Storm's Sanctuary

by Donald Brown

  Storm recalled, even now, as the lean muscles in his forearms were twitching beneath the sleeves of his overcoat, how Mr. Walrus had paced up and down in front of the class, dishing out one of his first and favorite lectures, his moustache quivering with each word he uttered.

  “Remember boys, selfish thoughts are bad thoughts and the keyword to remember here is Greediness!” He’d spat the word out with considerable venom, whilst spelling it out on the blackboard, the chalk screeching with the formation of each letter. “We cannot create good thoughts if we don’t rid ourselves of the impurity of egotism, greediness and selfishness. Good thoughts focus on what we collectively want, thoughts directed towards the improvement of our community. We must vanquish all traces of individualism and let our minds turn into one; thinking and acting together. That is the virtue of the servant, the happiest person in Sanctuary.

  “However!” he’d bellowed, slapping his ruler on his desk for emphasis, making them all jump, “if we cannot assimilate into a group, we who do not adhere to the standards of said group should be destroyed for the community to survive… Isn’t that so, Boy-150?” With this, he suddenly zeroed in on Storm.

  Storm, who had been busy stealing a peek at a long zig-zag crack in the wall, whipped his head back to face Mr. Walrus and nodded vigorously, not realizing he was actually affirming the requirement to have himself killed.

  The reason why Mr. Walrus had called Storm Boy-150 was because it was his Sanctuarian name. Each Sanctuarian’s name was a concatenation of their work profile and a number. Children who were still below the age of Initiation, had the title of “Boy” or “Girl” and the number represented the sequence in which they had been born, from the very first of births in Sanctuary. All traces of individuality had been banished from Sanctuary a long time ago and words like “I” and “Me” were not allowed at all. They had been supplanted with words like “Us” and “We”.

  Nonetheless, Storm preferred to cling wilfully to the name his mother given him. But thinking about her made him miserable. He tried to put it aside and focus on recalling Mr. Walrus’s lecture.

  “We may ask, how does one act selflessly?” Mr. Walrus had ventured on that day, edging forward much like the creature of his namesake. Then he’d dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Why, the answer is very simple: stop thinking.” Storm remembered how Mr. Walrus had given a wry smile, as if once more surprised at his own brilliance. “Selfless actions are impulsive actions. Follow the heart. Don’t think, act! Don’t think, act! Come on, say it with us! Don’t think, ACT! Don’t think, ACT!” And he’d proceeded to lead them into a fanatical chant, in which he would shout in between, “No more thinking!” “Stop thinking!” This exercise had lasted a full minute.

  “The voice inside our head,” he’d resumed after the chanting, “the one that wants us to think, is the work of the Outsiders, those who brought our current woes upon us! Those who want to see us suffer… needlessly!” He’d stopped at this point, to the grumbling approval of the boys. Then he’d continued, waving his ruler around. “Ignore that voice inside our head. Cast it out! It is the Outsiders who want to pervert us and cause us unhappiness. As small children we were perfect, we were instinctive. We did not think, we merely acted on emotion and that is the state too which we should return. Our thoughts deceive us! The opposite of everything it says is true. If the Outsiders say we are hungry, we are not! Unhappiness is happiness and life is death. The golden rule is: To remember is to forget. We are confined to a tortured world and we must escape from it. For the last enemy that shall be defeated is life!” he added with a bark, throwing the Sanctuary salute.

  “The last enemy that shall be defeated is life!” the class had then repeated, standing up and giving the Salute somewhat disorganized, having seen it used by the adult Sanctuarians. The Salute in Sanctuary was hands outstretched, at a forty-five-degree angle, palms facing upwards. It symbolized the need for Sanctuarians to agree to a service orientated nation, their hands always showing to indicate their willingness to serve.

  Storm now wondered why they hadn’t just ripped their brains out there and then, but he knew he couldn’t dare to ask that, not at the height of the turbulent events unfolding around him. After that day’s lecture, he had witnessed the other boys shaking their heads angrily, like he had done just a moment ago, trying to expel “the voice” from their minds.

  It had been a gradual negative transformation and today he barely recognized the boys who used to be his friends anymore. Former friends who now considered Storm an outcast of sorts. He was no longer welcome in their social groups and he was frequently derided by them. All because he’d never fully committed himself to these stupid ideals – something about it had always been feeling wrong to him. The boys he now saw, only appeared happy in groups and he knew it was a shallow happiness, just like the rest of the Sanctuarians. Once alone, Storm frequently caught them crying, revealing their anguish underneath the façade of perceived joy. He found that he pitied them and they hated him for it.

  In Sanctuary it was commonly believed that all their ills were as a result of the Outsiders, who had once lived in Sanctuary but had been expelled. They had poisoned the way of life of the “true” Sanctuarians and sabotaged their infrastructure. Now the Outsiders wanted to return, since the outside world was doing far worse. They were queuing outside of Sanctuary’s fortified gates, desperate to gain entry. They also made constant offerings to the Sanctuarians, desperately trying to win their support. Some of them had managed to slip back into Sanctuary, through secret underground tunnels, infiltrating the minds of the true Sanctuarians with bad thoughts once again. The Outsiders affected everybody, while it affected Storm’s well-being on a rather personal level. This was because Storm looked a bit like an Outsider; they were black-skinned and he was much darker than his so called white-skinned companions.

