Transitions

by Jesikah Sundin

  Leaf ignored her as she flit around the room with evening chores, though he normally tracked her every movement. Nor did he lock eyes with her in silent profession of his affection while Laurel filled the living room with her birdsong chatter. The ebb and flow of desiring her company and his desiring autonomy stilled the very air in her chest. Shrinking back would only aggravate his festering wounds. No, she would remain devoted to his needs as before. How else would he learn she was indeed a safe place? A haven for his grieving heart? Not an enemy employed by Hanley Nichols.

  Not a witch.

  Willow strode into the apartment with a gust of wind. Oblivious to all others, she meandered toward her room, her steps light and airy. Every thought was held captive upon her face, as if the stars and moon and the sun above sparkled and shined within her heart. Grief had transformed into longing and longing became an escape as she waited for her betrothed to return, and this just the beginning of her watch. Ember worried, however. Though she trusted the Son of Eden, his father was akin to a snake that danced to an exotic melody––beautiful, charming, hypnotic, and deadly. Wistfully, Willow’s fingers trailed over the spinning wheel as she passed, humming a merry tune all her own.

  Leaf’s work tunic draped over a nearby chair, now freshly brushed. Ember reached for the garment before noting the carbon on her fingertips. Better to finish inspecting the lanterns in preparation for their evening travels first. With soot wiped away, the gold-toned parchment gleamed in the candlelight. A small smile of satisfaction touched her lips as she wiped her fingers on the cleaning cloth. So lost was she in her study, the eerie awareness of silence startled her. Ember peered toward the occupied chairs only to find Leaf, who inspected the dirt in his fingernails when caught staring. The door to Laurel’s room shut with a quiet thud and Ember loosed a breath.

  “May I help you with anything, My Lady?” Leaf asked.

  “No, I am finished, but thank you, My Lord.”

  He studied her eyes a few heartbeats before looking away while blinking shyly. “I shall be in our bedchamber resting should you have need of me.” He stood, gritting his teeth in attempt to mask the pain, then bowed, whispering, “I am entirely at your service, My Lady.”

  “You honor me.” Ember placed her hand upon his forearm. The blisters on her hand had grown red and swollen. Shifting on his feet, he studied her hand with a frown. “Please excuse me,” she said and eased toward Laurel’s chamber before he could notice. “Rest well, My Lord.”

  The iron ring felt cool in her hand, easing the throbbing discomfort before she pushed. Her little sister grinned in greeting, plucking each leaf from her hair so Ember could brush and plait her long, gold tresses. Ember released the handle and peered at her hand. Did keeping her sores from Leaf count as a secret? Perhaps she still played with fools, after all.

  Saturday, December 5, 2054

  Nausea churned around the knots forming once more in her stomach. Mild but persistent, the tight, rolling sensations increased as the communal morsels of bread and wine settled. With head bowed, Ember stole glances at the villagers seated near her at Mass. Children were positioned away from her, the men seated closest. Sunlight streamed in from latticed windows nearby. The golden ribbons cast glows over a smattering of lowered heads. It was if the very fingers of God touched each hair upon their heads.

  Hushed “amens” floated to the rafters above, traveling with the incense smoke. The prayers of candles and of men, the metaphor and the soul. “Amen.” So be it. Acceptance echoed in soft murmurs off the stone walls and floors. Confessions squeezed the private chambers of her heart. The room was silent, reverent, as she bled before each person while they looked on with satisfaction, deeming her a worthy sacrifice for their fears. Did they pray for their witch’s salvation or for her judgment?

  The Liturgy of the Eucharist was almost at an end. Only a few families remained in line to receive communion. Quiet and meek, they returned to their seats, joining the heads bowed in prayer. Ember’s eyelids slid shut and she drew in a quiet breath. The deep, peaceful tones of Brother Markus formed a backdrop for the supplications of her heart. She lifted her head when the prayer finished and pretended as though others did not look her way.

