The Acolyte resumed his incantation. “Thus be delivered all those who have sinned against the Sentinel.” He brought the Celebration to an end. “Remember all that I have told you. Remember the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel. Go now and live in harmony as the Sentinel has proscribed.”
Daman left with his family, but he did not feel jubilant or festive. His stomach churned and his head throbbed. What is wrong with me? He felt as if something had snapped inside his brain. Or perhaps, a missing piece had fallen into place.
He remembered the word the Acolyte had used–Rebel. Was this what it was to be a Rebel? Was he thinking like the fiends who had terrorized the world of the Ancients with Constructs?
He knew almost nothing about such matters. But he knew what he had seen in the Arena today made his heart ache. He would miss Evan. How would his family replace him, both as a worker and as a son? How could there be any wisdom in the Laws and Ways if they resulted in such unnecessary hardship and cruelty?
And, he asked himself, if these Laws were wrong, how many of the other Laws governing the Sentinel’s perfectly ordered paradise might be wrong?
6
After the Celebration of the Sentinel concluded, Daman helped his father take down his booth. Then they returned to their small thatched-roof cottage.
Although there was much conversation at dinner, there was little discussion of what they witnessed in the Arena. His mother tried, alluding to Victor’s clever triumph or “the unfortunate Mister Acton,” but she was met by silence from both her husband and son.
After Xander cleared the table, his mother retired for the night.
“Daman,” his father said. “I would like to speak with you.”
He had no trouble guessing what the subject might be. His foolhardy outburst in front of Mister Hayes.
He stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Father. But when Mister Hayes talked so arrogantly, finding fault with poor Mister Blackthorne, a man who has never harmed anyone and has helped so many...I couldn’t contain myself.”
His father smiled slightly. “Mister Hayes is a blowhard. But what you did was foolish.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
“You do not want to become an enemy of the Black Sentry. They deal with their enemies in a ruthless and…orderly manner.”
“Yes, Father. I know.”
“I can see that something is troubling you. What is it?”
It would have been wiser to keep these thoughts inside, but he couldn’t restrain himself. “It’s so unfair, Father.”
“What is?”
“Everything. Everything the Sentinel requires us to do. Forces us to do. Why can’t people make their own decisions?”
“You know what you’ve been taught. There was a time when men were free to make their own decisions. Chaos reigned. The world was plagued by cruelty and inequity. Starvation and hardship. The Constructs dominated our lives.” He paused. “The Sentinel saved us from all that. He gave us a safe, predictable way of life. A better way.”
“I have heard that, yes.” He mustered all his courage and looked directly into his father’s eyes. “But I’m not sure I believe it. Do you believe it?”
“I believe...” His father stopped, then started again. “I believe there was another time. Before the Sentinel. Beyond that...” His voice faded.
“Please, Father. Tell me.”
“Son, you have to understand. A parent has certain responsibilities. He can’t do anything that might lead his child into a dangerous direction.”
“Surely you see how cruel the Sentinel’s Laws and Ways can be.”
His father hesitated. “There was a time, perhaps, when I was much younger...” He shook his head fiercely, as if to erase the entire line of thought. His eyes darted toward a cupboard in which he kept pots and pans and other equipment, most of which had been handed down by the man who had been the village baker before him. “Let me show you something. I think you’re old enough.” He winked. “You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
His father opened the cupboard, reached far into the back, and removed a small object that had previously been hidden.
It was round and smooth and attached to a rusted chain. Two gold arrows projected from the center of the face, which was covered with scratchings he did not understand.
“This,” his father said proudly, “was created by the Ancients, the people who lived before the time of the Sentinel. It was called a Watch.”
He took it gently into his hands. “What did it do?”
“By using the Watch, the Ancients were able to tell where they were in the day. Whether it was morning or evening. How much of the day had passed.”
“But Father—we can tell those things simply by looking at the sky.”
“Yes, I know, but with the Watch, you could tell without looking at the sky. Without even going outside. And with greater precision.”
Was this an actual Construct? The evil creations he’d heard so much about for so long?
He examined it by the tarnished chain, wondering how it operated. Did the Ancients wear it around their necks? Did they lay it flat under the sun to catch a shadow? “Does it work?”
“No, it doesn’t, I mean–its been so long, I—I don’t–I—” He frowned. “To be honest, son, I don’t really know.”
“How could this tiny bauble tell them where they were in the day?”
He snatched it back. “Well, I don’t know. But it could.”
“How did you get it?”
“I had it from my father, who had it from his father. It’s been passed down in this family for generations.”
“If the Black Sentry knew—”
“Yes. Indeed.” He returned it to its hiding place in the cupboard.
“And yet you keep it, Father.”
He closed the cupboard. “I keep it because it represents time, and therefore reminds me that there was another time, when men were free to choose their own path.”
“A time of chaos.”
“Perhaps. Yet somehow, despite the chaos, they were able to create wondrous devices such as that one.”
