The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Page 5

  Only the Temple provided the printed word, and the vicar frowned on the owning of books. On the rare occasions when he brought a new one, he placed it on the shelves in the commons to be shared by all. But during winter months, the shelves lay empty. Neighbors passed books to each other without ever returning them to the commons.

  Orah had read them all, each a variation on the same theme--praise the light and damn the darkness. She reread them anyway, hoping to gain a fresh perspective.

  When not reading, she consumed most of her daylight hours weaving or contemplating her needle as it dipped in and out of the resulting cloth, sewing garments to trade. Once a week when weather allowed, she trekked the two hours to Great Pond with a few bolts of fabric to barter, and returned with a pack laden with spindles of yarn.

  Though the people of the Ponds stayed inside more and saw their neighbors less, she managed to meet Nathaniel every day. As for Thomas, he never ventured from home.

  She let him be, heeding the caution of the elders: He’ll return to himself by spring, though he won’t be quite the same.

  This gave her little comfort.

  Occasionally she’d invite him to join her and Nathaniel, leaving notes with a place and time. She offered to help or listen. She promised not to judge.

  He never came.

  ***

  William Rush watched his son with concern. Nathaniel had become withdrawn since Thomas’s return, and the gloom of midwinter seemed to affect him more deeply this year.

  The idea first came up during a visit to Susannah Weber. He’d brought over a bushel of grain to trade for a new coat for Nathaniel, whose growth had left his sleeves two fingers short of his wrists. William found he could talk to the affable woman more easily than to his sullen offspring and quickly discovered that Orah shared the same malady.

  Susannah Weber looked different from her daughter, with freckled skin and a short head of red hair, but she was just as direct. “Well William, the time has come to intervene.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Leave the grain. Orah and I will bring the coat to Nathaniel tomorrow at dinnertime.”

  He nodded, slowly at first, and then more rapidly. “I can make a meal.”

  “And I’ll bake bread.”

  Maybe together, they might lift the two young people out of their low spirits.

  ***

  Nathaniel jumped at the knock on the door. He’d been balancing on his toes all evening, waiting for Orah to arrive. While he always looked forward to her visits, he especially relished them now as they broke up the long winter days.

  She handed him the new coat and helped him try it on. It fit perfectly. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, and at first everyone relaxed, but once they sat down for the meal, the conversation wilted. The parents tried to carry the discussion, but the mood around the table dampened every attempt. Eventually, the room quieted until no sound remained save the clinking of forks on plates.

  After they finished eating, Nathaniel’s father suggested they settle by the fireplace while he prepared tea. Nathaniel tossed two logs on the fire. The wood sputtered and cast off sparks as if resisting the flames, and then erupted into a peak of yellows and reds. Soon, with their chairs close by, all felt a warm glow on their faces.

  After a respectful pause, Orah’s mother dove in. “So how is young Thomas?”

  “We don’t know,” Nathaniel said. “He won’t let us near.”

  “He’s not the first to be taken. Recovering from a teaching takes time. He may need help.”

  “But the elders told us to leave him alone.”

  “I heard what they said, but some wounds don’t heal on their own.”

  Nathaniel threw his hands in the air. “Everyone tells us what to do and what not to do, but no one will tell us what happened. How can we help without knowing?”

  Orah’s mother grabbed the poker and prodded the perfectly good fire. After a painful silence, she stood and hovered over Nathaniel’s father.

  “They’re right, William. It’s time we tell them why we heed the words of the vicars... and why we hate them as well.”

  Hate the vicars? Nathaniel knit his brows. Not the usual parental sermon. He steeled himself, waiting for them to impart some harsh truth.

  “We’re loath to talk about it, William, but for their sake, we must.”

  After a puzzling hesitation, Nathaniel’s father nodded.

