The Stuff of Stars (The Seekers Book 2) Read online

  “Try us.” I waited, hands folded in front, holding my breath. I prayed to hear the truth at last.

  The mentor blew out a long stream of air, as if to expel his displeasure. Then, though he made no motion, no touch of his hand or twitch of his legs, the chair rolled toward us. He stopped so close I could feel the heat of his eyes on my cheeks.

  “What Annabel calls the day of reckoning, we call the day of ascension. It’s an annual festival we’ve celebrated for many years, the one day a year when the wisest among us, the ones who created and controlled the machines, had the chance to indulge their brilliance, to meld their minds together. Ascension is a... wondrous event, but not without risk, a time when mortals ascend to the edge of the infinite. Out of such days our greatest innovations have emerged, our finest ideas.

  “On this one day, nearly three years ago, a disaster occurred. Not an act of some angry god or the reckoning of a vengeful earth as Annabel preaches, but a natural phenomenon with the worst of timing. The mountain which had lain dormant for millennia chose that moment to erupt—an event even our brightest could not have foreseen. Yet they’d planned for such an unpredictable occurrence. All would have gone well if not for the ignorance of Annabel and her people.”

  His voice cracked at the last words, and his fingers tightened on the arms of the chair until his knuckles whitened. He stared past us as if reliving that day, and a thin sheet of sadness veiled his long face like the viewing gauze covering a coffin.

  I waited for him to continue. When the silence dragged on, I prompted him. “If it was a natural phenomenon, what fault could the greenies bear?”

  His blue eyes turned back to me, burning with rage. “Ascension is science, not malice or magic as their feeble minds imagined. It requires an enormous output of power. For centuries, we’ve received our power from the waterfall cascading down the mountain, but on this day of ascension, the mountain sent debris flowing down to divert the water that fed the falls.

  “My colleagues in their wisdom had planned for such a disaster, reinforcing their mountain fortress and adding several layers of backup. Throughout the disruption of power, their plans worked perfectly, leaving their chambers intact and them safely suspended in the dreamer state. But no one had ever dwelled in the dream for so long. Time was of the essence. We needed labor to clear the debris and restore power. Our repair machines helped, but without the minds of their masters to guide them, they functioned poorly.

  “So for once, after years of sustaining their people with nothing in return, we begged the so-called greenies for aid. Annabel and her ilk had started the earth movement a generation before, a bunch of the disgruntled too incompetent or lazy to pass their exams. For the day of ascension, they’d organized a peaceful protest based on a silly superstition, as if some jealous god had placed limits on mankind.

  “Our adults helped, those too old like me to go into the mountain. The rest of our people were children, little more than babes. All did their best, working day and night without sleep, but we were unaccustomed to physical labor and lacked the tools. For two days the greenies refused to help despite our pleas, until selfishly they realized the consequences of their actions. They’d get no more free bounty from the machines if we failed. Those two days might have made the difference.

  “We created a better world for them, despite how little they contributed. How did they repay us? They turned their backs in our time of need. Now you’ve betrayed my trust by befriending them.”

  I waited until the mentor’s breathing had calmed, then dared a small step toward him.

  Without any apparent gesture on his part, his chair recoiled.

  “We take no sides,” I said. “We’re only trying to learn your ways.”

  “Our ways are clear for all to see. Theirs are devious. They preach of peace and the good earth, but they plot the murder of the dreamers. Did my good friend, Annabel, tell you that?”

  I stayed silent, recalling the earth mother’s prayer—to one day bring peace to the dreamers.

  When I failed to answer, the mentor’s eyes narrowed. “And if she did tell you, would you reveal their plans to me?”

  Nathaniel grasped my hand and squeezed, as he had that day in the arch vicar’s chamber.

  I licked my lips and swallowed to moisten my throat. “Please, sir, we’re innocents who sailed into your world. The greenies are struggling to live off the land. We bring skills from our side of the ocean that can ease their way. As for you, we may not match your science, but we come with fresh eyes and good intentions. We’re not your enemy. Let us help both sides.”

  The chair whirred suddenly, an angry, grinding sound. It backed away and whirled in a circle, finally resting with its back to me.

  “Help us? You with your primitive minds? I waited all day while you communed with my enemy. If you’re truly innocents with fresh eyes, you’d be able to distinguish right from the obvious wrong. I’ve listened, hoping to hear some hint of remorse or regret. I have no more use for you now, and I’m tired.” He motioned to Kara with a flip of his wrist. “Take them out of my sight.”

  ***

  As soon as we exited the mentor’s chamber, the boys with the sharpened sticks surrounded us. At Kara’s direction, they escorted us back to our room.

  By the entrance, I noted our glass box now also glowed red.

  Kara touched the box. A sharp click sounded as before, and the door snapped open.

  A frustrated Nathaniel lurched inside and collapsed on the bed, but I waited, glaring at the door. As it swung shut behind us, the walls of the room seemed to close in, and the air became musty and thick. A tremor passed through me, a familiar dread from the past. I shuffled to the door in tiny steps and brushed my fingertips over its metal surface. Then I tested the latch as I had on our first night.

  The door was locked. We were prisoners once again.

