The Colors of Alemeth - Vol. 1

by V. Cobe

CHAPTER 28

  The Mass of the First Month

  He tried to ignore it. He tried to forget what he had heard and what he had seen: Umbra and Defectio chasing a certain boy, the ritual in the forest, the kidnapping, the boy is not ready yet, the man with the black wings, the escape to Sun’s Farm, his mother’s death, his father’s death, the Great Superstition, the vision of Carmel on fire, ‘Amen’.

  He felt a tingling at the base of his spine and pressed his hand there in alarm. But it was only his imagination; there was no snake coming out of his body.

  He forced himself to forget again, thought of Jaala. But that caused him to sweat. He wondered what had happened to him.

  “What’s on your back?” asked Bit.

  “Nothing.”

  She remembers the snake. Even so, since the first meeting on the beach, Bit had never touched on the subject again. He wondered whether he should tell her what he’d done, what he’d heard.

  Izar, a friend of Bit, approached the parasol and took out a bottle of water from the ice box.

  “Jaala didn’t want to come?” he asked Alem.

  “I guess.”

  The beach at the foot of a cliff was surrounded by high and dark rocks, which harbored and concealed it, almost private and therefore bordering on illegal.

  “What’s the matter between you two?” asked Bit after Izar returned to the rest of the group playing football on the sand a few meters away.

  “Who?”

  “You and Jaala. It’s not usual for you to not know where he is.”

  “I don’t always know where he is! We just got out of the monastery. I don’t know, I haven’t spoken with him this weekend.”

  “But weren’t you meeting on Friday?”

  “And we did. But I don’t know where he is today”

  He lifted his trunk from the towel and stretched his legs on the sand.

  The water that swayed forward and back, just a few meters away, looked green as it wet and darkened the golden, rough sand.

  He closed a hand around thousands of sand grains, and with God, dropped them from one hand to the other, until all the grains slipped through his fingers.

  Bithynia rose beside him and hugged him.

  Then he got up and dragged her out of the towel by the hand.

  She laughed and went with him.

  They walked slowly down the beach to a rocky area where violent waves crashed, scattering a salty mist in the air.

  “Bit, I have to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” she asked, without losing her smile.

  He took a deep breath and let out.

  “Have you heard of Umbra?”

  Her smile gradually faded, like the splashes of sea water that dried on her cheek.

  “Alem….”

  “I know, I know it’s forbidden. I know that maybe you don’t believe it. But I’ve found it.”

  Her green eyes glowed with the reflection of the bursting foam. Her mouth opened slightly but didn’t make any sound.

  “We went there… I, Jaala, Lael, and Hazael. We’ve seen what it’s like. It was them, Bit. It was them who took me to that cell. They are looking for some boy.”

  Her mouth closed, then opened and closed again.

  “Jaala… Jaala stayed there. He stayed there, Bit.” He shut his mouth as if it had hurt to speak.

  She continued focusing on his eyes, serene, jumping from one to the other, keeping her words to herself.

  “Say something, please. It was only once. I don’t want to go back ever. That place is horrible, they break all the Ordus’ rules, kill children. It was them who kidnapped me. You know better than anyone where my heart is, where my Faith is.”

  She got closer to his face and kissed him tenderly on the lips. She said, “I will always love you, my sweetheart.”

  Father Caleb was waiting for Alem in the lobby of the thirteenth floor of the Tower of Beatitude with a calm smile. When he saw him, he opened his smile and gave him a bow, with his hands together in front of his chest.

  “Alemeth. I have been waiting for you.”

  He was a man of average stature, slim and about fifty years old. He wore glasses with round lenses and thin rims. Gray tufts of hair emerged from behind his ears, the only place where his head still had hair. He wore a red cassock, with details in other shades of red. There was no gold on it.

  “I’m Father Caleb,” he said with some enthusiasm. “I was assigned by the highest of the Institution to accompany you here.”

  Alem returned the bow.

  “Come with me.”

  They crossed a white hall in silence, priest Caleb in front, and entered a room of the same color. Several desks were arranged around the room, almost all of them occupied by people sitting in front of computers working. They looked at Alem without much expression.

  The priest stopped in front of an empty desk and said, “This will be yours, for when you need it. You can even study here if you want.” He looked around the room and whispered, “If they don’t bother you too much.”

  Alem didn’t know if it was a joke but he smiled.

  “I’ll leave you to read this,” he said, pointing to a stack of files on the desk. “I’m very busy today, I’m sorry. My room is next door. If you need anything, do not hesitate to go there. Talk to me about anything you want, that’s what I’m here for. Write me a daily report of all that you do so I can help you better: who you’ve contacted, what you’ve read, that sort of thing. Nothing to elaborate, three or four paragraphs.”

  Alem nodded.

  “I’ll wait for you for lunch, later?” he asked with an exaggerated smile.

  Alem blushed.

  “I’ve… I’ve already made plans with some friends who also got in this year.”

  The priest’s smile remained on his lips but disappeared from his eyes.

  “Oh, okay. With friends. For a moment I thought you were going to say Zalmon. You have to be careful, you know. You cannot right those who say you’re only here for being Zalmon’s godson or Irá’s son.” He put his hand on Alem’s shoulder. “But I know you have much more value.” He bowed, turned his back and left the room.