  Orah’s mother shifted over to Nathaniel and took three long breaths as if buying time to compose her words. “The Temple took your father for a teaching just after coming of age. It lasted long, weeks longer than Thomas’s. When he came home, he was all closed up inside. The Temple had stripped the joy from him, but as the elders say, he recovered in time. He’s grown into a fine man and a good father, despite the teaching and the loss of your mother.”

  Nathaniel grimaced and sucked air in through his teeth. My father taken, and longer than Thomas?

  Before he could respond, Orah’s mother moved on to her daughter. “They took your father as well. We’d grown up together, much like you and Nathaniel.” Her eyes glistened, and she needed a breath to continue. “My sweet young man... when he returned from Temple City, something in him had changed. We married, you were born, but he was never the same. The teaching haunted him in his dreams. He’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, and I had no way to comfort him. After he died so young, the vicar tried to console me, but I refused to listen. Though I’d never shout it from the bell tower, I blamed—I still blame—the Temple and their teaching. Your father had a gentle soul, and the vicars broke his heart.”

  Her chin sagged to her chest, and she collapsed in her chair. Orah squeezed her mother’s arm.

  As Nathaniel struggled to moderate his breathing, his father buried his face in his hands. What could have happened so many years ago to affect him so?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Nathaniel said, careful to keep the edge from his voice.

  His father’s hands began to move, scrubbing his brow as if trying to remove a stain. When they dropped to his lap, his eyes were red. “I was ashamed, Nathaniel. You don’t know what a teaching’s like. They show you deep into the darkness so you appreciate why the Temple stands. You see horrors beyond imagination.”

  He went on to tell of the small cell, the lack of light, the thirst and hunger, the exhaustion and what he could only describe as visions of the darkness.

  Orah asked what Nathaniel feared to ask. “Why ashamed?”

  Nathaniel’s father licked his lips as if recalling the thirst. At last, he stood and gazed down at the two of them.

  “The end of the teaching is up to you. After a while, you beg to return to your normal life. Shortly thereafter, you offer a limb just to go home, but the vicars want more.”

  Nathaniel sputtered, hardly able to spit out the words. “If it made no sense, why didn’t you tell them what they wanted?”

  A sorrow seeped into his father’s bones, making his shoulders droop. “You’ve admired courage and honor since you were no taller than my knee. That’s what the vicars demand from you before the teaching ends. To go home, you must surrender your courage and honor.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nathaniel said.

  His father spoke so softly he had to strain to hear, but a single word rang out: “Betrayal.”

  “Betrayal? Who could you have betrayed?”

  Orah’s mother jumped up. “Enough, William. You’ve told more than I intended.”

  He shook her off, and his back stiffened. “To end the teaching, you must betray a friend. Why does Thomas avoid you? More than likely, he betrayed you.”

  Orah’s mother blocked him from their view and stepped closer. Her voice rose with each word. “You must never blame him. He had no choice.”

  Nathaniel’s eyes widened as the fire buzzed and flared. “What happens next?”

  “Most who are betrayed are never taken. The vicars find enough candidates on
their own. Time passes, we grow older. The betrayal becomes nothing more than an entry in the Temple records. That’s why I finally told. They led me to believe that....” He turned away, unable to finish.

  Orah let out a slight, almost imperceptible gasp, and then clutched the edge of her chair and rose. Her lips contorted around a single unbearable question. “Who did you betray?”

  Nathaniel failed to comprehend. What had she heard that he had not?

  Her mother grabbed her by the arm, but she twisted away.

  “Who,” Orah said, shouting now, “did you betray?”

  Her mother waved wildly. “Enough William. Say no more.”

  He brushed her aside and came to within an arm’s length of Orah. Their eyes met, and his expression melted into shame.

  Orah let out a shriek and fled from the cottage.

  Silence filled the emptiness left by her flight. Then the topmost log of the fire settled, crushing the embers below. The pyramid of flame dropped as well, and the room dimmed.

  ***

  A few days later, Nathaniel attended Orah’s coming-of-age. Though not as big a celebration as festival, the occasion still bore the weight of a major life event.

