by Donald Brown
It soon became apparent that she was leading her to the Willows, where George was now entombed. Most butterflies had gone, but it still remained a beautiful place regardless. On his gravestone, below his name, was written:
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
Dorothy had visited this site many times, always hoping that a strong George would appear again from behind one of trees, once more taking hold of her and taking away all her pain. Other times she would agonize over what she could have done to prevent his death, including slapping away the gun. It had all seemed so worthless.
“Place it on his grave mommy,” Yara interrupted her thoughts.
Dorothy looked between the jar and Yara and then nodded. Somehow she knew that this was the right thing to do and that when she had done this, she could never touch the jar again. Dorothy slowly deposited the jar on the mound and felt a terrible burden leaving her. Yara moved forward to hug her and the two shared each other’s embrace, thereby sharing the finality and end of George’s life.
***
Teaching had slowly become joyful again and the fact that Yara was there the whole time increased the blissful experience. The curse and the death of George had been regulated to the past. To Dorothy, Zion was once again paradise on earth.
Yet, even paradise on earth was not good enough for most of the other citizens of Zion.
When they heard that Mr. Meyers was returning, some of the residents lost all sense of their own lives and fervently awaited his arrival. Mr. Meyers’s return typically brought him back from his adventures throughout the world and, if one thing was true, even in the utopia of Zion, was that money talked. And Mr Meyers had lots of it!
Everyone bustled about at the news, tidying up their houses and grooming themselves. Anything less than a magnificent, warm welcome to Mr. Meyers would be a disappointment to the people of Zion, the town of joy.
None enjoyed the busy town as much as Dorothy, who loved to skip through the streets, heading towards the school with her daughter in tow. Dorothy’s hair would whip in the wind, through the slight drizzle, as her dimples would be revealed for all to see when she smiled at her precious daughter. Yara was the only thing she cared about in the world and Yara was the embodiment of the town. By now she was an angelic child that always wanted to help everyone. She would wander around, offering people her assistance, always with the same line: “How can I help you?”
These people would then beam at the young girl and find her something to do, even if they didn’t need any help. The people of Zion loved to see Dorothy with Yara, because the former had really been devastated after George’s death and as Yara had grown up, it had brought a new glow to Dorothy. This in turn lifted up everyone else’s spirits. Especially her students, who absolutely adored her.
On the day of Mr. Meyers’s arrival, she once again had to conduct a morning class. The kids were restless when she unlocked her class door and they streamed inside.
Whenever Mr. Meyers returned, he usually brought them some entertainment they weren’t used to. Dorothy decided to accelerate through the lesson, so that the children could go out and enjoy the day. She was also absently aware of her own trembling fingers. What was she going to say to Mr. Meyers after all these months?
She finished the class way ahead of schedule and tried to remind them of their homework. “Remember, I want everyone to know their ABC’s by tomorrow, no excuses,” she said over the clatter, as all the kids exploded into excitement.
“Do you hear me, Alfred?” she added in a shout, glaring at Alfred, who was gossiping about something to one of his friends.
He stopped and turned to face her. “Yes, Ms. Kuttle.”
The children hurried away haphazardly. Those who were the first to throw their books into their bags and sling it over their shoulders were the first ones out. After that followed the more disciplined children and, finally, little Christopher, who walked with crutches.
This left only Yara with her mother.
“Can I help you with anything?” came the usual question from Yara, as she walked over to Dorothy’s desk.
Dorothy smiled at her child. She had already expected this and replied, “You can help me pack away all these things, darling.”
After packing away the materials from class, they headed home and passed the sheriff just before they reached the town center. He was younger than Dorothy, with a full brown beard and hairy forearms.
“Can I help you with anything, Sheriff?” Yara customarily asked him.
The sheriff seemed fairly distracted, lost in his own thoughts, and the question brought him back to earth. He took off his leather hat and replied, “No, thanks, dear,” tipping the hat in their direction. “Nothing to do here in Zion as a sheriff. It’s almost like some days I’m looking for trouble myself.” Then he chuckled, revealing a row of gold-capped teeth.
