The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Read online

  She did her best to soften her expression and be welcoming. “Why, Nathaniel, what are you doing here so early? The farmer’s life must be easier than I presume.”

  Weaving demanded less physical effort than farming but took more time, especially in the winter. She and her daughter spent long hours producing cloth to trade for their needs.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Is Orah here?”

  “Of course, 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 want things. We don’t get them the instant they pop into our heads.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but it’s been so hard since Thomas was taken.”

  She thought of herself as kindly. When someone asked for help, she never paused to consider her own inconvenience. Once she understood the young man’s mood, she set down her load and gave him her full attention. “Yes, I’ve seen it in Orah as well. Her turn will be done in an hour. Can I give her a message?”

  “If you please. Tell her to meet me as soon as possible. She’ll know where.”

  Susannah laughed. The three friends and their secrets. She knew vaguely of some meeting place in the woods behind the Rush cottage. “Would you mean the NOT tree?”

  Nathaniel nodded shyly.

  She imagined how his deceased mother would have responded, and cut short her laughter, pursing her lips as if to say “poor boy.” Like everyone else in Little Pond, she liked Nathaniel and hated seeing him unhappy.

  “I’ll tell her, I promise, as soon as I’ve finished with this firewood. I’m sure 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 check that no one could hear—mumbled to herself. “Why in the name of the light don’t the vicars leave these young people alone? Honestly.”

  ***

  Nathaniel wandered about the village, reluctant to go home, but after a while, he worried he’d draw attention and retreated to the seclusion of the NOT tree. He checked his tracks before entering the hidden path. No trace of his passing showed on the hard ground and, unusual for so late in the season, no snow had fallen.

  When he arrived at the clearing, his heart sank. His mind held an image of a magical place, but now, with no greenery to brighten the view or night to cloak the scene in mystery, it seemed bleak and cheerless. As a child, he’d played their summer games here—make-believe adventures with his friends--but for him, they were much more. He’d go home and reflect on them as he lay awake at night. In the dimness of his bedchamber, the darkness they’d fought would transform into grotesque creatures, winged and scaled and breathing fire, or fanged serpents with slit tongues. Yet always, the hero of his imagination remained the same: tall, a plumed helmet upon his head, a gleaming sword with a bejeweled hilt grasped in his right hand. And on his chest, an obsidian medallion, all blackness, the oval talisman he’d used to capture and imprison the darkness. For nothing could destroy the darkness that dwelled in each person’s heart. Only great courage could constrain it.

  A deep sigh. The scene before him triggered none of those fantasies. Beneath the noonday sun, the hut seemed small and bare, a skeleton of his childhood.

  Usually by this time of the year, they’d have performed their winter ritual, cutting down boughs of balsam fir and covering the frame. Usually snow would have covered the land and... usually the three friends would be together. Nathaniel’s throat started to close, and the world weighed on him as if the adulthood that had hovered over him since his coming-of-age had come crashing down.

  He heard a crackle of dry leaves and turned to catch Orah jogging along the path. Her breath burst out in gasps, and the color had risen in her cheeks.

  “I came as quickly as possible,” she said. “I didn’t finish my turn, but I’ll make up for it tonight.” She grimaced at the bare shelter and stepped forward to touch the wood. The circle of slats held fast in the frozen ground, and their tops remained tightly bound. Nathaniel’s father had done well by them.

  When she looked back, her face was drawn. “Do you remember how the three of us would play our games?”

  Nathaniel forced a smile. “You’d always set the rules.”

  “I did not.”

  “You most certainly did.” He mimicked her voice. “‘Thomas, go off to the right, and Nathaniel to the left. 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 argue with me.”

  “That’s why we came up with the Pact of the Ponds.” He placed his right hand over his heart and thrust his left in front, then gestured for her to do the same.

  Her hand ventured into the space between them, but pulled back. “It won’t work. We need three to form a circle.”

  “Then let’s pretend Thomas is here.”

  She glared at him but finally gave in, covering her heart and grasping his wrist.

  “Pact of the Ponds,” he said weakly. “No more arguments and the game will begin.”

  “This is no game.” She yanked her hand away and stared beyond the tree line, as if searching for Thomas in far-off Temple City. “Something terrible is happening to Thomas. I can sense his loneliness and fear, even at a distance. Do you believe that?”

  Nathaniel nodded. More than once in their years together she’d seemed able to read his thoughts. “It’s possible... for friends since birth.”

  “Can’t we find a way to help? Your father’s an elder. What does he say?”

  Nathaniel gritted his teeth as the shame from that morning rushed back. He told her what had happened, and she had the same questions.

  “How will he change?” she said.

  “He might be sadder.”

  “A sadder Thomas? What a horrible thought. Why didn’t you press for more?”

  “I tried. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell, but I said things I never should have said. Since Thomas was taken, we’re all in a foul mood.” He glanced at the hut skeleton. “Why don’t we cover the shelter now, you and I? It’ll cheer us up and give Thomas a pleasant surprise when he returns.”