  While awaiting the guest of honor, he kept twisting around, hoping to spot Thomas. He peered past the crowd of well-wishers, friends and relatives hugging and murmuring good cheer as they awaited the ceremony. No sign of Thomas.

  He wanted to tell his friend he knew what had happened and welcome him home. He and Orah had discussed what they’d learned, trying to understand. Impossible. He would never understand the teaching, but one thing he knew with certainty—he blamed neither his father nor Thomas. He blamed the Temple of Light.

  Finally, Orah emerged and took her seat on a platform erected in the village square. Her mother had the honor of cutting her hair to the prescribed length, just covering her neck. Afterwards, three female relatives accompanied her inside the commons. Moments later she reemerged, the gray clothing of youth shed. She now wore the black vest and long dark skirt of age—a full child of light.

  Next, Elder Robert stated the precepts of the Temple, one at a time, waiting as she repeated each, even though she’d known them since first school. Finally, Robert led the assembly in the blessing of life, recited upon attaining major milestones.

  “Blessed is the light that has given us life, allowed us to thrive, and brought us here to this day.”

  Nathaniel studied Orah, trying to read her mood. When the ceremony ended with the communal “blessed be the light,” he caught her mouthing the words. What struck him most, however, was how she’d grown. Coming of age had added a fierce intensity to her normal seriousness. The Temple had changed his two friends. Had it changed him as well?

  At the end, Elder Robert marked Orah’s name on a card that the next courier would take to Temple City.

  Now came the time to celebrate. Most people proceeded to the feast, but Nathaniel lingered to congratulate Orah. He grasped her by the waist and swung her around, and as she flew, she caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder.

  “Thomas,” she whispered.

  Nathaniel set her down gently and turned. Thomas lurked in the last row like a distant relative from another village. The two of them approached their friend as if coming upon a bird they wished to view more closely but not frighten away.

  Orah tried on several expressions before she settled on gratitude. “Oh Thomas, I’m so thankful you’ve come. You’ve given me the best present I could have.”

  Thomas took a small step toward them. Nathaniel froze in place, afraid that any motion might scare him away. He glimpsed a hint of his friend behind the mask the teaching had imprinted on him, but Thomas came no closer.

  Remembering his father’s distress, Nathaniel chose his words carefully. “We’ll always be your friends, no matter what you’ve done. We’re here when you need us. We’ll listen when you want to tell.”

  At the front of the commons, the feast awaited. Relatives shouted out to Orah to receive her first toast. Thomas balanced on the balls of his feet. When the villagers called a second time, he spun around and fled. The mask of his face had never changed.

  ***

  As dusk settled on the village, Orah tired of entertaining, so Nathaniel drew her away to the refuge of the NOT tree. He brushed the snow off a flat rock outside the shelter, and the two huddled together for warmth.

  “What does this coming of age mean?” Orah said. “I feel no different. You’ve been of age longer. Can you tell me what it means?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. He had no answer and knew she had more to say.

  “I’ll tell you what I think, Nathaniel of Little Pond. It means two things. First, we can no longer harbor illusions. We must let them fade into the thin air from whence they came. Second, we’ll need to make choices, and that will be the hardest.”

  A crunch of snow on the path, and Thomas emerged from the woods. Nathaniel waited, wondering at all the times he’d longed for change and how, now, he ached for things to return to the way they were.

  “I guessed you’d be here,” Thomas said, his voice strained but close to his own. “I always know what the two of you are thinking. That hasn’t changed.”

  One side of his mouth did its best to curl upward, passing for his familiar grin. Then all three moved toward each other, silent as the snow-covered woods, and met in a steadfast embrace.

  Chapter 7 – Orah’s Log

  My coming of age seems like a good reason to start my new log, no longer to chronicle the changing of the seasons but to record the progress of my life.