But Dorothy could sense that he was troubled. Perhaps his mind was on the brotherhood?
“You can say that again,” she mentioned, not particularly interested to bring up that mess again. It was a rare sunny day and nothing should ruin that.
24
Storm was petrified.
He was standing at the rear of the line, waiting anxiously for the Initiation ceremony to commence. The boys were in front of the massive iron doors of the Guardian’s temple, which led into the unknown realm inside the Mountain.
He subconsciously tucked at the teal ceremonial robe he was wearing. Like with all Storm’s never ending problems in Sanctuary, the clothing they had given him was too small and he felt uncomfortable in it. Once again it was as if he was completely out of place. As always, outermost perfection radiated from the rest of the boys, like the little soldiers they were. Their robes fitted perfectly and their hair appeared impeccable. In fact, everything about them was perfect. Storm’s hair was too long and his hands were dirty. It was just typical of him, who always managed to mess things up.
Bad thought!
Storm angrily shook his head.
Are you really going to do this before the Initiation ceremony?
Perhaps echoing the turmoil Storm felt inside him, a furious blizzard had arrived earlier that morning, now casting a gloomy atmosphere over the imminent proceedings. For one thing, Storm was struggling to see more than five feet in front of him; the fierce wind of this snowstorm obscured his vision a great deal. He would only know when the Initiation would begin once the other boys – whose shapes he could vaguely make out in front of him – stepped forward. The blizzard had also brought the already freezing temperature of Sanctuary further down, so that they were all standing there shivering, even more than usual, trying in vain to apply Mr. Walrus’s teachings in their icy minds.
In a peculiar twist of fate, Hadrian had been nominated to be the Peacekeeper to lead them through the Initiation, something he was obviously pleased about. Storm had found him that same morning humming to himself, while unfolding his immaculate clothing for the ceremony.
In this blizzard, it doesn’t really matter how anyone looked, Storm thought bitterly. Nevertheless, he was actually glad that Hadrian had received this honor. The promotion had surely taken the fear for Storm’s death from his brother’s mind and hopefully Hadrian could help soften the outcome of the Initiation. Whatever that meant.
Storm stood there, tightening his robe in another futile attempt to block out the cold, while witnessing the snowstorm unleash its fury on Sanctuary.
His fear of the Initiation ceremony had commenced in earnest the previous night, when he’d comprehended once more that when he woke up, he would be judged. He hadn’t slept very well, turning and tossing in his bed, anticipating what would happen if he was not chosen for a profession.
He also felt guilty about the one secret he’d kept away from Hadrian for so long. He wasn’t worried that the people of Sanctuary would not find him worthy. No, instead he was worried about dying; horrified, to be honest. He did not want to die. He had seen the vacant expressions on
the faces of the numerous individuals who had been killed or had committed comunicide in Sanctuary. It seemed to him to be a terrible experience.
At least this isn’t as bad as Zion.
At least if I am sentenced to death all of this will soon be over.
Then his thoughts turned towards the Selfless, who were easily able to handle the current situation; both the climate and the stress. In a desperate effort, Storm tried to become attuned to everyone around him, in order to harness the confidence of his fellow students. He frowned in concentration but, after a few moments, he once again realized it was for nothing. He was simply not made for this place and its rules.
At long last – just as Storm was beginning to wonder whether they were in danger of freezing to death in the heavy snow and wind – the boy in front of him suddenly jerked forward. Storm had secretly hoped that the entire ceremony would be called off on the account of the blizzard, but he knew deep down that such an ancient tradition would never be postponed for what the Peacekeepers and Servant considered a trivial reason.
The boy behind him said, “Go!” unnecessarily loud, as Storm was about to move.
