniel strolling along the paths together, hand in hand, without him. No longer their burden, he was forgotten. His hand stretched out as far as possible, trying to touch his old life once more.

  The vision vanished. The ceiling board slid open, and he looked up at the panel of vicars. He struggled to his feet.

  This time, the question was different.

  "Thomas, are you happy with your life in Little Pond?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you care for your family and friends?"

  "Oh, yes sir."

  "And would you like to go home?"

  His throat seized up. He nodded.

  The clerics leaned toward each other and whispered, before the senior vicar in the center spoke.

  "And so you still may, Thomas of Little Pond. You've learned of the darkness. We believe you may become a faithful child of light."

  Thomas waited, holding his breath.

  "The Temple offers three teachings. The first is based on understanding, allegiance and proof. You must convince us you understand the darkness. Once you've done so, you'll be asked to swear allegiance to the Temple, then prove your loyalty. But know this. If you go back on your oath, you'll be sent for the second teaching, a hundred times worse than the first, and you'll dwell in the darkness to the depths of your being. After that, if you stray, you'll be deemed an apostate.

  "Then the people of your village will know what to do, as is written in the book of light: If there comes among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and gives you a sign or a wonder, saying 'Let us return to the darkness,' you shall not hearken to the words. If your brother, or your son or daughter, or your wife, or your friend, who may be as your own soul, entice you saying, 'Let us abandon the light and serve the darkness,' you shall not consent to him; But you shall surely kill him. Your hand shall be first upon him, and afterwards the hand of all the people. And you shall stone him with stones, that he die; because he has sought to thrust you away from the light.

  "That is the third and final teaching, Thomas. So think before you answer. The Temple loves its children but will do what it must to prevent a return to the darkness. Do you understand?"

  Thomas tried to concentrate. A prophet? A dreamer of dreams? He was no dreamer. He just wanted to go home.

  He nodded.

  "Thomas, of Little Pond," the speaker resounded. "Do you know the darkness?"

  His voice was parched but clear. "Yes, sir."

  "Can you recite the precepts of faith?"

  He did, his voice getting stronger with each word.

  "One final test and you'll be free to go. Tell us of those who have questioned the light. Tell us where the seeds of darkness are starting to grow in Little Pond."

  Thomas's mind again switched out of his body. He could see his face, dust-covered with streaks of tears.

  "But why, holiness?"

  One vicar said, "It's not for you to question-"

  His words were cut short by a wave from the senior vicar.

  "You've been through much, Thomas, to learn the darkness. But what you've learned is just a symbol. The real darkness was worse. That's why the Temple was created-to prevent a return. You say you're happy with your life, but this happiness does not come cheaply. Prove your faith by giving the names of others who need our help. Prove your loyalty and you'll go home."

  Thomas saw what they were asking. They wanted him to betray his friends.

  "I cannot," he said.

  "Then, Thomas, you do not yet know the darkness."

  He sat down without being asked. The ceiling cover was restored, and the darkness returned.

  Chapter Four

  Emptiness

  Orah worked the loom, trying to focus on her handiwork. Shift and weave. Shift and weave. She marveled how her fingers passed the shuttle back and forth while her feet worked the treadle, weaving the weft through the warp, without engaging her mind.

  While most people in Little Pond were farmers, her family had been weavers for generations. Like everyone else, they kept a vegetable garden and cultivated flowers to adorn their cottage. They raised a few animals for milk and eggs. But the bulk of their time was spent at the loom.

  Local farmers delivered wool or flax to Great Pond, where a community of spinners turned the fibers into spools of yarn. These were sent to families like Orah's, masters of the weaving craft. The weavers kept some cloth for their own needs and distributed the rest to the farmers and spinners, receiving food and yarn in return. Everyone had enough to eat and wear, a balance so sensible Orah couldn't imagine how it would be otherwise.

  Her mother had taught her the craft when she was eight, and since then, she'd been taking her turn at the loom. It had become as natural to her as walking. But now, she wished it took more concentration without leaving her free to think of other things.

  Orah needed no calendar to know festival was near. She could track it by the shadow on the sundial in her family's garden. It was a beautiful piece, with a face of white granite, inlaid black numbers, and a bronze shadow maker. The dial had been carved by her grandfather as a present for her tenth birthday. Her grandmother had died that spring. Making the sundial had been his way to take his mind off his sorrow and force himself to look forward to the granddaughter he doted on.

  It took half a year to finish. First, he traveled two hours to the base of the mountains, then climbed to where the vegetation thinned and the granite began. He needed several trips to locate rock pure enough for the face, weeks to carve it out, and nearly as long to drag it back. He went whenever he could spare time. Overall, he spent the entire summer just to find the materials and bring them home.