  Lifting two fingers, the monk brushed the air in signum crucis as he said, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  “Amen,” she whispered, the very word vibrating through her.

  So be it.

  Willow stood and linked her arm through hers, lips pursing in thought. “Shall I take Laurel this morn? You look peaked.”

  “No, she is to assist Mother and Rona this day.” Ember smiled kindly. “Mother has employed her services to entertain younger children while she meets privately with their mothers.”

  The Daughter of Earth swept a gaze over the departing villagers. “Oh yes, I see Laurel beside Lady Brianna. Well,” she said, removing her arm with a heavy sigh. “I shall see you this evening then. I must endure the agony of breaking flax this day.” Willow kissed her on the cheek before melting into the throngs of villagers.

  Stomach soured since waking, Ember sank onto the hard, wooden bench. Her fingers crept over each splintered groove in the wood, inching toward relief of any kind. A bird had entered the Great Hall and perched on a planked beam, cleaning its feathers. In the filtered light, the black feathers reflected tinges of blue, and she smiled. A light sensation buzzed in her head and she felt her mind drifting, wandering toward a truth bubbling to the surface.

  “Daughter of Fire,” Brother Markus said, pulling her from her thoughts. The tingles faded and she focused her attentions on the present rather than the abstract. Brown woolen robes swished with Brother Markus’ steps, and she shifted her eyes from the coarse garment to the monk’s waiting gaze.

  “Peace be with you, Brother.”

  “And also with you, Daughter of Fire.” The wrinkles on his face softened as he considered her, a pleasant smile hinting at understanding, one she knew he would not volunteer. She was to seek if she were to find. “Would you care for a walk?” he asked. “These old bones could use a jaunt to keep the rheumatism at bay. ’Tis a lovely morning, is it not?”

  “Indeed. I would be honored to walk with you.”

  He gestured toward the large doors and she ducked her head when stepping into the morning light. Squinting her eyes, she looked toward The Rows where her husband stood in discussion with two gardeners, who pointed to the far field by the South Cave.

  The village undulated with activity as the Great Hall was turned over in preparations for the first meal. A young girl dashed by, braids bouncing in merriment. “Charles, catch me!” she squealed to a little boy no more than three years of age. Face scrunched in determination, the little boy leapt from a barrel he had climbed and made chase. Little legs pumped, not stopping, not even when Brother Markus and Ember paused to allow him to pass. Gravel slipped beneath his feet and he crashed, hands and knees sliding to a halt in the dirt. Tears pooled in his bright blue eyes, his bottom lip quivering.

  “There, there child,” Ember said, kneeling before him. “You poor, dear.” She looked around for his sister. Not finding her, Ember scooped him up and brushed earthen colored strands from his eyes. “Where is your mother, lad?” He pointed to a young woman as a contained wail emerged from his mouth. Ember kissed the side of his head and pressed him close as she walked toward the woman, who looked up, eyes widening at the sight of her son.

  “Release him,” the woman said, voice low, her eyes furtively taking in the villagers who had quieted to watch the exchange. “Charles, look at your mum and only me. Show me your eyes, lad.” The young boy wiggled in Ember’s embrace with hands stretched toward his mother. Wiping a tear from his cheek, Ember placed him on the ground and he ran into his mother’s arms. “You are safe now,” the young woman cooed, glaring at Ember.

  “She comforted your son when he took a spill,” Brother Markus said. “’Twas a kindness she showed him.”

  Ember placed a
hand on the monk’s arm, lowering her eyes as her face warmed. “Shall we continue our walk?”

  Head downcast in what appeared to be sorrow, he took her supportive arm as they ambled toward The Orchard. Mothers with babes on hips or on backs spoke in close circles only to fall silent as she passed by. Brother Markus dipped his head while lifting prayerful hands in greeting. Moving forward was essential. Time, she reminded herself, was an ally and an enemy. Tree limbs clawed the sky in The Orchard and she lifted a small smile at the sight. Beyond the branches stood her husband and she watched his ease and familiarity within the fields.