After they finished talking, they retired for the evening. But Daman did not sleep well. His rest was plagued by vivid dreams, dreams of a long-forgotten world in which men could tell the time without going outside, a world of Constructs with large vicious teeth, a world of danger and disharmony. A world of chaos.
A world he found himself longing for.
*****
The next day, wherever Daman went, everyone talked about the Winnowing, Victor’s triumph, and the surprise appearance of the Acolyte. He heard more and more about it until he was sick of the subject.
About midday, he passed near the Arena making a delivery of fresh baked bread for his father. He was winding his way through the curving dirt roads that interlaced the villagers’ homes when a member of the Black Sentry—Benjamin Coffin—crossed his path. Coffin was in his forties. Early in his career he obtained an officer’s commission on which he grew fat and indulgent. He rose to great importance in the village, second only to the Captain of the Guard.
Coffin rushed down the road accompanied by his personal slave, Fenton, who had been with him for many years. Apparently Coffin was too important to stop for a proper meal. Fenton tried to feed the gluttonous man as he walked, pushing bite-sized bits of beef into his mouth as they marched side-by-side.
Fenton stumbled and dropped one of the bites on the ground.
“Look what you’ve done, you clumsy oaf!” Coffin bellowed, grinding to a halt.
Fenton bent down and recovered the food, then brushed the dirt and sand from it.
Daman’s stomach churned watching the poor slave grovel and scrape.
While Fenton was crouched down, Coffin withdrew his crop and cracked Fenton on the backside.
Fenton leaped into the air, wailing.
Coffin laughed. “Let that be a lesson to you, slave. Don’t let it happen again. Understand?”
“Yes,
Master,” Fenton answered, his voice cracking. “I am sorry for my clumsiness. Please do not hurt me.”
Coffin did not listen. He brought his crop around and hit the poor man again, this time on the side of his neck, not far from the purplish protuberance that distinguished the slave class. Fenton fell to his knees, crying in pain.
Daman turned away, unable to watch the pathetic spectacle any longer. Apparently it was not enough that men should have slaves to fulfill their every whim. They must mistreat them as well. How could this arrogant bully treat others with such contempt?
And then, he wondered, had his own treatment of Xander been any better?
He heard Coffin’s crop crack again, he heard Fenton cry out, and before he knew what was happening, he saw a brown blur rush past him, intervening between the crop and the slave. Several moments passed before his eyes focused.
It was Xander. What did he think he was doing?
Xander positioned himself between Coffin and Fenton. He grabbed Coffin’s arm and held it fast, preventing him from beating his slave again. They stood face-to-face, glaring into one another’s eyes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Coffin spat out.
Now that he’d been spoken to, Xander had the right to reply. “I’m sure you did not intend to act so cruelly, Lieutenant Coffin. Obviously the heat of the day has inflamed your temper.”
“Get away from me!” Coffin tried unsuccessfully to shrug Xander off. His already florid face flushed. His considerable belly vibrated.
Xander held his ground. “I cannot let you beat this man like a rug in public. He has done nothing to merit such treatment.”
He could not believe what he heard. For a slave to speak in such a manner was forbidden. To speak in such a manner to a Black Sentry lieutenant was suicide. And yet, he couldn’t help but admire the enormous strength Xander displayed. Despite his low station in life, Xander found the courage to do what no one else would.
Coffin’s eyes focused on Xander’s bulging temple. “You’re a slave! And you dare–!” His eyes widened and his jowls shook. “I am ordering you to step aside.”
Xander did not budge. “I am respectfully declining to obey.”
Coffin’s temper boiled so hot he thought the top of the man’s head might blow off. The heavy man lacked the strength to get past Xander. When he realized it was hopeless, he stepped back and lowered his crop.
“The Captain of the Guard will hear about this,” Coffin said, eyes ablaze.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Xander quietly replied.
Coffin stormed away, heading for the local Sentry headquarters not far from the Arena. A few moments later, Fenton scampered off behind him, obviously unsure where to go or what to do next.
He suddenly realized they had become the focus of a great deal of attention. Several dozen passersby had stopped to observe the spectacle. Frowning, he ducked into a nearby alleyway. He wanted to speak to Xander alone, but he lost the slave somewhere in the darkness.
Someone was following him. He walked faster, then faster still, then ran. Until the alleyway came to a dead end.
Trapped, he turned to confront his pursuer.
To his surprise, he saw it was not the Black Sentry, but Brita. “That...was a good thing you did,” she said quietly.
What” He was confused. Then he realized Xander hid behind a nearby pile of crates.
The slave emerged. “I accomplished very little.”
“I disagree. I think you acted heroically.”
Did she really think so? He gazed at her amazing blonde tresses.
“You saved poor Fenton from a beating,” Brita continued.
“He will have twice that beating tonight when he returns to his master’s home,” Xander rejoined. “And there is nowhere else he can go. I should not have intervened. My temper got the best of me.” He pressed one fist against the flat of his hand. “I could not stand idly by while that pompous—” He did not finish his sentence.
