Storm's Sanctuary

by Donald Brown

  “Like you won’t believe,” Dorothy croaked. “It feels like someone is ripping my intestines out with a hot fireplace poker.”

  Above them, the faint wing-whistle of a dove could be heard.

  “What else?” Frieda asked.

  Pushing herself up on her elbows, Dorothy said, “I have a bit of a headache and my feet are killing me, but otherwise it’s just the contraction pains.”

  “Good,” Frieda replied. Behind her a few heads nodded in agreement. The atmosphere was filled with tension, since nobody knew what had happened to Dorothy. This mystery, coupled with the fact that her husband was now a corpse, baffled people’s minds. None of them could recall anyone ever committing suicide in Zion’s history. It was simply unheard of.

  Dan, on instruction from his wife, took off his wide-brimmed hat and started waving it over Dorothy’s swollen feet.

  Miss Pennyweather knelt down beside Dorothy, the joints in her bones making some crackling sounds, and then said, “Now, listen to me dear: what you need to do is to inhale three short, sharp breaths and then exhale one very slow stream of air, repeating it over and over. Do you understand?”

  Dorothy blinked her eyes in comprehension and then began to breathe in the explained fashion, while Miss Pennyweather clapped her hands rhythmically to indicate the optimum speed of the breathing. Three short ones, one long one. Three short ones, one long one. “One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, breathe,” the older woman urged, each time dragging the last word out. “You can do it, Dorothy. One, two, three, breathe…”

  The breathing method helped tremendously.

  Soon, Dorothy felt almost in control of her situation. Drops of perspiration was beginning to form on her forehead, but otherwise she felt remarkably relaxed, though still in some serious pain. She made a mental note to share Miss Pennyweather’s breathing technique to other women in labour if she ever managed to live through this ordeal.

  “Let us get her out of the sun,” Mr. Meyers suggested.

  Everybody present agreed that this was a good idea. Although there was a light breeze blowing in from the lake, it was still mighty hot at twenty minutes past noon and the only thing this breeze actually achieved was to stir the warm air around.

  While Dorothy kept on breathing, and Miss Pennyweather kept on clapping, the three men carefully picked her up and moved her to a mossy area underneath a “fisherman’s umbrella”, fifteen yards away.

  There were a lot of fishermen in Zion and over the years they had erected these umbrellas – which were nothing more than three bamboo poles supporting woven hemp roofs – to protect them from the blistering sun while they were working. Now, this invention provided a welcome shelter to a desperate woman giving birth.

  Comfortable on the cool and soft moss of the makeshift bed, Dorothy continued her breathing and Doctor Ron chased the others away. “People, give her some privacy, will you? The baby is about to arrive.”

  The small crowd of men and women instantly listened to him and walked away a fair distance.

  After checking on Dorothy to make sure there was still enough time left before the new child would arrive, Doctor Ron picked up a tin bucket he’d found underneath the umbrella and jogged to the lake to fill it with fresh water.

  He returned shortly thereafter.

  ***

  With the help of his portable medical kit, the doctor delivered the child within half an hour.

  “What a beautiful and healthy baby girl!” he said, wrapping the little human being in a soft, sterile blanket he’d brought along.

  The rest of the people – who had busied themselves with trying to figure out why George had ended his own life – instantly stopped staring at the sheriff and began to cheer overwhelmingly. Their happiness, however was dampened by the still unexplained death and looks of worry struggled to escape from many of them. Still, a new-born baby in Zion was always a big deal. In accordance with tradition, there was going to be a grand feast, two weeks from today, where all the townspeople would welcome the new arrival as an official resident of the city.

  “Congratulations, Dorothy!” they chorused, closing in on the fisherman’s umbrella. It was important to distract her from the horrible death that had just occurred.

  While cautiously handing the baby girl to her mother, Doctor Ron asked, “What are you going to call her?”

  Dorothy took the baby from him and held the soft bundle close to her chest, starting the process of that instinctive bond between a mother and her child. “Yara,” she whispered, looking at the doctor with glassy eyes. “I’m going to call her Yara.”

  18

  The day after John the miner’s public execution at the dinner assembly point, the boys were tasked with cleaning out the Old Man’s house. No official reason for his death was given, but Sanctuarians died so often that it didn’t really matter to most people. Storm and the boys, however, knew better. They had seen the Old Man disappear into the ominous tunnel in the mountain.

  Since all the helpers were too busy with their other work, the menial task of cleaning out the rooms of people who had passed away was left to the boys.

  Mr. Walrus led them to the Old Man’s house on the hill and they found it to be in quite a derelict state. A section of the roof had collapsed inwards and they had to step over the dusty rubble once they were on the inside. While entering, Mr. Walrus suddenly started whirling his hands around in a panic. Storm looked up to see that their teacher had walked into a massive spider web, which he was now struggling to remove from his face and hands. This made the other boys stare in distress while Storm was desperately trying to suppress a smile, as their teacher hobbled around, yelping.

  “We will help!” Jamie shouted, jumping over the debris, but his foot caught a piece of random clothing and it made him fall down on his back on the stone floor. Storm couldn’t help it and a chuckle escaped, a gesture that drew dirty looks from the other boys.