  Too make matters worse his physical appearance was also markedly different from the other boys in Sanctuary. They had blond hair, which somehow managed to be consistently well-kempt, with expressions that were usually filled with indifference or submission. Storm’s most peculiar aspect, his crystal blue eyes, were regarded with a mixed appraisal of apprehension and fear. Sanctuarians frequently commented that it felt as if he was piercing their souls with his cold stare, adding to the alienation he already experienced because of his caramel skin and his wild bush of black hair. Perhaps the others felt that those eyes could see them for who they truly were.

  Birth was seen as a type of curse in Sanctuary and even though only the Guardian was allowed to have children, they still managed to be born with flaws. That was the reason why all children were assigned to people like Mr. Walrus at an early age; to teach them how to act properly and disband with the illusions that perverted them from birth.

  The boys were not allowed to be killed up and until “Initiation”, since they had to be allowed some time to adjust to the proper way of doing things first. This was practical, as so many Sanctuarians died from starvation or got executed for not adhering to the rules. If the boys were treated to the same standard, the population of Sanctuary would have died out ages ago.

  This rule was essentially the only thing keeping Storm alive at the moment.

  Not that everyone didn’t try to do something about the situation. He was encouraged by many Sanctuarians, including Mr. Walrus, to simply commit suicide (or comunicide as it was called in Sanctuary) because they saw no future for him. Storm was told that because of his unnatural birth, he was doomed to be a failure and he could feel it materialize in his struggle to apply the concepts Mr. Walrus taught all his students. Mr. Walrus’s real name, for instance, was Teacher-21 but Storm took delight in calling him Mr. Walrus. Seeing as he held on to his maiden name, why not invent new names for others?

  Thinking about his maiden name suddenly made Storm unwittingly worry about something that had been haunting him in his sleep for some time now.

  Something he had desperately tried to keep out of his
mind.

  His Initiation.

  3

  “Do you, George Kuttle…” Father Dennis began.

  Dorothy’s mind seemed to freeze at that moment, all sound drowned out. The sudden arrival of the moment she had been waiting for, for so long, caught her completely off guard and it almost seemed to have paralyzed her. She could only stare at the love of her life, who in turn was eying her in longing and was now mouthing the words, “I do.”

  Reality slowly returned and Dorothy realized that there was now silence in the church and that it was her turn to speak. George was staring at her expectantly.

  “I do,” she whispered, tears of joy welling up in her beautiful eyes.

  “Then I declare you husband and wife,” Preacher Dennis proclaimed, whereupon the crowd erupted in applause.

  George leaned forward to lift his bride’s veil and then kissed her gently. Dorothy felt as if she was about to burst with happiness in that special moment.

  They unwillingly broke apart after a while and both turned to face the congregation, beaming with pride, as if they had been lauded. George took Dorothy’s hand and they began to make their way down the church’s wide isle, dodging confetti and flowers thrown at them.

  “Good one!” farmer James yelled out, to a glare of disapproval from Miss Pennyweather.

  Once the newlyweds were outside, their next destination was the banquet tent, visible on the vast, grass valley below the impressive Church building. Everyone still remaining in the church all of a sudden abandoned all pretence and dashed outside, leaving behind a disgruntled Father Dennis, who was slapping his bible shut on the pulpit.

  The citizens of Zion (most of the town had been invited to the wedding) were scurrying down the hill, trying to catch up with George and Dorothy, mostly ignoring something that they shouldn’t have discarded on that day: the fact that Zion was a gorgeous and peaceful place.

  The perfect weather was one of Zion’s top features, since the town almost never experienced rain or inclement conditions. One might have believed this would spell disaster, but all the rivers in the world flowed towards this magical destination, so rain was hardly needed. Streams of clear fountain water splashed down and converged at the bottom, forming many waterways that ended in a magnificent blue lake.

  Today, sunlight was bathing the entire city in a golden-orange glow, casting an almost angelic radiance to even the less desirable parts of the town; if such areas even existed. Two impressive rows of Acorn trees were lining the main road – which the wedding guests were now traversing – the familiar rippled leaves swishing in the light breeze. The picturesque vanilla-colored houses, their roofs painted in various shades of pastel, only served to deliver the icing on the cake, bringing together the ideal, perfect little village. Coupled with this, the inhabitants of Zion had a strong ethic, based on generations of passionate morale. This resulted in a city that was always sparkling clean with an extremely healthy population. To its cheerful residents, Zion was paradise on earth.

  The wedded couple quickly found themselves at the grand white tent they had erected right next to lake Zion. It was in the same location where they had first met each other, many moons ago, and it held a very special place in their hearts.

  “Quick, follow me,” George said, taking Dorothy’s hand.

  She smiled in expectation and allowed George to guide her to a place they both knew very well: The Willows, their special place, overlooking lake Zion.

  They weaved about the butterflies, another characteristic of Zion. There were thousands of butterflies and Zion often times went by another name, “Butterfly Town”.