  Frowning, the old monk slowed his steps, back hunched and breath heavy. They remained quiet, time stretching onward, while enjoying the peace of barren trees and ripening fields. When villagers trickled back into the Great Hall, Brother Markus placed a weathered hand upon her forearm in comfort. She tried to smile, though her heart was not in it.

  “We must labor to rest, Saint Paul tells us in the Book of Hebrews,” he began. “You wear the weariness of a soul battling for peace.”

  “Yes, for truth.”

  ”You are young to carry so many heavy burdens, Daughter.”

  Ember peered over her shoulder and studied the ruins of her family home. Lifting her eyebrow, she faced the holy man once more. “Though the community is content to forget my troubles, I cannot blame them.”

  “Can you not?”

  “We are a community in transition from one phase to another.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ember offered a weak smile. “Transitions are seasons that force change and new growth. I have accepted that I am part of the death that shall bring new life.”

  Brother Markus sobered. “You have died quite enough I should think.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And what does His Majesty say?”

  She lowered her eyes. “We do not speak of the rumors. He is not ready.”

  “Then speak to me, Daughter of Fire. I shall listen.”

  “I do not seek absolution.”

  “No, you seek answers. There is a question in your eyes.”

  Ember swallowed and tried to smile, but still she could not. In a half-whisper, she said, “I am rather confused. Why do the first generation propagate rumors that I am a witch when they, too, have known a life with technology?”

  “Yes,” the monk said, nodding his head. “A fine question it is.” He gestured to continue walking, taking her proffered arm. “You see,” he said, glancing her way, “transitions are seasons that force change and new growth.” She lifted her brow once more and he smiled, warm with concern. “They are no longer from the world beyond the walls of our home. Twenty years in isolation is a long time to spend immersed in any kind of ideology and lifestyle. Wars spanning the entire globe have been waged to protect long-held beliefs and convictions.”

  “My father has spoken of wars from his lifetime. ’Tis truly heartbreaking.”

  “Since the beginning of time, men have committed unspeakable horrors against entire families, nations, races, and religions in defense of their impassioned beliefs.”

  “Being accused of witchcraft is hardly comparable.”

  The corners of his lips turned down. “‘Witchcraft,’ ‘heresy’—these accusations are stones intended to cause injury. I do believe the emotional bruises have already formed, yes?”

  She hesitated before saying, “I fare well enough.”

  He nodded his head, slow and thoughtful, disbelieving but placating her nonetheless. Pushing thick, white eyebrows together, he said, “In New Eden, it begs the question: What convictions are those armed with stones really protecting?”

  Ember allowed the words to sink deep, to caress her thoughts. A faint tingle glimmered in the horizon of her mind and she blinked. A speech formed on the tip of her tongue, one memorized during her early years of training in the Techsmith Guild. “The idea is that children will grow up never knowing or understanding technology the same way we do,” she said, each word heavy and thick in her mouth. “Instead, we hope they become fully absorbed by their environment from infancy, leaning on rocks, trees, and flowers as companions rather than electronics. We are building an Earth-like Mars colony and must know what happens should technology fail.” The buzzing grew unbearable until warmth trickled through her body. She looked to Brother Markus, concealing her unraveling emotions as much as possible. “Hanley Nichols gave this speech five years before Moving Day.”

  Brother Markus did not ask how she knew of this speech or if she believed the statements. Nor did he encourage her to speak aloud the terror gathering within. Rather, he placed a hand, gnarled by time, onto her forearm and bowed his head. “Peace of heart is always worth fighting for, Daughter.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she spoke softly.

  Laughter from The Rows cut through the late autumn chill. Leaf’s deep rumble eased as he lifted a hand in farewell and slowly ambled toward the Great Hall. Years faded from her husband’s face as each feature brightened with mirth. His smiles were youthful, boyish even, though his eyes were old. Not yet twenty and already he had lived many lives.