Daman had never heard Xander speak so many words at once, much less with such passion.
“Still,” Brita said, “if others follow your example—”
“Who will follow? I will be transported as soon as this event is reported.”
“We will not ship you anywhere, Xander,” he said. “You will not be punished.”
“You will have no choice, once the Captain of the Guard reports this to the Magistrate.”
He fell silent. He knew Xander was correct. Coffin would never let this end without seeking redress.
“I will speak to my father. We’ll do everything we can to see that you aren’t punished.”
“Yes, I’m sure the village baker will have the clout to rewrite the Laws and Ways.”
He bit down on his bottom lip. He knew they both spoke from frustration. “He can try.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because…until just now...I thought I was the only one in the village who...questioned the way we live. The way we are forced to live.”
“You were wrong,” Brita said, without explaining. “But Daman, how can we change—”
“There will be no change so long as people are not free to express their own thoughts. As long as we are controlled by a power we cannot even see.”
Brita stiffened. He couldn’t understand why. Then he detected movement in the shadows behind her. Someone was back there, staying at a distance. Listening. Lurking.
He barely caught a glimpse of the top of a head, but he still felt certain he could identify it. Mister Hayes. The man who had accused him of blasphemy.
Brita cleared her throat. “I think perhaps the heat has begun to affect your mind, Daman.”
“Yes,” he said, catching on. “Perhaps it has. I’m babbling nonsense.”
“You don’t know what you were saying. Xander, help your master back home. A cool drink will do wonders for him.”
He caught a glimpse of Mister Hayes scurrying away. Had they fooled him? Or was he on his way to report what he heard to the Captain of the Guard?
If he didn’t learn to control his tongue, he would soon find himself confronted with the same choice as poor Mister Anton.
Exile or execution. If they gave him any choice at all.
*****
Daman found a drink at Market Square. Xander left to perform his daily duties. Brita said she had chores to finish before sundown. He doubted it. More likely she didn’t want to be associated with this heretic, this crazed madman who blasphemed the Sentinel. When the Black Sentry came for him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near.
At the end of the day, his father sent him to the Nether End of the village to make deliveries to the slave quarters. He hated these jobs more than any other. Although it was still within the protective fence surrounding the village, the Nether End was the farthest point from where Daman and his friends lived. The Nether End was populated by slaves dwelling in shabby, filth-ridden housing. He could sympathize with the hard life they led, but the thought of being surrounded by all those deformed people, shuffling back and forth with their malformed heads, gave him shivers.
He had made many deliveries here over the years, and it was not more than a mile from the forested banks of Blaine River, where he and Mykah and Evan had often played as boys—and where he had once saved Mykah’s life.
After making his deliveries, he decided to take the long route home, following the tall fence. At one point, he heard an unsettling hissing, rattling noise just beyond the fence. Like the slithering of wet leaves.
Could that be a Creeper? The men of the village said the Creepers lurked just outside the fence, eternally searching for a way in. Like most in the village, he had never actually seen a Creeper, but he had been told that they were deadly, that they could kill with a single blow, and that no one had ever managed to kill one.
He plunged back into the forest, with its perfectly spaced and identical trees, taking a diagonal route toward home. He knew a shallow place where the river could be cros
sed. Since he had completed his chores for the day, he took his time, mulling over everything that had happened. Before long, he had wandered farther south than he had intended.
He remained deep in reverie until suddenly he heard footsteps behind him, footsteps approaching rapidly.
“Help me,” a hoarse voice gasped. “Please help me.”
Rising up the crest of a hill, he saw a man like none he had seen before in his entire life. His face was strange. Deformed. His skin folded in on itself, rippling down the face and sagging under the chin. Even though he had never seen anything like it, he understood what it must be.
This man was old. Older than anyone he had ever seen. Far older.
The man’s hair and beard were white as clouds. His back was hunched, but he was still able to move at a steady pace. His dress seemed familiar yet strange. He wore his collar backwards, so that the white rounded part showed through the opening at the top of his tunic. He carried a small backpack.
A sudden thought struck Daman. Was this the man the Acolyte had mentioned? The Rebel who fought against the Sentinel himself?
“Please,” the Old Man repeated. “I need your help.”
He did not need to ask why. He could see for himself. Down the path at the foot of the hill he spotted the Old Man’s pursuers. They were too far away to distinguish their faces, but he could make out their black shirts with shiny gold buttons, their goggled masks bearing the Emblems of Authority, their whip-like crops strapped to the hip.
The Black Sentry.
7
Daman couldn’t decide what to do next. Could the Sentry identify him from this distance? Could he and the Old Man possibly escape?
“Quickly!” the Old Man urged. “Help me.”
There was no time to think, no time to debate. There was only time to act, to do what seemed right.
He took the Old Man’s hand and led him down the far side of the hill. They had to leave the main road or they had no chance of eluding the Sentry. Fortunately, he knew this area well. He was pleased to find that the Old Man, despite his age and obvious fatigue, could still move quickly.
The Black Sentry Page 4