He brought his feet forward against his will, ploughing in the snow behind the boys in front of him. The faint outline of the Mountain began to appear in his vision and then he saw the magnificent doors of the temple, now opened to reveal a tall rectangular opening in the face of the Mountain. Soft red glows were emanating from inside, an illumination created by hundreds of torches hanging from the walls.
Then he heard screams and yells behind him and he turned around just in time to be knocked over. A horde of Sanctuarians flew past him. As Storm lay on the ground, he saw the wild look in their eyes.
They had the Jacobites.
The mob wanted food and shelter in the temple and for such selfish actions, the Red Cloaks responded ruthlessly. They were mauled down as they arrived and the weak crazies didn’t stand a chance. In short time, all that was left was a frail woman with her baby. She had hovered at the back and now raised her baby with thin, trembling hands. The Blood Captain appeared in Storm’s vision and beheld the two a few yards away.
“Please… just care for the baby… please,” the woman pleaded.
The Blood Captain reacted in one swift strike and the two bodies collapsed to the snow, blood gushing from where they had been struck. He beckoned to Storm and he hastily stood up and joined the procession again.
After a few steps, his feet left the snow and landed on Mountain rocks, signifying that he had finally reached the entrance to the temple. He paused for a brief moment and took a deep breath, to the irritation of the boy behind him, who made an annoying snorting sound through his nose.
As he entered through the doors, Storm was starting to feel slightly disorientated, either from the lack of sleep or from stress about the upcoming ceremony. Or perhaps he was just hungry, like always.
Once everybody was inside, the Peacekeepers proceeded to swing the doors shut behind them, sending a loud clang throughout the chamber and trapping all of them inside the mysterious, yet gorgeous temple.
Storm turned his attention from the doors to the chamber he had just entered and his mouth fell open in amazement. Because of his concern about the ceremony, he had completely forgotten that he would get the chance to see the superb halls of the temple. The other boys were also peering about eagerly, relishing the chance they had been waiting for, for a long time.
The place was massive, bigger than any building Storm had ever seen in his life. The hall they stood in now could easily fit half a dozen houses stacked on top of each other. In addition to the rows of torches against the stone walls, all the Peacekeepers also carried torches, lighting the hall up in a bright yellow-and-orange glimmering. Storm noticed that there were engravings on the walls and when he walked closer he saw that these inscriptions were actually communicating stories. On one of the drawings was a tall figure carrying a shining light in his hand, leading people over the Mountain. It had to be the Guardian, Storm realized.
“Let’s go!” a familiar voice called out, a sound that echoed throughout the hall.
While the boys had been admiring the walls, the Peacekeepers had been conferring quietly with Hadrian, who was now beckoning to them impatiently. He turned and started walking up the stairs of the chamber, carrying a torch in his hand and not paying attention to whether they were following him or not.
The boys didn’t need any further encouragement and quickly fell in line behind him. They slowly ascended the staircase, which led them deeper and deeper into the mountain. The only sounds were the occasional swoosh of the torches and their boots hitting the floor.
Storm focused his attention on the many work rooms leading from the main corridor, most of them occupied by helpers. There were also helpers jogging up and down the passageway on some sort of errand, on most occasions accompanied by Peacekeepers.
The boys, led by Hadrian, eventually passed a gigantic alcove, in which Storm witnessed what seemed to be the entire food reserve of Sanctuary. Plenty of huge drums contained the various food types they received each night and in addition, Storm was surprised to see, many food types that they never received. There were exotic items such as grapes, figs, olives, nuts, spices, sugar and even melons. These could only have been confiscated from the Outsiders, Storm figured, because none of them would grow in the harsh weather of Sanctuary. He also had a sense that only the upper class were allowed to eat from the spectacular stock. It was selfish of him to desire it and he shook his head once more. He had always been under the impression that food was very scarce in Sanctuary – judged by the portions they received every day – but it clearly wasn’t the case at all.
Like so many times before, Storm couldn’t help but feel a little resentment.