  Last night, following the ceremony and our reunion with Thomas, I dreamed of my father in a teaching cell, but I was the one being taught. The vicars insisted they’d release me only if I betrayed him.

  “How can I betray him?” I cried. “He’s passed to the light.”

  The Little Pond vicar with black beads for eyes glared down at me. “You must renounce his deathbed wish.”

  My father’s final words came back to me: Don’t let the vicars set your mind. Think your own thoughts, big thoughts based on grand ideas.

  I shook my head and sat back down. The cover thudded shut, thrusting me into darkness. Tears began to flow for the first time since my father died. What else could I do? To renounce his wishes would be like watching him die again. Yet unless I betrayed him, I’d stay in the teaching forever.

  The air above me shimmered as Nathaniel’s father had described. I braced for visions of the darkness, but my father appeared instead, younger than I remembered and with the delicate features he’d bequeathed to me. “Why are you crying, little Orah?”

  “The vicars demand I betray you.”

  “Not me. No one can betray those who are gone. They’re asking you to betray yourself.”

  My lower lip trembled and my words emerged with a quiver. “What should I do?”

  My father offered that familiar smile and spoke as if reading me a bedtime story. “Your mind and heart are your own. No one can control them, even with temple magic. Find your purpose and be true to yourself. Nothing else matters.”

  The image flickered, the dream faded, and I awoke.

  I lay in my bed, staring up at the ceiling until the dawn crept past the edges of my window shade.

  Now, as I write this, my first log entry, I wonder: What is my purpose?

  I’ve come of age and am more confused than ever. I’m certain of only one thing—I boil with rage at the vicars.

  But to what end?

  Chapter 8 – Confession

  Nathaniel battled against a howling headwind that stole his breath and stifled all speech. A storm had blown in from the north and swirled through the Ponds for the past two days, leaving in its wake drifts to the eaves of his cottage. That morning, after the sky cleared, Orah had insisted they get Thomas outdoors. So now Nathaniel trudged along, breaking a path for his friends through the newly fallen snow.

  He paused to catch his bearings—another
hundred paces to Elder John’s cottage. Once the steam from his lips slowed, he drove his knee forward and set out again.

  They’d managed to get Thomas outside every day except for the height of the storm. Whereas before the teaching he’d complained about the slightest discomfort, now he seemed to thrive on the cold. That morning, he’d rewarded them for their efforts.

  “The darkness lurks in the past,” he said, “or in the cells of Temple City, but not in Little Pond with my friends.”

  As they made their daily treks, neighbors noticed the three out and about and gladly invited them in. One by one they came forward, first with sympathy, and then with stories of teachings.

  “My Uncle Edward—he’s long gone—had a teaching. Wouldn’t let on what happened until his fortieth birthday. He was a good man, but after he told his story, he was a better man.”

  “My brother Richard—you remember him, gone off to work in Great Pond—had a teaching. Came back, said nothing for two months. Then went to the village square and spat at the altar. After that, he was fine.”

  Elder John never spoke about teachings, but for some reason he insisted they visit every few days. As soon as the storm had cleared, Nathaniel decided the next visit was overdue.

  When they reached the recent widower’s cottage, he stood in the doorway waiting to usher them in. They stamped the snow off their boots on the weather-beaten slats of the porch and bustled into the warmth of the living room, where a fire blazed in the stone hearth. Elder John hung a kettle over the flames and hovered while the water came to a boil. Once they had settled in their chairs and wrapped their hands around steaming mugs, he gave them a lesson on the Temple.

  “Despite the Temple’s imperfections, it offers us the best chance for a good life. We read in the book of light about the horrors of the darkness, but the memory of bad times fades. The vicars claim even a small step backward might lead us to violence, chaos and war.” He checked that each of them heeded his words. “I don’t know myself, but I trust the vicar’s wisdom.”

  Orah’s eyes flared. “Can’t they find a better way to show us the darkness without hurting anyone?”