Without another word, Nathaniel’s father trudged off, his shoulders hunched like one close to defeat, yet with some fire still burning inside. Seabirds scattered before him as he headed back across the cove to the start of the notch through the granite mountains, and beyond it, to Little Pond, my home.
Chapter 2 – Over the Mountains
I’d forgotten how steeply the trail climbed, a heart-pumping trek over a mountain pass that no one before us had crossed for a thousand years. To prepare for our initial voyage, our neighbors had widened the path, removed prickly undergrowth, and carved steps into the rocks where the slope steepened, all to make way for supplies needed to build our boat and sustain us during the long passage. Now, after a year of neglect, winter snow had littered the path with debris, and the prickly bushes had re-grown, encroaching everywhere.
As we plodded along, hoping to beat the storm, those bearing our cargo struggled to navigate the trail, their legs weakened from the weeks at sea. After a while, Caleb took the lead, swinging his axe in wide arcs to clear the way.
Kara raced back and forth, from the black cube to the other machines we’d brought along, urging those entrusted with her treasures to take care.
The bearers grumbled despite her encouragement. Why shouldn’t they? Though they’d experienced the miracle of the mending machine, as it had healed both greenie and techno alike, the contents of the cube remained a mystery to all but Kara, Caleb, Nathaniel and me. The others viewed the dreamers as objects of myth, and their container struck them with fear. No wonder. How could anyone fathom a device containing the disembodied minds of geniuses? Even after the dozens of times I’d delved into the dream, the cube still struck me with awe.
The rest of their burden consisted of spare parts Kara had gathered in haste from the machine masters’ city, choosing what might be needed in our more primitive world. Only she understood their possible use, and even then her choices were more guess than plan.
Jacob and Devorah lagged behind, craning their necks and gawking at the terrain to gauge how much this new world differed from their own. From their chatter, they seemed surprised it looked the same. They’d left the safety of the earth mother’s village to follow us, hoping to learn new skills from our people. I could hardly wait to introduce them to our craftsmen, who’d lived far longer without machines.
Zachariah walked close by, as usual unwilling to leave my side. He eyed the granite peaks and said, “A nicer mountain.”
“Nicer?”
“Than the mountain of fire that took the dreamers.”
Despite the effort of the climb, I smiled, his presence lightening my mood almost as much as Nathaniel’s. He’d celebrated his tenth birthday during our voyage, and seemed to have grown a hand since I met him on the beach a year ago.
“Who is that man,” he said, “the one from the tower?”
“He’s Nathaniel’s father, and mine now as well by marriage.”
“What makes his shoulders slump like that? Isn’t he happy to see you?”
I gazed up to the top of the pass, still looming too far ahead. My breath came in short bursts, though Zachariah barely labored, and I answered between gulps of air. “Yes, of course.”
“Then why does he wrinkle his brow and stare past you when he speaks?”
“It’s nothing. Just your imagination after so much time at sea.”
“Now you’re wrinkling your brow as well.”
I trudged along another dozen steps, until he stopped and tugged at my hand. “Will he protect the black cube?”
His never-ending questions reminded me of Thomas at the same age, and how he’d pester me, never letting an answer pass, but now I was the adult and Zachariah the child. All my experience, through pain and sorrow, had taught me the truth in the questions of a child. I ruffled his hair, much as the elders had once done to distract my friends and me.
I paused a step to catch my breath and sniff the air—the smell of salt had lessened, overwhelmed by the earthier scents of plants and soil. “You worry too much, Zachariah. All will be well.”
He turned and confronted me with eyes too big for his head. “I worry because what’s left of my parents lives in that cube, and all their memories too.”
After a time, the slope became so challenging even Zachariah ceased to speak. Deep breathing replaced all chatter, along with the crunch of boots struggling for purchase —a sound much closer to silence.
Occasionally, a bird twittered, but soon it fled as well, as if seeking shelter ahead of the storm. The wind picked up speed every few minutes, until it howled as only a mountain wind could howl. The faster the wind, the quicker we walked, but my imagination came alive.
I imagined other sounds, evil portents I couldn’t identify—a rustling in the surrounding brush, a trampling of fallen leaves, the occasional creak of tree limbs bowing in the breeze. These conspired in my mind, as they did when I’d lay awake at night as a little girl while a storm passed over our cottage. I’d imagine an army of creatures from the darkness clawing at my bedroom window, trying to get in.
At last we reached the height of land, and the trail switched downhill. Now our breathing eased just as the footing turned more treacherous. Kara and I raced back to warn the cargo bearers to narrow their stride and dig their heels into the hill, for fear of slipping on the loose scree.
An hour after we’d navigated the height of land, the wind calmed and the slope became less severe.
Nathaniel’s father held up a hand to halt our parade and bid us rest at a rock ledge while he scanned the terrain below. After a moment, he cupped both hands around his lips and let out a call, which echoed down the mountain—two sharp notes, the first short and the second long—hoo hooah.
He turned back to us. “Now we wait.”
After checking that everyone was doing well and our cargo remained secure, I brought out the water skins we’d taken from the lighthouse stash and passed them around. Then for the first time since we arrived, I sat down next to Nathaniel and took a moment to reflect.