  George rummaged around in the bushes and found what he was looking for. He returned with a jar, containing a single butterfly.

  Dorothy exclaimed with delight as he handed it to her.

  “Here you go my butterfly,” he said.

  “You kept it all these years?” she asked.

  George nodded, returning the smile.

  She tutted when she saw the butterfly and hastily unscrewed the jar’s lid.

  “A butterfly shouldn’t be caged George!”

  They both watched as it escaped and flew to join the rest of its flock. George shrugged it off and kissed her.

  “How could I ever cage you, darling?” he whispered to her and she nodded in pleasure. Then she suddenly remembered.

  “The guests, George!”

  She grabbed his hand and led him back to the tent, with him chuckling at her distress.

  Dorothy peeked inside, through one of the cool canvas tent flaps, and noticed that the servants and the trays of food were ready for the feast. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned around to see the figures of the wedding guests growing larger in the distance. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself.

  “We can do this,” George said from behind her, whirling her around with a loving smile playing across his lips. Her face lit up and she returned his smile, as a calmness swept through her soul. With George she could do anything.

  “Let’s get ready to welcome our guests, darling,” he told her, taking position beside the main entrance of the tent. Dorothy joined him, sliding in underneath his protective arm.

  The figures descending down the hill grew even bigger and Dorothy recognized the guest in front, Doctor Ron. As always, he was slightly stooped over, his hair fuzzy as usual, carrying his black leather doctor’s bag with him. He stopped in front of George, grasped his hand and peered at him through his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Many congratulations,” he said, nodding. He had a somewhat groggy voice, but the reassuring expression of concern he always showed to any prospective patients made up for that.

  “Thanks, Doctor,” George replied. “Hope nobody is going to need your care today.”

  The doctor nodded again and turned towards Dorothy, his face glowing. He leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks and then said, “You are a picture of beauty, milady.”

  Dorothy beamed and then her cheeks turned rosy. “What a kind compliment, Thank you, Doc.”

  The doctor patted George on the back and then walked inside.

  Next came Bertha, who was sometimes known by a darker nickname, the witch. The doctor and the witch shared many medicinal remedies and they saw themselves as partners of sort. With stringy black hair and a wrinkled face, Bertha was traipsing around in front of the newlyweds, almost like someone traversing hot coals, twirling her cane in her hand.

  “I am here,” she said gleefully, peeking at them through darkened eyelashes. “Congratulations with your special union.” She gave Dorothy a hug and stopped for a moment in front of George.

  “Congratulations, George,” she said, holding out her hand.

  George hovered for a moment in indecision, before extending his hand to clasp hers.

  “Thank you,” he said, his head cocked to the side, eying Bertha in suspicion.

  And with that, the witch walked inside, a half smile still on her face.

  “Why did you invite her?” George asked, the moment they were out of earshot, concern in his voice.

  “Oh, the children love her and I find her funny… and I feel bad, after all we have done to her…”

  George considered this for a moment in stony silence. Then a smirk returned to his face.

  “Father Dennis is not going to like that.”

  Dorothy fiddled with one of her silver earrings. “I think he’s already seen her, honey. I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  Some of the other guests followed shortly, with their various forms of congratulations; first, the immensely wealthy and perpetually excited Mr. Meyers (wearing a multi-colored silk suit today) accompanied by his wife and then Dorothy’s close friend, the domineering Frieda (her fiery red hair tied tightly into a bun) and her husband, Dan, a short and chubby man.

  “You look exhausted,” Frieda said, her usual frank self, eying Dorothy.

  Dorothy nodded. “It was just the stress, but now that it is all over, I am going to be much more relax
ed.”

  “I am surprised she came.” Frieda remarked, noticing the peculiar guest.

  She didn’t need to explain who it was.

  “Indeed, Dorothy thought it was a good idea to invite her.” George interjected.

  “Are there any cakes?” Dan interjected. He had clearly not been paying attention to the conversation. “You know how I love–”

  “You are already too fat as it is Dan,” Frieda interrupted, which made Dan blush.

  Frieda headed inside and Dorothy took hold of Dan’s arm, smiling. “There is cake… and your favorite, carrot.”

  Dan thanked her and hurried in after his wife. George only chuckled.

  Next to make his appearance at the entrance, was Father Dennis. No longer behind the pulpit, he was still imposing in his black robe, indicating his seriousness in his profession. In his hand he still held his bible, which everyone knew he needed no excuse to read from. He shook George’s hand firmly. “Blessings upon you George, I hope that you will have a happy and endless marriage,” he said, uncomfortably close and not letting go of his grip.

  “Thank you, Father,” George replied, after a short pause, not knowing what else to say.

  There was an uncomfortable silence between them until the preacher finally released George’s white-knuckled hand and turned to Dorothy. “You should remember what I said about the devil, dear. It is his temptation that will lead you to ruin–”

  This time, George acted before they continued the previous exercise. “Father, there are people queuing up behind you.”

  Father Dennis looked over his shoulder and grumpily noticed the line of guests shadowing him. “Yes, of course,” he said quickly, turning towards the tent’s entrance.