The Prison

by Stefano Pastor

How many minutes had passed, four or five? Was there still air in the capsule?

  She shook her head. “We can’t know how long it will take.”

  Moses was going crazy. “If it didn’t work? If Spencer is dying right now?”

  “I don’t believe…”

  “I can’t do it!” Moses shouted, and asked Zeb, “Help me get him out.”

  They dug and dug. They even dug too much, but without finding anything. The capsule was gone, it had disappeared, and with the capsule his son was gone too.

  Moses had his heart in his throat, he felt a mix of joy and despair, fear and hope. He turned to Miss Lily an unbelieving look.

  “We’ve done it? We ready did it?”

  The girl laughed.

  Moses couldn’t share his happiness, he only had one thought in mind. He cried. “How will I tell Pheby?”

  “Get it out! Open that damned capsule!”

  “You calm down, Mr. Freeman, it’s not time yet. Three minutes to go.”

  The old one couldn’t wait. In the middle of the room there was a metal plate all engraved. Two dates stand out on everything. The capsule was there, under that plate, but no one had ever seen it before, it had never been lifted.

  The old man walked around the room torturing his hands. He looked at the crowd that filled the big room and read his own tension in their eyes. Everyone was ready, the medical team just waited to intervene.

  “Doesn’t matter, open it.”

  “We can’t risk it, Mr. Freeman. It may not have come yet.”

  The cubicle could be empty, there could be nothing in there. Or the capsule could be empty, containing only old books. It could only be a legend. Or it was already too late.

  Mr. Freeman felt worse. His wife smiled at him. “Calm down, don’t get upset. Think about your heart. It will be all right, you will see.”

  They were also waiting for it, all of them. But for Mr. Freeman was more important than for anyone else.

  “Now!” shouted one of the doctors, checking the clock.

  It was exactly 12.00 on December 15, 2250.

  Four of them grabbed the plate and raised it. A first groan went through the room. The capsule was there. It seemed to be intact, as if it had just been buried. There was no dust on its surface.

  They pulled it out and immediately they started to open it. There was a hiss and a click. Then a voice shouted, “He’s here!”

  Mr. Freeman’s heart stopped for a moment.

  “He’s a boy!”, the screams continued. “He’s alive! He is still alive!”

  His wife tried to sit him down, but Mr. Freeman ignored her. He was pale as a dead man.

  “Oxygen, soon! He needs oxygen!”

  They had overturned the capsule, they were pulling him out. He was skinny, almost a skeleton, dressed in rags. His back was full of wounds, some were still bleeding.

  “Oh, my God”, said Mr. Freeman.

  “He’s fine! Step back, let him breathe. You have to treat these wounds soon!”

  Spencer opened his eyes, saw all the people around him and he was scared. There were so many people, so many, and all of them were watching him. He didn’t understand their words, they spoke a strange language. He shuddered.

  They moved away to allow an old man to reach him. A white old man who smiled.

  “You’re Spencer, right? Uncle Spencer?”

  The child just managed to stutter: “Master…”

  The old man embraced him and kissed him on his forehead. He did hurt his injured back, but Spencer didn’t complain.

  “There is no master”, murmured the old man. “We are your family, your whole family. So many years we were waiting for you. That I am preparing for this meeting.”

  Spencer’s mouth opened, because that man was a white man, and he looked around. There were so many blacks, but also white people. And many of the black people had a lighter skin, like the children the masters gave to the slaves.

  “Who are you, mas…sir?”

  The old man smiled. “My name is Alan Freeman.”

  Spencer shook his head because he didn’t believe it, and the man said, “Alan Freeman IV. I’ve always been waiting for this moment since I was born. I knew it would have been me to do it.”

  “What?”

  “Open the capsule. I always hoped you were there, that you were still alive.”

  “Why?”

  “We all descended by them, by Moses and Pheby. All those you see here now are their descendants. Your family. We’ve always known your story, we’ve known it for centuries. Your courage is a legend.”

  The child was woozy. “Me?”

  “Moses and Pheby had two more children after your departure, and told them the story. And those children told it to their children. The story of a brave child who wanted freedom, who was willing to do anything to reach it. It’s because of you that we get the name we chose, Freeman.”

  Spencer tried to think. “Alan Freeman is dead?”

  “Many years ago, yes, it was my great grandfather. I have his name. He knew your story too. And he understood that he would be the one to do it, the time had come. He would have saved you. It was a genius, you know? A great inventor. It’s because of him that our family is rich, he made extraordinary discoveries. But not the time journey, that he never made public, that discovery died with him. He only used it once, to get you here. Only that one time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was important, because it had already happened. Because he knew he could do it. Because you deserved it, Uncle Spencer. He used the time capsule, without anyone noticing it. He put his device inside and send it back. He sent it back only for you, so that you could use it.”