The scents and sounds of the forest brought back kinder memories. As I stared out across the vista below, I drew in a quick breath, for in the distance lay my fondest dream come true—Little Pond.
Nathaniel pointed. “There! That patch of green is my family’s farm, and beyond, you can make out the tower of the commons.”
I gazed out with him and could almost hear the bell that night at festival, clanging sixteen times and signaling the vicar’s arrival, an event that changed our lives.
Nathaniel went silent, regarding the place of our birth with a look more wistful than appropriate for one returning home.
I leaned close, forcing him to face me. “You’ve stopped at this spot before.”
“I sat here that spring day I ran like a coward from the blessing of the light. Looking down at the village, I realized I was wrong to run. I dashed back but was too late. The vicar had gone, and he’d taken you with him for your teaching.”
I brushed his cheek with my fingertips. “And if you’d arrived in time, we’d never have found the keep.”
Our reverie was interrupted by a sequence of sounds from below.
Every child in Little Pond learned to mimic various birds, so perfectly that only those who practiced this skill could tell the difference. Now the air filled with such calls, mimicking that of Nathaniel’s father—hoo hooah, hoo hooah. From down the mountain came a response. Then another a few hundred paces farther out, and another and another, each farther away, until the birdcalls stopped or were too far off to hear.
Nathaniel grabbed his father by the arm and faced him. “Why do you need to signal our arrival?”
William Rush crumpled his brow, gestured for quiet and listened. After a minute, a different sequence sounded in reply, three notes this time, repeated starting from afar—hoo, hooah, hoo.
He released the breath he’d been holding in, and the tension eased from his face. “We can go now.”
“Why so much
concern,” I said. “We’re going home.”
“I’ll explain in time, but for now, let’s hurry down the slope, and get you and your strange cargo tucked away in neighboring farms while the village remains safe. The sooner we’re out of the open, the better.”
Nathaniel and I exchanged glances as the final birdcall faded away. I grasped his hand, and he squeezed back, but we said not a word. The thought passed unspoken between us, friends since birth: This is not the world we left.
Chapter 3 – Little Pond
As we marched down the familiar path to my mother’s cottage, the air filled with a shower of whistles. Birds flitted from branch to branch, calling out to each other in impassioned chirps, as if to show off their skill and humble their human imitators.
The storm had spent itself battering the far side of the mountain, and now noontime sunbeams streamed through breaks in the clouds, floating past like newly freed souls. Their light poured through the branches of the trees, brightening the clearing in front of my childhood home. With each breath I took, the fresh air pierced my lungs, and for the moment I understood how my people could worship the light, and how the greenies could give thanks to the earth.
I’m nearly home.
Word of our arrival had reached the villagers and many lined the road to greet us. From their midst burst a familiar face—my mother emerging to grasp me in a strong embrace.
When we separated, with both of our cheeks moist with tears, I scanned the crowd.
“Where’s Thomas,” I said.
She took in a quick breath, and the blood drained from her face. Her gaze retreated somewhere to the east, and when it came back, it settled on William Rush. “You haven’t told them?”
He winced and looked away.
“Gone,” she said. The word sounded hushed and hollow.
“Gone? To where? Has he traveled to the keep to find more music or to learn from the helpers how to make a new instrument?”
“Not to the keep. No one goes there anymore. He’s gone to a darker place. But let’s get you off the road and into your home, where we can conceal you for a while until we find a safer refuge.”
My heart beat faster, a dull sound like somebody wearing mittens knocking at the door. “Conceal? But—”
My mother grasped my arms to steady me, as she’d done so often when I was a child. “Come home, Orah, to the cottage of your birth, where you can satisfy your hunger and quench your thirst, while William and I tell you what has befallen our side of the world.”
I ached to find out more, but had a pressing task to do first. I glanced back at our weary crew, those who had followed Nathaniel and me from the distant shore, all strangers now in my land. I’d led them here and would be remiss to abandon them.
I turned to Nathaniel’s father, and waved a hand to encompass Caleb and Jubal, Jacob and Devorah, Kara and Zachariah, and the rest of our crew. “What of them?”
My new father gazed to the bell tower of the commons, just visible over the treetops, and beyond to the east. “I’ve sent scouts ahead to watch for approaching danger, so we’ll have ample warning. Just in case, we should disperse your fellow travelers into twos and threes, and tuck them away at neighboring farms. We’ll swap out their strange clothing and dress them in local garb so they’d be indistinguishable from the villagers in the event the deacons come.”
Kara slipped between us. “What about my machines? They should not be left out in the open. I won’t leave them until you assure me they’re safe.”
So brash and impatient, as I was at her age.
I eased her aside. “Above all, our cargo must be protected.”
His eyes narrowed. “Be reasonable, Orah. We need to protect your people first.”
I grasped his arms, leaned close, and whispered in his ear with an urgency that took him aback. “Trust me, my new father. Whatever they seem, they’re more vital to our future than the keep itself.”