  Some colleagues peered over their computers.

  Alem looked away at the dossiers before him: files and files on past events, Faith fostering events, requested permits—granted and denied—signed contracts, and detailed studies on measures to be implemented to maintain the feeling of faith and respect toward the Institution. They could also be called opinion manipulations.

  It’s all for the good of the people, he convinced himself.

  When lunch time came, the word Faith was already bulging from his eyes.

  “I don’t have a priest accompanying me,” said Hazael.

  “I’ve also got no one,” said Lael. “You must be special, Alem.”

  “I’m not special. I don’t even like him that much to tell you the truth. And the rest in my order are almost all grim.”

  “In the Order of the Sacred Texts they’re all grim,” complained Hazael.

  “Do you guys know anything about Jaala?” asked Lael.

  Alem filled his mouth with food and waited for someone to speak. He didn’t want to have that conversation.

  “You know as well as we do where he is,” said Hazael.

  “But it’s Monday, he may be—”

  “He didn’t enter the Institution, that’s all I know,” said Alem.

  He pushed away the memory of the winged man with a jerk of his head.

  “Maybe if we call him,” suggested Lael.

  “For what purpose? He won’t even answer us, for sure.”

  “But he’s our friend….”

  “I also thought so,” conceded Alem.

  He began by monitoring the creation of Faith fostering events linked to young people. He wasn’t given any responsibility but at least he could learn. He didn’t participate in the sociological studies, which assessed specific problems and target subjects, nor in their anal
ysis or the strategies definition, but he could read everything and assemble the outdoor event.

  He was acknowledged by almost everyone in the Tower of Beatitude and didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It was uncomfortable, for sure.

  A few days after the Faith fostering event during which Fiosca, a subtly seductive pianist nun, had been booed by her fans for abandoning the, more or less, rebel temperament of her music—thanks to the Institution—an event Alem had saved with a clumsy but effective speech, Isabel, the Governance nun who ran Archbishop Eldade’s agenda commented that if people already knew the name Alemeth Ricardo Sá, son of Irá Pedro Sá and one with a promising future in the career of Faith, after that event they also knew his face. And even those who had never seen him, spoke of his orange hair. But he had done nothing to justify that fame; sometimes it seemed like things were handed to him.

  When night came, he refused to look at the street through the windows of his house, at the darkness that had hurt him, and perhaps even called him. He always shivered at the thought. He tried to ignore it. He tried and tried until one day he could no more.

  Carmel’s Cathedral was packed with the families and friends of the twenty-five apprentices who celebrated their first month in the various Orders.

  Rhode and Ezekiel waved at Alem from the second row of seats, and he reciprocated, despite having instructions from the priests to be still.

  Lael’s mother was crying and clutching a white handkerchief, with Arão, her son’s new best friend, at her side.

  Hazael’s parents were a little more restrained.

  Archbishop Eldade, Father Caleb and Sister Isabel were sitting in the front row, next to the main members of the other Orders.

  The apprentices, dressed in beige gowns with the Institution’s golden cross engraved in the front, were lined up at the altar and facing the audience. Two acolytes carried paper sheets with transcripts of sacred texts to the credence table, arranged the position of gold chalices and turned on and off the electrical cables of microphones and speakers.

  Zalmon was at the center of the stage, in front of one of the microphones, awaiting the start of the ceremony.

  There were candles lit throughout the church, though some light entered through the stained glass windows and the sides of the aisle through the large windows above the suffering saints.

  The choristers dropped their voices in a whisper that muted the rest of the church. When they were silent, Bishop Zalmon Costa spoke into the microphone.

  “Brothers and sisters, be welcome. To officiate the opening of the ceremony, there’s no one better than our dear leader, the Most Holy President of the Institution, Icabode!” He stepped off to the right of the stage.

  The students made way in the middle and at the back of the altar, and from a grand white marble door at the top of a staircase on the left, appeared the Most Holy President, all in gold, with the exception of the red balls of the Faithful Cross on the sleeves and hem of his cassock and on his tall hat.

  Those sitting in the audience went forward and genuflected, head down. The apprentices at the altar, the bishop and the acolytes did the same.

  Icabode stood behind the microphone, without any eye fixed on him, and said, “I am the Faith.”

  “We are the Faith,” answered the faithful, before making the sign of the cross and returning to their places.

  “Today is special for all of us. These students who are here beside me were chosen by God to have a special role in the world. We are here to admire the great moment these young workers become part of this great Institution. A beautiful moment that certainly all will remember fondly in the future. They will dedicate the next few years to the service of Faith and God to make the world a better place. It will not be easy, but it was no accident that they were chosen. Here are the best of the best, those who have what it takes to manage this big family. Enjoy. And remember that God is always with you.”

  One of the acolytes carried a small golden stand and placed it in front of the Most Holy President. The other placed some sheets there.

  Icabode recited a passage from the Bible, and after him, the Archbishop of Carmel—who made a very brief presence—and Zalmon recited two more.

  As his godfather was finishing, Alem caught a glimpse, at the cathedral door, of Jaala.