  The child closed his eyes for a moment. He was afraid to ask that question. “Am I free?”

  The old man laughed. “Of course, you are free, Spencer Freeman. You’re free to do whatever you want. And you are not alone, you will never be alone, we are here for you, we wanted nothing more than to meet you.”

  Then he opened his eyes and saw dozens and dozens of smiling faces around him. Faces unfamiliar, yet he was no longer afraid of them, neither the whites nor the blacks.

  “We must treat the wounds, Mr. Freeman”, one of the doctors said, but Spencer struggled to get up.

  He needed to see, to know the strange world that was waiting for him.

  They made themselves aside to let him through, as if he was someone famous.

  It was a very large room, and Spencer recognized it, it was also in those drawings in the book. That was the school. He was in Alan Freeman’s school, where the capsule had been buried.

  There was a gigantic window in front of him, and Spencer stepped forward. He kept looking at it in amazement.

  There were colors, lots of colors he was not used to. Strange objects flew. Others ran at crazy speed on weird gray roads. And the houses! The houses were so high that they touched the sky, and they were so many, as far as the eye could see.

  Was that the future?

  The old man put his hand on his shoulder. “You did it, Uncle Spencer, your father would be proud of you.”

  Dad was dead, and even mom. Zeb and Miss Lily had died. They had been dead for hundreds of years now. Spencer started crying.

  “This is the life you dreamed, Uncle Spencer. A dream that was our strength, which made us become what we are. This is the life you fought for, young man.”

  Even the old man was crying.

  “Another life”, he murmured.

  February 2011

  CONFESSIONS

  Translation by Davide Paskualon

  Father Anselm kept his eyes closed, until a devoted man entered in the confessional. Then Father Anselm moved the curtain away, in front of him, and he starred the external. The church looked desert and he thanked Havens for that. Luckily that was the last.

  He closed again the curtain and he stayed on the grate. A weak lamp overwhelmed and it lightly illuminated the room. Father Anselm did not see anyone t
o the other side, so the devoted man had not yet kneeled. He was hiding, immersed in the darkness, and he could not be identified. This discretion did not surprise him, because he already had seen it other times. Father Anselm recited the famous formula, then a Pater Noster to purify the room. No voice joined him.

  “Son, how long do you confess?”

  He had no mode knowing what the penitent was, male or female, less than his age.

  “This is the first time, Father.”

  Father Anselm could not even understand it hearing his voice. Without inflexions, however strange. Anselm considered the possibility that the man was not an italian.

  “Son, do you come from far away?”

  “I suppose yes, Father. Far away.”

  “Are you…catholic?” And the priest continued: “Are your kin catholic?”

  A long silence. “I don’t know, Father.”

  It was irritating to fail to frame it in any way. “Do you intend to come to our religion?”

  This was not a problem to debate in a confessional, then added immediately: “Have you been baptized?”

  He was not sure how he would react, in case he had denied it. The baptize is essential before he can access any other sacrament.

  “I think I’m wrong. To pay the price for something.”

  “This is not a tribunal, son. If you think…”

  “I don’t know! You have to tell me, Father. You have to know if I was wrong.”

  Father Anselm sigh. He was no younger and in his life he had found himself in many strange situations.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which God?”

  “There are other gods? Because I thought there was only one.”

  “What is the name which you know him?”

  “Name… God has no name. Other people want to attribute it.”

  “How is your God?”

  Another long silence. Father Anselm only wished he could stretch his legs. He was closed on the confessional for two hours.

  “I am God. You are God. God is everywhere, God is in everything. We are all God, all that has been created is part of him.”

  How do you rebut such a claim? That sinner is not the only one to think so, although Father Anselm considered certain considerations too much philosophical.

  “Do you really think it?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Who?”

  “God; Do you love him?” And the priest continued: “What do you feel for him?”

  Finally, a movement beyond the grate, but the figure was so vague to identify it.

  “I am not here for this, Father.”

  “You did not answer me.”

  “The question has no answer, it has not sense.”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “I answered you that God is all. Why do you want to talk about love?”

  “What relationship do you have with God?” And the priest continued again: “Did you accept him?”

  “Yes, I accept him!”

  “Did you accept his will, whatever it is?”

  “I am here, or not?”

  “And you want to stay here, or not?”

  Maybe the confession was about to begin.

  “No.”

  But his voice was without emotions, inexpressive, always.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You have to tell me this, Father. I came to ask you this. Why am I here?”

  Father Anselm raised an eyebrow. “You…You want to know…Why do you exist and what is the reason of all?”

  Another movement beyond the grate. “Yes, the reason. The reason of all.”

  Father Anselm sigh again, feeling himself embarrassed. Being a Priest did not exempt him to being a pragmatic man. These issues were left to theologians.

  “Why are you here, what encourage you?”