  A crease formed between Orah’s brows and her eyes narrowed. “Our special ceremony without Thomas? How can you think such a thing? He’s gone less than two weeks and you’d forget him?”

  First he’d snapped at his father, and now Orah had snapped at him. The world had gone awry. This morning, he’d been angry with his father for one of the few times in his life. He’d never been angry with Orah before. “This is the Temple’s fault, with all their rules and ceremonies.”

  “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “Why not? No one’s listening.”

  “Because the Temple protects us from the darkness.” She recited from the book of light, a verse the elders used to admonish children. “Beware the stray thought. Like water dripping on rock, it can erode the strongest mind and open a path for the darkness.”

  “We don’t even know what the darkness is.”

  “The darkness is the time before the light, a time of chaos and death.”

  He stepped toward her. “That’s what we learned to recite in school, but what is it really? You’re the smartest person I know. Can you tell me what the darkness is?”

  He studied her as she pondered his question. Her looks came from the Weber side of the family, with olive skin and delicate but unremarkable features, more than offset 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 outraged like now.

  At last, her outrage vanished and she came closer, enough so he felt her breath. “Yes, Nathaniel, I can tell you. The darkness is when a son hurts the father he loves, when friends are separated, and when those who care the most
about each other raise their voices in anger.” Her expression hardened, and her delicate features disappeared. “By that meaning, I swear the darkness will never return.”

  The strong words narrowed his vision, so he saw her now as through a tunnel. When the moment passed, he noticed something cold on his cheeks.

  A light snow had begun to fall.

  Chapter 5 – Festival

  As festival approached, Orah came to agree with Nathaniel. Covering the NOT tree would affirm their friendship with Thomas rather than deny it. Despite her distress at his absence, she had no way to help. So the day before festival, she and Nathaniel gathered to wrap the structure in green to welcome Thomas home.

  Before they entered the forest, Nathaniel fetched an axe from the woodshed while she rummaged about for twine. They met as dark settled upon the clearing outside the village.

  Stars winked into being and a moon rose, less than half-full but bright enough to light their task. She picked a branch lush with needles and prodded Nathaniel to chop it free. As it fell, she grabbed the end, and together they dragged it to the shelter. After she located the perfect spot, they bound the branch to the slats with twine before returning to the woods. In less than an hour, they had remade the bare structure into an enclosed dwelling that seemed, under the stars, to have stood there forever.

  Orah ducked inside and waited amused as Nathaniel crawled in on all fours. Beneath the cover of branches, her breathing quieted as if she’d entered a holy place. The smell of freshly-cut balsam filled the air like incense, a comforting memory of childhood.

  Custom prescribed a blessing when they’d finished their work. This year was Orah’s turn. “May the light bless our shelter.” She stopped at the tired old phrase, uttered without thought. This year’s blessing had to be real. “Not the light the Temple claims to own, but the true light that burns in our hearts.” She grasped Nathaniel’s hands and spoke for the both of them. “Dear friend Thomas, we’re sorry to have covered this shelter without you, but know we have not forgotten you. We’re here in the darkness with you. Not the darkness of the Temple, but a warm and loving darkness that will soon embrace the three of us again.”

  Nathaniel gasped at her statement—too close to heresy.

  She squeezed his hands to regain focus. “Thomas, we are with you. Say it with me Nathaniel, so it will be stronger.”

  Both inhaled deeply and spoke. “Thomas, we are with you.” Then she added, “Return to us safely and soon.”

  In what moonlight filtered through the branches, the puffs from Nathaniel’s breath filled the space between them.

  ***

  For as long as Orah could remember, she’d looked forward to festival, but Nathaniel’s coming of age and Thomas’s absence made this year feel different. She’d tossed in bed last night, a cloud of uncertainty hanging over her, but when she awoke this morning, the usual excitement filled the air.

  The celebration began at noon with footraces. The youngest competed first, followed by the older children, and finally those of age, from seventeen to twenty-five. Boys and girls raced separately, so she and Nathaniel could cheer each other on.

  She’d always been fast, but now, as the oldest in her group, she managed to win all three of her races—the sprint around the commons, the longer run through the village, and a scramble between obstacles. The scramble required more agility than speed, and favored the younger girls, but this year she competed with a special intensity.

  Age worked against Nathaniel. As a new adult, he competed with men whose muscles had thickened and minds had grown accustomed to the length of their limbs. Deriving no inspiration from her victories, he ran poorly in the first two events. Then, in the scramble, he fell at the finish, lunging in an attempt to make the final three and skinning his knee.

  When all the races had finished, the elders awarded prizes to the winners—by tradition an elaborate wreath made from the flax that grew around Little Pond.