  Chapter 12 – The Gilded Prison

  For three days, we stayed locked in our quarters, but this troubled me less than the dank cells of Temple City—no grim deacons lurking about, no stench of stale air, no wall to separate Nathaniel and me, no peephole needed here.

  Each day, Kara provided us three good meals, the same as she and the others ate, and when she was able to barter for fresh berries from the greenies, she brought us an ample portion. I suspect she added her own share to ours to make up for our treatment.

  Just as in the keep, our space stayed protected from the elements, never too warm or too cold. The bath water ran hot. The towels felt plush, the sheets silken, and the bed soft. We had everything we needed... except our freedom.

  Kara seemed to fare worse than us. The shadows beneath her eyes deepened daily, as if she’d slept poorly at night with the burden of being our jailor resting heavily on her. If I asked for help or insight into our fate, she’d bite her tongue and decline. Her loyalty to the mentor remained absolute.

  When I made a simpler request, to bring a supply of paper and pens, she was pleased to agree for a change and happily complied.

  At last, I could resume my log to chronicle the events in this new land. I did so thankfully, with no rocking of the boat to muddle my script and no splashing of the waves to smudge my words.

  ***

  What to make of this world?

  We risked this journey believing some of the keepmasters’ kin must have fled to the far side of the sea. Not all would have chosen the keepmasters’ sacrifice, to be locked away for the rest of their lives while recording their knowledge. Some must have preferred to flee. These refugees had the means to make such a voyage, and the confidence they’d find safety here. We expected their descendants to be wise people, like those we’d met in the keep, but advanced by a thousand years. What timid souls we’d be to forgo such a quest.

  Were we fools to think we’d find what we sought, that we might discover miracles to improve the lives of our people? No. We were no more fools than when we set out to seek the keep or chose to tell our neighbors the truth about the darkness
.

  Nathaniel and I need to follow our nature, and that nature is to strive for a better world.

  What drives the potential for greatness? Is it learning and knowledge, or faith and passion? Neither is sufficient by itself, unless mixed with a willingness to view the world anew, to see possibilities rather than barriers.

  That’s what drove us to cross the sea and brought us to these shores.

  But what have we found?

  Both greenies and technos are mired in their own myths, each with customs cast in stone. What Nathaniel and I do best is bring about change, but only if they’ll let us. How can we help from behind these walls?

  ***

  I stopped writing, my pen poised in midair. Though locked away, I held in my hand the most powerful weapon—along with the paper, my thoughts and my stubborn will, strengths that can never be imprisoned.

  I set down the log, withdrew a fresh sheet of paper, and smoothed it on the table. After a long and cleansing breath, I grasped the pen and started a new stream of words.

  ***

  To the mentor, honored leader of the machine masters:

  I write to you today in the spirit of respect for all you have accomplished. Yet this land we’ve sailed into lies in a state of sorrow. I make no claim to understand all that has happened—neither you nor the earth mother have shared enough—but whatever name you give to that tragic day, ascension or reckoning, it has cast this land into turmoil.

  The greenies would be as children on our side of the sea, trying to live off the earth for the first time in generations. They mean well but are struggling. We possess skills to help them along.

  Where we’re from, there are those who believe in the sun, giver of light, kindred spirits who would sympathize with the aspirations of the greenies. Yes, some, like the greenie zealots, opposed the pursuit of new ideas, but Nathaniel and I convinced them to change. Many in our land now yearn for knowledge, to understand the ways of the keep, but we have so much to learn. Your children could speed up our learning, teach us the wisdom of the past, and move us beyond it.

  So we can help the greenies and you can help us. What is it we can do for you?

  You are a wonderful leader but will not live forever. The other adults we’ve seen in your city are elderly as well. The children are so young, you may never see them mature.

  We can be your ally. Help us understand what needs to be done. Though we lack the knowledge of your children, we’re not without abilities. We’ve already brought astonishing change to one land fixed in its ways. Our minds are open, and we’re willing to risk our lives if need be.

  You claim to be a reasonable people, yet you keep us as prisoners when we’ve done you no harm. We are not your enemy. Let us speak with you. We may not be as learned as you, but we come from a different world. Let us understand more fully your dilemma. Perhaps with fresh eyes, we can find a better way.

  You call us primitives, but who is the more primitive? We who risked so much to become more than we are, or you, who out of fear have locked us away?

  Please, sir, do not leave us to languish in our gilded prison. We can help. Give us the chance.

  Yours hopefully,

  Orah Weber

  Chapter 13 – A Tapping on the Door

  After penning my letter to the mentor, I slept well, hopeful he’d respond, but when no response came, my mood darkened. The next night, I tossed in bed for hours until exhaustion let me nod off.

  Then I was visited by a vision, a memory long buried in my mind.

  ***

  A week before my father died, he came to me as I slept and woke me with a finger to my lips, a warning to stay quiet. Then he beckoned for me to follow.

  Once we were far enough from our cottage, beyond earshot of any villager, he bent low and whispered in my ear. “I have a secret, Orah, something even your mother doesn’t know. Take me to the special place where you and your friends play, and I’ll show you.”

