The Colors of Alemeth - Vol. 1

by V. Cobe

CHAPTER 31

  The Test

  “A terrible thing has happened, Alem. Come as soon as you can.”

  The voice of Father Caleb showed no sign of terror, however.

  It was six o’clock in the morning but it could’ve been six in the evening.

  Alem hadn’t slept or eaten, hadn’t done anything. He had arrived home, leaned against the living room wall, on the floor, and remained so until the bells chimed and the phone rang.

  Many terrible things have happened, not just one.

  Before leaving, he went to the cardboard box in which he kept his memories and, with trembling hands, searched for a photograph of his mother. She was in the backyard of the Mansion of Frogs with a bunch of flowers in her hands, at chest height. She smiled with her head tilted slightly to the side and wore the green dress with the orange rose pattern.

  With heart in hands he reached the Fort of the Faith, climbed the Tower of Beatitude to the office of Archbishop Eldade, knocked and entered.

  Father Caleb was standing beside the archbishop’s chair. He approached Alem and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re a friend of Hazael Soldado,” said Eldade.

  Alem nodded. He had to pretend surprise for what was coming.

  “Did something happen?”

  “Oh Alem, this is so hard,” said the priest, rubbing his back.

  “Hazael was caught by the Night Brigade,” said the archbishop.

  He was ready to feign a gasp and goggle his eyes but didn’t even have the strength for it. A violent wave swept his body, from the depths, and made him cry. No need to pretend anything.

  “He infringed one of the main rules, Alem. He will be executed,” said the priest.

  This is not happening.

  “We do not know yet why he was walking the streets, but the situation is very serious. He even tried to escape the Brigade.”

  “A creature of the night, who would’ve thought.” Caleb sighed.

  The law was the law. But one thing Alem was sure about was that it was wrong to kill. The Institution didn’t have that right.

  He wanted to die himself, trade places with Hazael, end everything. It was better than that. Better than a traitor friend, a traitor girlfriend, a friend executed by his fault and a mother doing who knew what on a poster in an evil land.

  “I suppose there’ll be no trial?” he asked.

  “There’s no reason for it. He was caught coming out of a sewer. There’s nothing that can defend that,” replied Archbishop Eldade.

  “What time will it be?” asked Alem.

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “What for?” asked Father Caleb. He looked at Alem dangerously, as if he was crossing a forbidden line.

  “It’s a very complicated situation for Alem,” said the archbishop. “He and Hazael are friends.”

  “Were!” corrected the priest. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to be friends with a Transgressor.”

  Alem swallowed but couldn’t respond.

  “Father Caleb, give us a few minutes alone, will you?” asked Eldade.

  The priest closed his mouth, smiled forcibly, bowed and left the room.

  “You’ve shown exemplary conduct, don’t create trouble for yourself. It’s hard, but you have to be able to separate things.”

  “It’s no news what I think about these executions.”

  “Don’t do this. I thought you were wiser.”

  “I have to do something.”

  The man sighed, shook his head sideways and looked out the window at the city below the tower. A corner of the Tower of Christ was visible, reflecting the sun and blinding Alem.

  “You either shut up or you’ll get into trouble. And this will continue to happen, there’s nothing you can do, I’m sorry. It can happen to us all. The only thing we can do is to accept. It was God’s will.”

  It wasn’t a satisfactory answer.

  “We can send him away with a warning.”

  “A warning? And what do you think will happen when that gets out? Why did all the others get executed and your friend not? Do you think it would be well received? Do you think it would be fair?”

  “I think it’s time we end this barbarity of public executions. The Institution must evolve—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  Alem took his hands to his face and sobbed.

  “This is all my fault!”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head as if to ward off something.

  “Don’t say another word. You are very upset by this, and I’ll pretend you didn’t say anything, especially that last sentence. For your sake, don’t say that again to anyone. Especially the last sentence.”

  Alem took a deep breath. Was it possible that the archbishop knew?

  “Executions are murders! We are only human, we are not God. We don’t know everything, we don’t own the truth, we can’t decide what is good or evil, and we can’t kill another man! That may be our judgment, but our judgment is the one of humans, who don’t know everything, don’t know all the circumstances. We make mistakes, we don’t understand or perceive as God. Our good and our evil are ours, not God’s. Life is of all there is, of all things in the world, and we can’t judge it like humans. We don’t own it! We can’t have the presumption to think that we do. We are only men; we are not God. We have no right to take the life of anyone.”