  “If you will excuse me, Daughter,” the monk said, following her gaze. “It is time to bless the morning meal.”

  “Thank you, Brother Markus, for the pleasure of your company and for your guidance.”

  He studied her eyes once more, as if examining her very soul. “Do not allow the ignorance of others to destroy the beautiful truth of who you are.”

  The knots of shame tugged hard with his words. Ember pressed a hand to her midsection and whispered, “Who am I but a mere servant?”

  Bowing his head, he said, “My Queen.”

  His thin, bony finger trembled as he drew a heart upon her forehead. A breeze lifted the wiry hairs upon his head, whitened with the grace and wisdom of age. Turning on his heels, he shuffled over the uneven ground, pausing only to bow to Leaf, who joined his wobbly gait to the Great Hall.

  Perhaps she should join her husband and break her fast. Her stomach, however, protested the very idea. Instead, she glided past the stone building. Savory scents floated on the light breeze until she slipped into the East Cave. A voice boomed from behind, as if making an announcement. But she continued forward, lulled by her need to make herself busy, to work away the day, simply to channel her restless energy another direction.

  Warmth tingled her chilled skin as she closed the large, heavy door to the Mediterranean dome. For a moment, she allowed the heat to sink to the marrow of her bones and remove winter’s cloak. Waist-high flagstone walls framed the main road, rutted by heavy carts over the years. The dirt path split and she trudged toward the barns and away from the citrus and nut groves, vineyards, and grain fields. The mild honeyed scent of pollinating corn still clung to the morning dew glistening on the stones and citrus leaves.

  Straightening her apron, she ambled toward the goat pens. Her hands ached, a reminder to care for them before milking began this morn. She pulled linen strips lined in salve from her apron pocket and wrapped her hands. Leaf still had not noticed her injuries, and she was glad for it. There was naught he could do, anyway. The mysterious illness had affected his workload, same as hers.

  Upon reaching the gate, she looked up from bandaging her hand and her blood stilled. Against the stone wall of a barn, near the milk cart, stood Skylar. Features, usually stoic and kind, reflected the angst she carried and her stomach lurched. Gripping the gate, she fought the rising nausea. Still, the meager contents of her stomach emptied into the dry grass––the bread and the wine. Absolution had seemed counterproductive, an admission that she was in error for a choice made for her. Now, she wondered if perhaps she should have sought forgiveness for her part in what was to come.

  Verbal stones spat from shocked and angry faces. Their words pelted her fortitude until her confidence dimmed and flickered. She peered above the holographic screen, over the maelstrom. Each accusation drifted upward and added to the black cloud hovering above the room.<
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  Mothers held their children tight, some silently crying over the proclamations. Ember’s father pushed his way through the crowd toward the stage, much to her relief. Leaf’s eyes met hers in a panic as he, too, made way from the head table to where she and Skylar stood.

  Nightfall submerged the Great Hall in shadows. Candlelight did little to remove the stain of darkness in the room. It was nearly a tangible presence, thick and heady. The black cloud expanded with each acrimonious offering and she feared it would burst and consume them all. Or perhaps consume only her.

  Lightheaded, she shifted on her feet when her head began to swim in the whirlpool of thoughts and sensations. The formal announcement from New Eden Biospherics & Research still wavered before her vision, the larger tile in a split screen. A list of residents selected to attend tomorrow night’s first educational hour wavered in the other, smaller screen.

  “Witchcraft!” A voice shouted once more above the heated murmurs.

  Skylar loosed an irritated breath. “And yet when the Son of Eden employed technology no one maliciously accused him of witchcraft.”

  Words died on Ember’s tongue as she stared past the screens. Scowls taut with paranoia and outrage swirled before her vision. The community silenced momentarily with Skylar’s words. It was true and, regardless of apprehensions, they could not deny the observation. Feared at first, Fillion’s magic seemed as natural to his persona as the ever-present joint hanging loosely from his mouth. People had sought his magic, desiring it to connect to loved ones beyond the walls. But from one of their own?