  Flax filled a vital need for the people of the Ponds, harvested for both its fiber and seeds, but in the spring when its blossoms bloomed, families would go out among the stalks and search for the most beautiful flowers—the whites and lavenders, and the blues valued most of all. Orah recalled long June evenings with her father before he died, sitting and weaving stalks into rings. Then the flowers would be hung on the walls to dry, looking like the wings of a butterfly. A simple prize, but even the oldest decorated their cottages with festival wreaths won long ago.

  The elders often delegated the awarding of prizes to someone close to the winner—a parent or, for the older ones, a betrothed. When the time came for Orah to receive her due, Elder William Rush called on his son. Nathaniel gaped at him, but his father smiled, offered the victor wreaths and gestured toward Orah.

  Everyone knew Thomas had been away a long time—longer than the usual teaching—and most had watched the three friends grow up together. The crowd murmured its approval as Nathaniel placed the wreaths on Orah’s head so gently he disturbed not a hair.

  But both Orah and Nathaniel had forgotten the last part of the tradition: male presenters were expected to kiss a female winner, once on each check. Their neighbors, however, had a better memory and urged them on. Nathaniel took on a look that said he preferred to be elsewhere, but in response to the crowd, he rested a hand on Orah’s arm and leaned in to brush each of her cheeks with his lips.

  She laughed and rolled her eyes, but a sudden glow warmed her skin, and a flush of crimson added to the color of the flowers.

  ***

  By the time twilight came, Orah waited eagerly for the feast. All the races had been run. Happy winners pranced about, sporting wreaths on their heads. Food and drink covered every surface, from the railings of the commons to the Temple altar. All that remained was the lighting of the bonfire and the festival tree.

  A spruce stood in the village square with candles attached to every branch. Would the vicar disapprove of this tradition as well? He never joined them for festival and no villager ever discussed the celebration with him, so the unseen and unspoken was allowed.

  The lighting of the tree started at the top. This year, the elders chose Nathaniel to help. He planted himself at the base while strong arms hoisted a nimble ten-year-old onto his shoulders—a role once filled by Thomas at a similar age. The boy paused to balance and then straightened. Nathaniel’s father passed a pole up to him with a flame attached to its tip. He kindled the topmost candle and worked his way down. Once the top third of the tree blazed with light, the boy vaulted to the ground and many hands lit the rest.

  Orah watched open-mouthed as one by one, the burning candles chased away twilight. Then Elder Robert grabbed the burning pole and, amidst an air of expectation, tossed it into the bonfire stack. Within seconds the dry wood crackled, and the flames shot higher than the festival tree.

  A cheer went up. While a few of the revelers stayed to watch the fire spread, most headed for the food, but as they turned, they froze in place. A hush rolled across the crowd, and Orah stretched for a better view.

  There stood Thomas at the edge of the firelight, lingering like a part of the shadows.

  What did they do to him? His pale skin stretched over cheeks so hollow that his face showed no sentiment save exhaustion.

  The adults hesitated to approach, and their children caught their fear. Even Nathaniel wavered, too stunned to move.

  But Orah rushed forward. “Thomas, you’ve returned to brighten our festival. What a gift.” She reached out to touch him, but he recoiled.

  “A drink.” His voice rasped as if he hadn’t used it in days. “May I have a drink?”

  Someone offered a cup. His hands shook so much that the liquid spilled on his soiled tunic. After two gulps, he glanced at the festival tree and began to well up.

  Nathaniel finally pushed through the crowd to join Orah. “Have you been to Temple City? Did you see it?”

  Thomas growled like an offended stranger. “I saw nothing but darkness.”
/>   Two elders placed restraining hands on Orah and Nathaniel.

  “He’ll need time,” Elder Robert said. “Give him a few days.”

  Orah pulled away and pressed closer. “What is it, Thomas? Did they hurt you?”

  Thomas’s head snapped around. He lifted his chin and straightened as if about to deliver a sermon. “The Temple of Light does not harm its children. Only in the darkness was violence done. The vicars have shown me the truth. Horrible things happened in the darkness. I’ll dedicate my life to ensure it never returns.”

  The elders muttered how the teaching had made him wise beyond his years, but now he needed to rest. Gentle, older hands led him away.

  “He’s home at last,” Nathaniel said as their neighbors strove to regain their festive mood, “but he’s no longer our Thomas. Only time will tell whether what’s been taken from him returns or is forever gone.”

  Forever gone. Orah shivered. Nathaniel’s wish has come to pass.

  Something had finally happened in Little Pond.

  Chapter 6 – Winter

  Winter settled on the Ponds and into the bones of its people. No blizzards blew in from the mountains, but a light snow fell every few days, leaving the pathways coated in white. Twilight seemed to come right after noon, and the dark and cold stalked everyone.

  For the farmers, winter meant idle time. By the first snowfall, they’d completed the chores saved until after the harvest—cottage repairs or fence mending—and the few animals they kept took a small effort each day. The indoor season provided a chance to create little luxuries, to tool leather or carve wood, and to catch up on reading.