  Archbishop Eldade gaped at Alem, unable to articulate a single word. After a few seconds, he got up and left him alone in the room.

  Alem ran out, bumping into Father Caleb along the way.

  “Alem, come back here!”

  But he didn’t care. He ran downstairs to the white door with the sign that read Sister Isabel Cruise and knocked.

  The door opened after he had barely touched it, and the nun came out to embrace him.

  “Oh, Alem, I’m so sorry….”

  She took him inside.

  “There has to be a way to get him out, sister.”

  “But how?”

  “You have so many connections; is there no one in the Order of God’s Judgment who can get him out?”

  “Can you hear yourself?” she asked with a stern tone of voice. “Do you think me capable of doing something like that? I am part of the Institution and so are you. Behave as such.”

  Alem raised his hands to the face.

  Isabel stood, went to a cabinet, took out some papers and came back next to him. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “A few years ago, my brother got linked to a group that was planning to attack the Institution. There’s a support group for family and friends of Transgressors. It may not seem like it will help to go, but it will. Look into this, at least.”

  Alem picked up the papers but said nothing.

  “This is a great test of your faith. The most I can do for you is try to get you in there for a while so you can talk to him and say goodbye if you want.”

  Alem started to cry again. His hands were shaking, his breath panted.

  “I have to do something… he’s my friend.”

  “What he did is prohibited. You are very, very well on track, don’t throw it all away.”

  When Alem said nothing, she leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “There are rumors out there.” She was trying to cheer him up.

  Alem opened his eyes, puzzled.

  Isabel continued in a whisper, “They want to take you very high.”

  “What do you mean?” Alem whispered, never taking his ear away.

  “I heard they’ve put you in line for….” She lowered her voice further. “Most Holy President.”

  “Me?” he almost shouted in amazement. “That’s so ridiculous!”

  Isabel motioned him to be quiet.

  “Do you want to get me fired?” she asked in an angry whisper. “Or worse?”

  “Why would they nominate me for Most Holy President? I just got in.”

  “It’s not for now. He’s still very y
oung, you’ll have to wait many years until he gets old, senile or dies. But as soon as that happens, it’ll be you.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “What do you think a Most Holy President does? Nothing!”

  Alem shook his head.

  “I don’t believe it. Somebody made that up.”

  “Maybe… but anyway, think about it. Think of what you could do, what you could change. You would have the power to change everything.” She winked. “Pass this test.”

  An hour later, Alem trembled as he entered the terror of the cells.

  The Order Brigade guards looked at him suspiciously, but after a signal from Sister Isabel, they searched him and let him go alone.

  It was a dark maze, full of clinking and groans of pain and anger. The cells were all side by side and better lit than the corridors. The prisoners hid from Alem at first, coiled or covered with dirty sheets, and then tried to grab him when they realized who he was. Or who he wasn’t.

  Hazael’s cell was at the end of one of those corridors. Alem saw him leaning against a corner with his head between his legs. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Haz?” he called softly.

  Hazael looked up, startled. He rose with effort and walked to the bars. His face was disfigured and full of dry blood. Bruising formed on every inch of skin, one eye wouldn’t open, and the other was so swollen that Alem could barely see its iris.

  “What did they do to you?” asked Alem in shock.

  Hazael grabbed the bars with both hands to support himself. His legs were shaking.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  Alem couldn’t contain an anguished sob.

  “Don’t cry. You may not believe me, but I’m fine. I’m calm. When the worst that can happen happens and you accept it, there’s nothing left to fear. It’s ironically liberating.”

  Body movements betrayed his courageous speech: a tremor struck his legs, and tears came out through his swollen eyelids. Fear transfigured his face even more, if that was possible.

  “I wanted to get you out of here… but I can’t. The door has been closed on releasing you.”

  “I knew you were gonna try… and knew you wouldn’t be able to. It’s impossible, and you know it.”

  “But you’re my friend!”

  They touched hands through the bars, and the touch intensified the crying of both.

  “I’m scared… I don’t want to die.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “There’s no way around it.”