  “Everyone comes here. Everyone comes to you. You tell them what is right and what is wrong. You forgive your sins.”

  “Have you commit a sin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He was just wasting time. Those were not the answers he needed. “Should I be telling you if you’ve sinned?”

  A jolt. “Yes, Father. I need it! Tell me where I was wrong!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I do not understand….”

  “Why do you think you have sinned?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you in this church?”

  “Yes.”

  Father Anselm feel as he was being laughed. He considered the possibility that it was some child who wanted to joke.

  “Come here, I want to see you.”

  But nothing moved.

  “Who are you?”

  That was not a question to be asked in a confessional, but that was not a confession.

  The curtain moved and a small opening of light came for a moment, he managed to see a dress.

  Then the darkness.

  Father Anselm got up quickly and moved the curtain away, bringing your head out from the confessional.

  The church was desert, there was nothing moving, in that dim light illuminated by candles. He went out, stretching his legs and adjusting the dress, without losing sight of the church entry. So he checked the two secondary outputs, one of them next to the confessional, but both were closed with a key.

  Always more confused, he controlled again the church, every possible hideout, but there was no trace of the sinner.

  He felt a strange sensation, in front of the entrance door, he wanted to close it.

  He came back, adjusted candles opposite from the portrait of Saint Clare, then he crossed the church and he knelt in front of statue of Saint Francis. He was his favorite saint, because he had always tried to characterize existence according to his teachings. Then Anselm crossed the central nave, looking around him.

  He stood in front of the altar, exactly in front of the wooden statue of Jesus executed on the cross. The Father feel another shiver, recalling the strange visit he had received. He had a bad presentiment and he was sure he would still meet his sinner.

  Very early.

  “Hurry! The Mass will begin in an hour!”

  The workmen were used to be scolded and they did not answer to the priest. The workmen continued to bolt the new benches.

  Father Anselm looking around him, content. His church was getting better and more beautiful. The Lord would have been happy. The building was in the neighborhood for ten years already and the early times had been difficult. Then Father Anselm had just a big room available, which in the past was a gym, but thanks to generosity of the locals the church was improved, after many days.

  It was a long and difficult journey, but after a relocation of one year and now the building is a fantastic church of the Lord, the church he had always wanted. There were many things missing, sure, but there were no problems. Soon he would celebrate God’s glory.

  Father Anselm nodded to the furniture vendor, approaching with him. “I want another two benches for the next week.”

  “Sure, Father Anselm.”

  Early, very early, Father Anselm thought, the church would be perfect. “The stoups?”

  “Naturally, Father, I brought fliers to you. I recommend our new technological stoups that they are comfortable. They are available in many different models.”

  Father Anselm furrowed his front. “Will they jar with the room?”

  “Absolutely not!” said the seller. “Maybe, votive candles are a sign of the past, when you will decide to replace them with our electronic offertory…”

  “Afterwards. There are other priorities. Can you talk me about the Saint Joseph statue?”

  “Is it wonderful, right?” And the vendor continued: “Have you make a choice?”

  “Yes, I want the wooden statue. I do not want nothing of gypsum or plaster in my church.”

  “Sure, Father! I would never propose to you such a thing.”
>
  “It’s not the moment, I’m waiting a sizable donation.”

  “Sure Father, the statue will always be obtainable. And the stoup?”

  He pointed to the catalogue. “This look like real marble. Is it obtainable in a deep color, too?”

  “I will let you see.”

  The vendor advanced for a few minutes, controlling the list full of illustrations. The workmen finished their job and they went away, kneeling before going out from the church.

  Father Anselm control the price, but the vendor, who knew him well, he had already prepared to give him a discount. When the vendor went away, they were satisfied, both were convinced of being smart.

  Father Anselm, in that moment, he noticed a person in the confessional: someone had come in there and he was waiting. The Father had been too busy to realize it, but the was on the confessional leave any doubt: it was time to work.

  Father sigh and went to listen his loyal.

  “Therefore, son, confess to me your sins.”

  A strange silence beyond the grate. Father Anselm knew what was happening.

  “Oh, you are. Why did you go way?”

  Just silence.

  That evening Father Anselm felt himself more available. His knees did not hurt him and he was still happy for the deal.

  So, the priest used a reassuring voice. “Would you like to stay here?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Was it your choice come here?”

  “No, Father.”

  Without emotions, always. It was not a impassive or a proud voice, just without emotions. Was it possible that he could not imagine his face yet? Father Anselm wanted to understand, without rest.

  “Has anyone forced you to come here?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Short answer, with no hesitation. Father Anselm felt himself smarter, in that moment.

  “And you see all as a punishment, or not?”

  “Is it not?”

  “You must say that.”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you were telling me.”

  “Why me?”

  “You know all. You answer to any question. You know what is right and what is wrong.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I heard you. People come here full of doubts and you have an answer for all.”