  He was thinner, and his black hair had grown almost to his shoulders. He looked at Alem without any expression and then disappeared through the door.

  The audience applauded the bishop’s speech. The row of apprentices walked to the left when the first one received the blessing from the Most Holy President and left the stage. When Alem’s turn came, the audience gained more life. There was more applause and more noise, even cries of Alemeth.

  Alem kneeled in front of Icabode and received his kiss on the forehead.

  He came to see us.

  The Most Holy President drew the Faithful Cross on Alem’s face with a finger, a line from his forehead to his chin and another vertically above his eyes, and said, “For the Faith.”

  “We are the Faith,” said Alem, blessed.

  He raised his arms and let Icabode drop a red and gold cassock over his head.

  He left the stage through the side door, under a burst of applause, and found Hazael and Lael waiting.

  “It’s official: we are part of the Institution,” said Lael.

  “He was here,” said Alem. “Didn’t you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Jaala. He was at the cathedral’s door.”

  Hazael took a deep breath.

  “He came here to see us.”

  “He must be sorry,” said Lael. “Maybe he gave up on that, on—”

  “I hope so. I’m going to his house right now.”

  “His house? To do what?” asked Hazael.

  “Talk to him.”

  “He never answered my phone calls, his mother always told me he wasn’t home. He wants nothing to do with us,” replied Hazael.

  “He didn’t. Perhaps that’s changed. I have to go. I don’t know how I let all this time pass.”

  For fear. He didn’t want to discover that his best friend had become a rebel, allied to those who had kept him in captivity for two months, under torture. And he didn’t want to find out why he had been held captive.

  He pedaled through Carmel’s streets, his new cassock flowing in the wind.

  The garden of Jaala’s house was almost as badly cared for as the one he had found at the Mansion of Frogs on the day he left the monastery. The apple tree on the left side of the stone path had a sea of fallen apples at the trunk base, and a swing on the right side had rusted as if it hadn’t been used in decades.

  He leaned his bicycle against the tree, walked the grass to the wooden stairs that gave access to the front door and rang the bell.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the door to open. On the other side was Jaala’s mother, a miserable woman who didn’t react when she saw him. Her fifty years seemed like sixty. Her unkempt hair reached her shoulders, and her eyes were swollen in deep dark circles. Without changing her apathetic expression, she motioned for Alem to enter.

  He followed her to the yard, passed a disordered living room full of clothes, magazines, books and dirty dishes.

  Jemimah picked up a soccer ball that was resting on a garden bench and sat with it on her lap. Alem sat beside her.

  “You haven’t been back here again,” she said.

  Alem moved on the bench not knowing what to say.

  “I don’t blame you,” continued Jemimah. “I never wanted you here, kept telling Jaala to stay away from you. And look at you now.”

  She faced the soccer ball in her hands as she spoke.

  “It seems like yesterday that your mother came here wanting to know where you were. When you were kidnapped.” She looked at Alem with a sad smile. “Can you believe that I was actually slightly relieved when you disappeared? Your hair was very red, it wasn’t natural, it still isn’t, even in that c
olor. I always thought there was something strange about you, something demonic. Perhaps it’s just the opposite. You’re different, but in a good way. Maybe if I hadn’t filled Jaala’s head with such bad things about you… maybe he wouldn’t have gone away, maybe he would’ve been there at the ceremony today, beside you.”

  Despite her swollen eyes, Jaala’s mother didn’t cry.

  It was Alem’s turn to speak.

  “Where is he, Mrs. Color?”

  She shook her head as she looked at the ball, unseeing.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last, more to herself than to Alem.

  “Since when?”

  “A month ago, maybe. He just disappeared.”

  She rolled the ball in her hands.

  “There are many parents who lose their children like this, you know. There’s always someone who sees them later somewhere, walking as if nothing had happened. They’ve already seen him in the library, for example. I believe them. I think I know where he is.” She turned her face to Alem. “But we can’t talk about it.” And she gave a tired smile.

  “I didn’t think…. I guess I was hoping he’d still be here at home.”

  “The Brigade didn’t speak to you?” she asked with feigned amazement. “Of course not. They know better than me what happened to him. But I just wanted to know where. In what place? Does he have good conditions? Does he have enough to eat? This is because I was never a good mother….” She suppressed a sob. “That’s why God is doing this to me!”

  She collapsed in uncontrollable crying.

  “What happened between you two, Alem? Why did you never search for him? Hazael and Lael called. You know where he is, don’t you?”

  “We can’t talk about it.” He put a hand over hers.

  “I need to know. I need to know how he is!” She clutched Alem’s hand. “His father’s very ill, won’t be with us much longer. May God our Lord take him fast and end his suffering.”

  She sobbed violently.

  “He wanted to see his son, wanted to ask for his forgiveness. We aren’t angry with him, we just want him to be well and to forgive us.”

  She laid her head on Alem’s shoulder, dropped the soccer ball from her lap to the stone floor and wept.

  “I’ll try to find him, Mrs. Color.”

  She didn’t stop sobbing but squeezed his hand a bit tighter.

  “I’ll try to find him.”