  Alem pulled down Hazael’s hand so that he looked straight into his eyes.

  “You will not die. You know you won’t.”

  Hazael blinked his swollen eye.

  “I do?”

  “We still have…,” he hesitated, “Redemptio.”

  Hazael stifled a cry of astonishment, pulled Alem against the bars and whispered to him,

  “Are you crazy? They are listening to everything!”

  Alem looked around the dark corridors.

  “They?”

  Hazael lowered his voice even further.

  “The Institution hears everything. Alem, they know where I’ve been. They know but can’t find it. They’ve been seeking it for decades, but can’t find it. What Bit was doing, that ritual.”

  “Do you think…?”

  “Circulus Protectionis.” He nodded affirmatively. “That’s why they all panicked. She broke the ritual. Now the Institution can finally find it.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I believe in everything now. And you?”

  “A woman shouted I was the boy.”

  “I heard it. I don’t know what’s going on down there, Alem, but it’s dangerous. I saw the poster that you saw…. I saw your mother. It was the same dress, wasn’t it?”

  Alem confirmed with a nod.

  “That paper you found in the pocket….”

  “The code.”

  “Yes, the code. I think I’ve deciphered it,” revealed Hazael. “The line above the word means that it’s below St. Matthew’s Square. Tjiq is a name in Umbrish. Your mother had an appointment with that person.”

  “Enough talk,” shouted one of the guards. “Back here.”

  Alem looked Hazael in the eyes.

  “See you down there,” he whispered, hardly believing what he was saying.

  Hazael shook his head.

  “Redemptio won’t come.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Hurry up, boy!” the guard shouted again.

  Alem squeezed Hazael’s hand and walked away from the bars. Tears streamed down their devastated faces.

  “They won’t come,” repeated Hazael with hope and fear. “I’m going to die, Alem. Pray for me.”

  The waiting was long and difficult. If only he didn’t have to watch. But Father Caleb had insisted, despite failing to justify the directive logically, and all Alem could do was wait.

  He hated himself for relying on Umbra to save Hazael. He wasn’t even sure if save was the right word – he had no idea what would happen to him after the redemption. But it was better to lose Haz to Umbra than to lose him from the world.

  Half an hour before the execution, he went up to the spectator seats reserved on the right side of the stage, with a side view of the death area. Representatives of other Orders were already there, mostly from the Order of God’s Judgment and the Order of the Sacred Texts, Hazael’s order.

  The square was full of people who were chatting and laughing. Alem couldn’t understand how this was possible on a day this dreadful.

  Perhaps this was a test of his reaction before Redemptio. The Institution knew they would try to save Hazael.

  When they show up, I have to look outraged. Unless they didn’t show up. In that case, he would have to look anything but outraged.

  The crowd howled. Two guards dragged a hooded Hazael from backstage. With a jerk, they dropped him underneath the gallows rope, and he fell to his knees. They took the gray bag off his head. Hazael was crying uncontrollably, his face revealing terror.

  Stones rained on the gallows, thrown by the audience and instigated by the guards of the Brigade. If the Brigade suggested something to be done, no one refused.

  Alem shuddered, and his face muscles twitched. He doubted he could attend to that, doubted he’d be able to continue sitting there watching all that barbarity, that scene that made no sense.

  I have to show strength; it will be all right.

  Hazael was fair and had a good heart. It was a crime that was happening there. ‘Contention by example’. What mindless monster the Institution became sometimes, that went against everything that was the message of Jesus, for no apparent reason.

  Maybe he didn’t yet have enough knowledge to understand it, maybe he didn’t yet have all the information that was needed to understand that that was in accordance with the teachings of God. Maybe one day he’d understand.

  A priest was speaking, but Alem was paying no attention to what he was saying. He couldn’t; everything seemed like a dream, or a movie.

  The sound of motorcycles was heard, and a relief invaded Alem. They’re coming, he thought, straightening up in his chair. But the bikes passed, and Redemptio didn’t show.

  The executioner, helped by the Brigade guards, held the rope to Hazael’s neck.

  The priest shouted, and the people asked for death.

  A hand rested on Alem’s left shoulder, an uncomfortable and repulsive grip.

  “Very good, Alemeth. This is a tragedy, but a necessary tragedy. You’re doing very well,” said Father Caleb.