  When Mr. Walrus had finally managed to remove all the cobweb strings, and the rest of the boys had helped Jamie back onto his feet, they all stood there for a moment, waiting for an instruction from their teacher.

  “Alright,” Mr. Walrus grumbled, “start carrying out his things, but be careful, it might contain Jacobites.” With that, he walked back outside, leaving behind a cardboard box two of the boys had brought in.

  They each retrieved a pair of special gloves from the box, something they had to wear to prevent them from being contaminated by the Jacobites.

  When Storm had put on his gloves, he noticed that the Old Man’s house very much resembled the same shape and size as all the other houses, but that it was certainly far older. He deduced this fact from the caved-in roof, the faded color of the walls, as well as some other obvious signs such as rusty pipes, rotten wood and crumbling clay bricks.

  While the rest of the boys went through the Old Man’s cupboard to sort the tattered clothes, Storm decided to go and scout the Old Man’s bed. Primarily because he wanted to be separate from the boys, who would most likely use the time to attack him or just push him out of the way. He carefully removed the covers from the Old Man’s bed and, to his surprise, something heavier than linen fell to the floor. Storm gawked at the floor for a moment in fear. Perhaps it was something sinister that the Old Man had hidden…

  But then he realized it was a book.

  Casting a glance around him, Storm saw that Mr. Walrus was still standing outside and that the rest of the boys were giggling over the state of the Old Man’s robe.

  He looked down at the smallish book again.

  Mr. Walrus had taught them that books were an attempt by the Outsiders to weaken Sanctuarians and encourage individualism. Only the upper class of Sanctuary were allowed to read books, and then specific ones at that. But Storm was now immensely intrigued.

  Hunching down, he studied the book’s cover, but could not discern the language or its meaning. After stealing another a look around and seeing that no one was paying attention to him, he quick
ly picked up the book and slid it into his coat’s inner pocket. He decided to keep it and read it in private at home. It would be stupid to try to do so here.

  He continued clearing out the Old Man’s bedsheets by folding it and carrying it outside, at the same time as the other boys brought out his clothing, throwing it on the ground in a pile.

  “Can’t wait to clear out your house, you little twerp,” Jamie snarled when he saw Storm.

  Storm chose to say nothing to that. He couldn’t afford a confrontation now. But, somehow, it was like Jamie could sense his vulnerability at that point. His eyes narrowed and he continued to walk in Storm’s direction, while the rest of the boys saw what was happening and hurried forward to take up position behind their leader, ready for a fight.

  “When are you going to commit comunicide then?” Jamie asked when he was right in front of Storm, pushing him hard against his chest with both hands.

  Storm remained silent.

  “This time you won’t be able to run away,” Jamie told him, clenching his fists.

  The situation was poised to end badly, but then there came the sound of the bell and Storm silently thanked the official who had rung it.

  “That’s enough!” Mr. Walrus called out.

  The boys immediately stopped what they were doing and formed a line in the snow. It was Mr. Walrus that had saved him! Whether it was because of the struggle with the spider webs earlier, or just general tiredness, Mr. Walrus did not seem in the mood for any more fighting. “Head back to school at once!” he instructed.

  The boys set off in a rush, leaving Storm a few steps behind.

  When he was about three-hundred yards away from the Old Man’s house, Storm caught the scent of smoke and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the Old Man’s belongings were now aflame, obliterating any signs that he had once lived in Sanctuary.

  ***

  Once Storm found himself back home, he made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as he could, by sitting on the edge of his bed. Teacher-20 was fast asleep and his brother was out on peacekeeping duty.

  He promptly removed the book from his pocket and opened it with trembling hands. He soon learned that it contained mostly illustrations of a sort, in black and white, with nearly no words. The drawings were of immense quality; they almost seemed real – like photographs…

  Then he realized that they were, in fact, old photographs.

  He had heard rumours of a machine that could snap people in their precise image.

  There were places he had never seen before and they were always accompanied by the same faces. In most of the pictures there was a smiling man, who clearly became more boisterous with each picture, accompanied by two children. The kids were always in the background and looked disgruntled, as if they did not want to be in the photos.

  To Storm’s further amazement, he saw on one of the pages the exact same city he had imagined when he was sprawled on the ground at the statues. Is this place then real? In the image, the man was standing on one of the city’s wide roads with his arms outstretched. There was a caption underneath the picture and, unlike on the book’s cover, these words were in English:

  “I spent a few days in this wonderfully established village, called The Republic. Definitely must to return to this place in a few years! I will probably be greeted by a major city then!”

  There was also a date when the photo had been taken and, studying the picture further, Storm noticed that there were people strolling around in the city, behind the smiling man.

  What does all of this mean? he wondered. Are there then genuine civilized places outside of Sanctuary, or are these old pictures of places that are now extinct? Is this why the Old Man fled, to reach one of these establishments?

  Even though the details were scaring him, Storm instinctively turned over to another page and saw a group of people smiling back at him. They seemed to be at some kind of party and they resembled the perfect picture of happiness. A shiver ran down his spine when he read the caption.