  I loved him so much, I had no hesitation. I took his hand and led him down the path through the darkness to our newly built shelter, the NOT tree.

  At the clearing in the woods, he sat on the flat rock and lit three candles, his face gaunt and drawn in their flickering light.

  Even as a seven-year-old, I could tell he was ill.

  He took out a velvet pouch and from inside withdrew a gold piece, round like a coin but three times the size and thicker, with the head of a king engraved upon its front. He held the piece before my widening eyes.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “A device to make music. After years of trying, I’ve learned how to make it work, but it’s a remnant of the darkness, so I’ve never shown it to anyone before. Now I’m more afraid its secret will die with me.”

  Only much later did I learn he’d been subjected to the Temple’s teaching. Like Thomas, he must have been terrified of being discovered by the vicars and dragged back to the cramped cell. But at that moment, the urge to show this remnant from the darkness to his daughter was stronger than his fear.

  “Behold, Orah, something more wonderful than temple magic.”

  Though his hand shook, he flipped open the case and inside lay a fantastic mechanism. He sat on the flat stone before the NOT tree and worked by candlelight, removing prongs and a wheel, and a drum and tines. He let me touch each, and then lovingly set them back into place. A remnant of the darkness? The darkness be damned.

  “Can you play it for me,” I said.

  He waited, staring out, not saying a word.

  I watched the face of my dying father as he tried to decide.

  “Very well,” he said. “Just this once. A secret for only you and me.”

  He placed his fingertip on the tiny lever, closed his eyes, and pressed. The candlelight reflected off his moist cheeks as the device began to make a sound like angels flying.

  After he died, I searched our cottage but never found the gold box in the velvet pouch. Perhaps my mother, for fear of the vicars, had buried the blasphemy with him. As time passed, the pain of his death drove the memory deeper into my mind, until this night when it returned to me in a dream.

  But then, the dream kept on. After the music stopped, the box broke apart, the parts grew in size and became houses, and the houses became temples, and the temples became a fortress carved into a mountain, all gold and gleaming with detailed etchings and turrets. The front gate opened, and inside stood my father, alive again and beckoning.

  “What awaits me,” I said.

  “You must enter to find out.” His voice trailed off into an echo of a whisper. A gust of wind kicked up, and my father turned into a wisp of smoke and blew away.

  I ran after, not wanting to let him go.

  Inside, at the center of a vast chamber, sat the mentor in his wheeled chair. He glared at me from beneath the brim of his hat and said, “Once you’ve entered, you may never leave.”

  The gate slammed shut behind me, locking me in.

  ***

  When I awoke, my forehead was clammy with sweat.

  My eyelids fluttered and closed as old memories swirled through my mind.

  In the wee hours of the morning on the day of my father’s funeral, I’d snuck off while the village slept. Only seven years old, I’d hoped to view the casket lying open in the commons.

  The large chamber, with its gabled roof, exposed beams, and pew-like seats, stood empty awaiting the mourners. In the naked rafters above me, the shadows had lengthened and seemed to dance and jiggle like ghouls. At the far end, the casket awaited, surrounded by flowers. Their scent failed to hide a stale odor that repelled me.

  I thought of all the villagers who had died before him, those men and women welcomed to the light. The thought gave me no solace.

  I crept closer to the casket and touched my fingertips to the copper pennies the elders had placed over his eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, I removed them, wanting him to see me one last time.

  Beneath the pennies, his eyes were glassy and va
cant.

  I stared into them, hoping to see the father I loved, as I’d stare into the ice on the pond in winter, trying to pierce the blackness to the water below. “No,” I cried at last, and flung the pennies away. This was not my father. My father was gone... but to where?

  The morning of the funeral, I awoke to the dawn leaking beneath the window shade, and the reality of his death surged into my thoughts. Tears flowed, soaking my pillowcase.

  My mother heard me sobbing and rushed into my room.

  “Will you die too?” I asked.

  “All of us must pass to the Light in our time.” She wrapped her arms around me and drew me to her breast. “It’s in the nature of things.”

  ***

  I may have buried that memory, but now I could picture the gold box spinning in the air before me. I could almost hear its magical sound.

  I woke Nathaniel and told him my dream.

  He listened patiently and said he’d dreamed as well, but refused to share his with me.

  When morning finally came, I arose and stomped about our chamber, each footstep landing on the padded floor with a thud. We’d survived the deacons and the arch vicar’s threats, found the keep and rallied our people, crossed the sea and survived the storm. Yet now we sat, well fed and helpless, like pets in a gilded cage.

  With so much time on my hands, I composed a fantasy in my mind: Thomas would rally the people of the Ponds, build a second boat, and come to our rescue. I never wrote down a single word. What a waste of paper to pen a work of fiction no one would ever read.

  As I circled the walls, I heard a tapping on the door. What now?

  Never before had Kara knocked. Why should she? Like the deacon guards before her, she possessed the key. Always she’d entered unannounced, bringing us our meals with four armed boys in tow, but this was far from mealtime.

  I again imagined Thomas to the rescue. What a fool I am.

  Nathaniel strode to the door and pressed his palms against its surface, as if to prevent the caller from entering. “What do you want?”