He continued to follow the rest of the boys, whilst curiously staring at the helpers at work in the food alcove. They were busy dividing the food into separate pots, clearly preparing the night’s portions for the Sanctuarians. A Peacekeeper was supervising them, pacing up and down, every now and then peeking into a pot. He paused at one and opened his mouth in a snarl. “We were told what would happen if we over fill that pot again, Helper-134!”
The helper in question mumbled a hasty apology and then began to direct the overflowing stew into another container.
Storm noticed another alcove where helpers were sorting out the ragged clothes from the rest. The hive of activity was fascinating to Storm and it was taking his mind off the dreaded upcoming ceremony.
“Excuse us!” an impatient voice said behind him and he turned around, just in time, to make way for a group of Peacekeepers carrying a tray of wonderful edibles up the stairs, probably for one of the Council (or perhaps even for the Guardian himself). Storm had never seen or smelled such delicious meat, bread, cheese, wine and other things he could not even identify. His stomach was growling.
At the top of the staircase, just when the climbing was staring to make Storm’s legs ache, they found themselves in a wide chamber, with three different paths leading from there onwards.
In the center of the chamber was a wooden desk, which seemed strangely out of place in this gigantic place, and behind it stood a Senior Peacekeeper. Around them and at the entrance of each path, stood numerous other uniformed Peacekeepers, the most Storm had ever seen gathered in one place, all of them staring straight ahead. These Peacekeepers wore more advanced armor and had helmets on. They appeared to be something like an elite army. Storm could see chainmail vests on their upper bodies, shiny puresteel gauntlets covering their hands, shaped greaves around their legs, and hardened leather boots on their feet. Each of them were carrying a fire-resistant shield and a crystal-infused broadsword. Purple spidersilk robes were thrown over their shoulders and they had extremely stern looks on their faces, completing a picture of utmost superiority over any Red Cloak Storm had ever seen in his life.
The only other activity in the chamber came in the form of a few messenger boys,
who were running around with folded notes or scrolls in their hands.
Hadrian walked over towards the Peacekeeper behind the table, who appeared to be visibly bored and barely glanced up as they approached.
“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is life,” the Red Cloak said, still not looking up. The words almost didn’t completely make it out of his mouth
“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is life,” Hadrian replied. Then he pulled his shoulders back and formally announced, “We are here to bring the boys to the Initiation ceremony.”
“Indeed we are, indeed we are,” he said, finally lifting his eyes from the table and regarding Hadrian before him, but he still didn’t bother to consider the boys. “Wait here while a messenger is sent,” he instructed.
Hadrian nodded as the Servant beckoned for the nearest messenger boy to approach him. “Messenger-45!”
Storm hoped that he could somehow land such a service one day.
The messenger hurried over and the Senior Peacekeeper had a few quiet words with him. The messenger then ran towards another one, exchanging the message with this new messenger. The final assigned messenger nodded, then turned and ran up the middle passage, leaving them waiting for confirmation.
During this intermediate time, Storm noticed a strange figure standing at the back of the hall, in the shadows. The reason why this was bizarre, was that he wasn’t wearing anything resembling Sanctuarian clothing. Storm couldn’t see his face, as he was staring at the floor, probably contemplating something.
His discovery was soon interrupted by a new messenger, running down the path, his sandals hitting the stone with clip-clop sounds. The messenger walked over to a fellow messenger and relayed his information. The second messenger blinked and beheld the first messenger for a moment.
“Come on, what is it? Don’t keep us waiting all day,” the Peacekeeper barked.
The messenger, abashed, rushed to the Peacekeeper to pass on the message. Something finally managed to snap the Red Cloak out of his boredom, as he turned to glare at his subordinate in confusion. He then shrugged and waved the messenger away, annoyed, as if the messenger had been interrupting something important. “We are to proceed up the right hand path,” he said to Hadrian, considering something on the table again, seeming to have already lost his interest in the matter.