  Every night that fall, he'd work on the sundial by candlelight. Orah would stay awake, listening to her grandfather chipping and rubbing at the hard rock until her mother insisted he go to sleep. Finally, in November, he went to Great Pond and had the blacksmith make a bronze shadow maker. When all was ready, he took Orah to a flat spot in the garden and sited the shadow maker to point true north.

  For the weeks leading up to festival and a number of days thereafter, until her birthday, Orah watched as sunset grew earlier and then later, and the shadow longer and then shorter. Her grandfather would supervise while she recorded her findings in a log. For the past six autumns, she'd continued the tradition, writing down the date and position of the shadow, learning to predict the seasons.

  Keeping the log had been harder this year. Her grandfather had died in late winter, shortly after her sixteenth birthday, unable to hold on for her coming of age. As she wrote each entry, she thought of him and wanted to continue for his sake.

  Then Thomas was taken. Despite her best efforts, she could find little about what w
as happening. No one dared predict the date of his return. She drew a double line in the log the day Thomas left, and now each additional entry emphasized how long he'd been gone. She wanted to toss the log away. Such a trivial tradition in light of her concern. But she kept on to honor her grandfather.

  For the first time, the three friends were separated. When she and Nathaniel were together, they felt the emptiness, but when they were apart, it was worse. So each evening after dinner, despite the encroaching cold, they met at the Not Tree. On this morning, she could hardly wait.

  She focused, making her hands move faster. Shift and weave. But the thoughts kept coming. Thomas was in a cold and lonely place. She could feel it but was unable to help. She concentrated on the loom until her hands were flying. Shift and weave. Shift and weave. But her mind would not rest.

  ***

  Time passed no more easily for Nathaniel. He began to press his father about teachings, occasionally approaching the point of impertinence. With each day Thomas was gone, he found himself slipping closer to the line.

  That morning, his father had asked him to help stack firewood. Nathaniel waited on the porch and surveyed the yard-it was covered with mounds he and his father had split through long hours at the chopping block. They looked like mountains.

  His father stepped outside, rubbed his hands together and blew into them.

  "Are you ready, Nathaniel?"

  He was tall for a man of the Ponds, but shorter than his son by a hand. Hard work on the farm had thickened his muscles in a way that would not come to Nathaniel for years. His hair was gray only at the edges, and his chin remained prominent. Deep-set eyes showed both the pain and joy of life. Nathaniel knew the pain was the loss of his mother, and he himself was the joy-the son she'd left behind.

  Nathaniel nodded, then held out his arms while his father piled three logs onto them.

  "I can take more, at least four, maybe five."

  "We don't need to do it all at once, Nathaniel."

  His father grabbed a couple of the larger logs and led him to the lean-to. They laid down an evenly spaced row on beams set parallel for that purpose and then went back for more. The next rows were laid crosswise to leave space for the wood to dry. After several trips, sweat began to bead on their foreheads.

  When the third cord was done and a fourth grown to their waists, his father held up a hand.

  "Let's rest and have a drink."

  He set a water bucket onto a plank nailed to the stumps of two trees that served as a bench in front of the cottage, then filled a ladle and offered it to his son.

  Nathaniel declined, glaring at his father instead.

  "Why won't you tell me about a teaching? I need to know what's happening to Thomas."

  His father withdrew the ladle and took a drink himself, then returned it to its hook.

  "We've discussed this, Nathaniel."

  "When will he come home? It's already ten days."

  "It can vary. It might take another week or more."

  "But it's almost festival."

  "It's not for us to rush the Temple of Light."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "Yes. The Temple doesn't harm its children. You know that."

  "But you said it might change me if I were taken."

  "Change is different than harm. Yes, he'll probably be changed."

  "In what way?"

  His father's shoulders slumped. "I told you. After teachings, people become more serious for a time and sadder too. The Temple will show the darkness in ways Thomas could never have imagined. Some need time to recover, as in mourning. They may be distant, even with friends. But as far as permanent change, I can't say."

  Nathaniel studied the toe of his boot, which was doing its best to dig a hole in the ground. If he was old enough to have a teaching, he was old enough to know what it was.

  "Why are teachings so mysterious? They're not in any of the books and every time I ask, you avoid answering."

  His father sighed, then rested his hands on Nathaniel's shoulders. "I've told you all I can."

  Nathaniel felt an unfamiliar tremor. Fear. He'd never seen his father afraid before. He tried to lock eyes with him, but his father released his grip and went back to the woodpile.

  "Now hold out your arms. Once more like the last and we'll be done."

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, his father began loading him up with logs until he grunted under the weight.