His brows rose, and he eyed me as if seeing me anew. “I trust you, new daughter. You’ve traveled to places beyond what I can imagine, and become more of an elder than me.” He stroked his beard and considered a moment, then brightened. “I have an idea. Do you remember the grist mill at the outskirts of the village?”
“Yes, of course. The old stone building with the water wheel by the stream. Nathaniel, Thomas, and I used to play there as children.”
“Since no one lives there, the deacons seldom search it, and now, in the harvest season, stacks of wheat pile high, waiting to be ground into grain. We can hide your treasures beneath the sheaves, at least until we make a better plan.”
Nathaniel picked out Caleb and five of his stoutest men to accompany us and help carry the load, trusted men who would swear to silence and withstand a teaching if need be.
Kara insisted on coming as well, hovering over her machines like a mother over her young and making sure they were handled with care. Despite her youth, I’d watched her in time of trial and knew she’d defend these legacies of her forbearers with her life.
Zachariah, as usual, tried to follow, his big eyes staring at me as if worried Nathaniel and I, like his parents, would leave and never return.
My mind wandered to that dark place, my time in the teaching cell. Now that he’d found his voice, I couldn’t risk him telling what he saw.
I knelt and enveloped him in my arms. “Go with these people, Zachariah. They’re my family and friends and will keep you safe, just as you kept us safe in the earth mother’s village. Go now. We’ll be together in the morning.”
A ten-minute walk down the road from the commons brought us to a side path, marked only by a gnarled dogwood that seemed to sprout out of a waist-high boulder. Everyone in Little Pond knew this tree as the signpost to the mill. The path led to a lovely spot with a windowless stone structure alongside a sparkling stream. An attached wooden wheel straddled the stream and turned with the flow of water.
To our neighbors, the site served a practical purpose, to grind grain into flour after the harvest, but for the older children, it provided a pleasant place to get away from the adults and pass the time. On a sunny day, when the wind was light, we’d fill a basket with cheese and freshly baked bread, and a jug of apple cider in season, and sit on the grass by the stream. As we ate our meal and reveled in the sound of the water, we’d talk of our future lives and the way we’d change the world.
Older and less innocent now, we set down our load, and I drew Nathaniel to the water’s edge. “Remember how we used to marvel at the sunlight dancing off the water as it splashed across the blades of the wheel? That is, until I peeked to the place behind, where the sun didn’t reach. Moss covered the rocks, leaving a shadowed and brooding place.”
He placed a hand at the small of my back and rubbed. “I remember. Thomas would make up stories about demons of the darkness hiding there and waiting to pounce, and you’d peek behind the wheel, but never go too close.”
My mood turned grim. “Now we find demons in other places.”
Caleb’s crusty features relaxed when he entered the glade. “A place that would please the earth mother, like our hall of winds, but why the wheel in the water?”
“The wheel turns a millstone inside that grinds our wheat into flour, a device your people can use once the wheat you’ve planted has been harvested.”
He eyed the structure, analyzing its details—how the wheel spun the driveshaft that engaged the gears that made the millstone turn. When he’d seen his fill, he looked at me and nodded. “A useful machine.”
“Another benefit of our voyage,” I said, trying to lighten what had been a somber day. “Our craftsman will show you how it works, so you can build one when you go home.”
He broke into a reluctant smile that hardened to a scowl as he gazed back down the path from where we came. “That is if we ever go home.”
***
We went back to a whirlwind of activity. Nathaniel’s father had sent dozens of runners to the east, nimble climbers who would hide i
n trees and signal if deacons approached—a more primitive form of the temple trees that made words fly across the land.
“They’ll stagger their locations,” he said, “each five hundred paces apart, and will give us warning—at least four hours if the deacons come on foot, but only fifteen minutes if they ride in fast wagons. Thankfully, they’re cowards and travel only on main roads and in large groups, fearful of the people they were meant to serve. In either case, we’ll have time to hide you and your friends in the woods. Now, my son and new daughter, come with me to the Weber cottage. Your mother has baked a fine Little Pond dinner, and we’ll answer all your questions.”
Once inside, I was struck by how small my childhood home had become, as if the walls had shriveled in the sun, but something else had changed. My mother’s hard-earned cleanliness remained—no furniture stained, no curtain soiled, and the floor showed not the barest speck of dust. Yet the air inside seemed smudged with unspoken thoughts, blemishes of hopes that had died.
My mother served my favorite meal of broiled mutton and yams, though she used neither honey nor her usual spices.
“Deacons intrude,” she explained, “barging in to search our homes unannounced, so we avoid the few pleasures the vicars once overlooked.” She stared down at her hands, knobbier and more veined than I recalled. “If they find you with forbidden food or your dress violates their standards, if your beard is not properly groomed or your hair grows too long, or light forbid, you possess an unauthorized book, you will be punished more harshly than before. Some have been taken to Temple City for the smallest of offenses.” She looked up and sighed. “So we do without to be safe.”
I longed to learn more, to find out the threat to my new friends who had risked crossing the ocean on my promise of a better life, but the manners instilled in me as a young girl took over. I gratefully partook of this long-awaited meal in silence.
The Light of Reason (The Seekers Book 3) Page 2