  “Zion: Dorothy and George’s wedding feast”

  Will this book reveal what happened to Zion? Storm thought. His heart was racing. He could not believe a simple book could provoke these exciting feelings inside of him. Upon closer inspection, he noticed in amazement that one of the women in the picture was a mirror image of the person he’d seen in the crowd when John had been killed. It felt like everything he knew was being challenged, like a light shining on him, defeating the darkness.

  Then he remembered.

  The house the sun rays had revealed to him the previous day!

  He had completely forgotten about it.

  Just then, Storm heard someone stomping their feet outside the door and he hastily flung the book under the covers his bed.

  As Hadrian opened the door, Storm ran past him.

  “Where are we going?” Hadrian called.

  “We will be back in a moment” Storm replied, not looking back to see Hadrian close the door while shaking his head.

  19

  George’s funeral was held six days after his suicide, when Dorothy had recovered from the trauma of processing her husband’s sudden death and the exhaustion of giving birth to her first child.

  Holding Yara close to her heart, Dorothy attended the burial proceedings wearing her only black dress and the string of pearls George had given her on the day after their wedding. She stood quite apart from the rest.

  It was once again a cloudy day, with actual thunder that could be heard in the background. It was the first time that the people of Zion had experienced lightning and they felt frightened, but Dorothy barely noticed.

  She felt empty, staring at George’s grave, while Father Dennis began his eulogy. Dorothy had cried non-stop after her husband’s death and now felt completely drained.

  You promised you would protect me.

  Yara was dressed all in white, because Dorothy wanted to “keep her pure”. Even though the child was way too young to understand anything, in Dorothy’s mind she had to be protected from the witch’s curse.

  Dorothy’s attention was brought back when she noticed that Father Dennis was staring at her, no longer speaking. He took a deep breath. “Some might not like this, but I feel I have to speak my mind.”

  Everyone perked up at this. No one could resist a promise of controversy.

  “I believe that George died because he was cursed…”

  “Father…” Doctor Ron began, but the preacher continued.

  “And the only way you can find redemption, Dorothy, for you and the child, is by turning towards the Lord. There is no other way to break this curse. There… I have said what I had to say!”

  With that he went silent and the proceedings continued, with a few scattered mutterings. His words had touched on a divide in Zion that had originated from George’s death.

  By now, the perceived reason as to why George had killed himself depended on which camp one was siding with. There was Father Dennis, backed by the church’s clergymen, who believed it was the work of the dark force, the devil. Then there was Dorothy and her friends, who believed George’s death was a direct result of the reading the witch had given on their wedding day. Tom and the other war veterans thought it was because of the terrible influence of the battle that their friend couldn’t go on anymore. The sheriff and his deputy merely attributed the suicide to George going stark raving mad for no reason at all.

  Dorothy invited everybody in Zion to the funeral, except for the witch, of course. The only one who didn’t attend was Mr. Meyers, who was on a pre-arranged business trip at the time. Being in the import/export business, Mr. Meyers was beginning to travel more and more, every time staying away longer than with his previous excursion.

  A week after the funeral, Dorothy’s breastmilk suddenly dried up – a condition which she obviously placed squarely on the shoulders of the witch again. She asked Frieda to look after Yara for half an hour each morning, while she went to the market to buy fresh goat’
s milk for her precious baby.

  It gave her something to do besides brooding and the rest of Zion watched, saddened as she would walk past, no longer flashing her smile for everyone to see.

  On the second morning of her market visits, she bumped into the black man, Nick. This time he was clean, well-dressed and in an overall better shape than the first time she’d seen him. He brushed off the spot where he had touched her, as if he had been contaminated.

  “Watch where you are walking!” he spat, before marching onwards.

  Dorothy watched him in shock and noticed that he seemed to have a small congregation that followed him.

  What on earth?

  “That is a dangerous lot,” a familiar voice said behind her.

  She turned around and saw Father Dennis approach her.

  “Nick has begun creating a sort of sect, dedicated to preaching hatred towards the white folk. They call him the Black Knight now.”

  Dorothy tried to absorb this new piece of information. She felt she could barely concentrate after George’s death.

  “And Dorothy….” the Father continued in a lower voice and beckoned for her to come closer, which she did. “…they say the witch has returned.”

  A stirring of hatred filled Dorothy. The woman that she had been nice to had brought all this upon her.

  “They say that she is funding this new strange order, led by the Black Knight. You must turn to the Lord, Dorothy, so that you can be free from this curse.”

  She nodded. Once she had considered him a deranged fanatic man, but those days seems like ages ago.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, continuing in her steps and leaving behind a reassured Preacher.

  ***

  Little Yara quickly became some kind of a prodigy in Zion, for three reasons.

  Firstly, because of her superior development. Unlike other babies – who started walking at around twelve months – Yara took her first steps at the tender age of five months (completely skipping the crawling phase) and could already jog around by the time she was nine months old. In addition to this, she starting talking when she was only three months old, whereas most of the babies in Zion only said their first words somewhere around eight months. By the time Yara celebrated her first birthday, she could construct full sentences and was already off diapers.