  "Take these to the shed. If we hurry, we can be done by sunset."

  Nathaniel dumped his load on the ground with a thud.

  "You're lying. There's something you're hiding from me, I know it. You've never lied to me before."

  His father flushed, then reached down with thick arms and lifted the load himself. When he reached the door of the woodshed, he spun around.

  "You forget yourself, Nathaniel. I'm your father and you'll show me respect."

  In his young life, the two had never exchanged such words. Nathaniel knew he'd been wrong but couldn't bring himself to admit it. Without answering, he turned and ran off.

  ***

  Susannah Weber looked up from the kindling when she heard footsteps on the path to her cottage. It was Nathaniel. He was usually all arms and legs with only a hint of how to make them work together, but now his limbs hung limp, making his whole body slump. The vicars and their teachings, honestly. The boy looked awful and her daughter was no better; she worked the loom as if her father had just died. And poor Thomas would be worse off.

  She did her best to soften her expression and be approachable.

  "Why, Nathaniel, what are you doing here so early? The farmer's life must be easier than I thought."

  Weaving was lighter work than farming but took more time, especially in the winter. She and her daughter had to spend long hours at the loom to produce enough cloth to trade for their needs.

  "Good morning, ma'am. Is Orah here?"

  "Of course she is, but she's taking her turn at the loom. I'd prefer you don't disturb her until she's done."

  "I'd really like to see her."

  She resumed her work, half-heartedly tossing kindling into a basket on the porch.

  "We all have things we want, but we don't get them the instant they pop into our heads."

  "Yes, ma'am. It's just that it's been so hard since Thomas was taken."

  She thought of herself as kindly. When asked for help by someone, she never paused to consider her own inconvenience. Once she understood the young man's mood, she set down her load and gave him full attention.

  "Yes, I know. I've seen it in Orah as well. Look, Nathaniel, she'll be done in an hour. Can I give her a message?"

  "Yes, ma'am, if you please. Tell her to meet me as soon as possible. She'll know where."

  She laughed. The three friends and their secrets. She vaguely knew about some meeting place in the woods behind the Rush cottage.

  "You wouldn't mean the Not Tree, would you?"

  Nathaniel nodded shyly.

  She imagined how his own mother would have responded, and cut short her laughter. Tilting her head to one side, she pursed her lips as if to say "poor boy." Like everyone else in Little Pond, she liked Nathaniel and was sad to see him unhappy.

  "I'll tell her, Nathaniel, I promise. As soon as I'm finished with this firewood. And I know she'll want to meet you when her work is done."

  Nathaniel thanked her politely. As he walked away, she shook her head and-after glancing around to be sure no one could hear-mumbled to herself. "Why in the name of the light don't they leave these young people alone? Honestly."

  ***

  Nathaniel wandered about the village, reluctant to go home. After a while, worried he'd draw attention, he headed to their special place. Before entering the hidden path, he checked to see if he'd left tracks. There were none. The ground was hard and, unusual for so late in the season, no snow had fallen.

  When he arrived at the clearing, his heart sank. His mind he
ld an image of a magical place. But here, beneath the noonday sun, the hut looked small and bare, a skeleton of their childhood.

  Usually by now, they'd have held their winter ritual, cutting down boughs of balsam fir and covering the frame. Usually it would have snowed by now and... usually all three would be together. His throat started to close. It was as if the adulthood hovering over him since his coming-of-age had come crashing down.

  He heard a crackle of dry leaves and turned to see Orah approaching. She was out of breath, and the color was rising in her cheeks.

  "I came as quickly as I could," she said. "I didn't finish my turn, but I'll do more tonight."

  She grimaced when she saw the shelter and stepped forward to touch the wood. The slats were held fast in the frozen ground, and their tops were bound tightly together. His father had done well by them.

  When she looked back, her face was drawn, emphasizing her delicate features.

  "Do you remember," she said, "how the three of us would play our games?"

  Nathaniel forced a smile. "Yes. You'd always set the rules."

  "I did not."

  "Thomas, you'd say, go off to the right and Nathaniel, to the left." He mimicked her voice. "I'll stay here and count to ten, saying one Little Pond, two Little Pond, which should give you plenty of time.'"

  "Well maybe. But you and Thomas would always argue with me."

  "And that's why we came up with the Pact of the Ponds. We'd form a circle and cover our hearts."

  He placed his right hand over his heart and thrust his left in front, then gestured for her to do the same.

  "It won't work," she said. "We need three to form a circle."

  "Then let's pretend Thomas is here."

  At first, she glared at him. When he continued to insist, she gave in, covering her heart and grasping his wrist.