  Alem could tell he was smiling. A sob full of tears came to his face, but he could suppress it. Where are Redemptio?

  The disgusting priest emptied a bottle of holy water upon Hazael, without getting too close, as if he could himself be struck by some evil. The smoke blew from the Faithful Cross that held the gallows, confining the convicted.

  The
executioner held the lever that opened the trapdoor.

  Hazael continued to look at the sky, and the priest snapped.

  “Let the will of God be made!”

  The ground opened beneath Hazael’s feet, swallowing him without mercy, snapping his neck, finally ending his disturbing cries, causing the crowd to burst into celebration.

  “Come with us,” requested Archbishop Eldade.

  I can’t stand this for another second. Alem’s desire was to tuck himself under the bed sheets and never come out again. There was so much to process that his head felt like a carousel, spinning non-stop, distorting the thoughts and preventing any of them from fixing in his head and making sense.

  “It is an important matter,” said Father Caleb as they walked through the white corridors back to the Fort of the Faith.

  Alem’s heart tightened. He couldn’t endure another important issue like the previous one. The archbishop felt his fear.

  “It is a reward for all the trials you have passed.”

  Alem sat in one of the white armchairs of the archbishop’s office, next to the priest.

  “The Institution has been watching you closely since you entered here,” said the archbishop.

  “Being your father’s son was certainly an advantage, a big plus, but we cannot take you on your own merit,” added Caleb. He stroked the immaculate arm of the chair with his nails as he spoke.

  “You may not know this, but the Institution measures the levels of influence of some of its members.”

  “Your level has been rising sharply.”

  “Do you know what levels of influence are?” asked Archbishop Eldade.

  Alem released an affirmative murmur, but the archbishop decided to explain it to him anyway.

  “They measure the influence that a particular person has on society. The higher the number of people affected by that person, and the more important, complicated and laborious the areas of that influence are, the higher the level. It is a complex metric.”

  “Very complex,” added the priest.

  “Well, as you might imagine, this measurement is essential in maintaining the good functioning of the Institution, promoting people with high levels of good influence and controlling the bad influence others might be gaining.”

  It seemed to Alem that the archbishop was trying to control a smile.

  Father Caleb continued to scratch the chair.

  “The Most Holy President has to have a lot of influence, and a good one. Perhaps you might be a bit shocked by the news we have for you, maybe you don’t have the stomach that you’re believed to have, but at your age that’s normal.”

  Alem didn’t answer but suspected there was nothing that could shock him anymore.

  “We’ve wanted to communicate this before but with the recent events we were forced to wait. The cardinals wanted to see how you would react to the execution. Get ready, Alemeth,” said the archbishop. “Study, follow the path that the Institution launches your way, and in a few years… in a few years, you can become the Most Holy President.”

  A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, while his heart rushed out of his chest and his breathing became impossible to keep up with.

  “This is ridiculous,” he responded.

  The archbishop let out a resounding laugh, but the priest seemed slightly offended.

  “I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what makes a Most Holy President.”

  “It’s a great responsibility,” said Father Caleb gravely.

  “It’s a great responsibility, my ass!” said the archbishop. “You just have to speak and maintain a good appearance. The Most Holy President is no more than a mascot. It’s the cardinals who decide everything. It is high time you know this. But don’t confuse things: the President is influential. You have to be very careful with what you say when you’re on top of the Institution. The wisest course is to say little, or just say what is suggested by the cardinals.”

  “I’m only eighteen.”

  “And Icabode was twenty-five when he came to office.”

  “And way before him, Simon, the first Most Holy President, was twenty-one. That was why the figure of the pope was replaced. To be renewed.”

  “Think about it: you’ll be able to have a carefree life and do almost anything you want. Secretly, of course. There are certain luxuries that are reserved and forgiven to the President, because it’s in the interest of all the Institution that he is well and plays his role in the best way.”

  Alem was shaking.

  “But why me?”

  “One day you will know,” said the archbishop.

  “Either way, you still have a few years before you get there, if you ever do.”

  “But be aware that when the Most Holy President Icabode leaves, it is your name that will be called.”

  “Can I refuse?”

  This time it was Father Caleb who laughed.

  “It’s not something that you do,” said the archbishop, casting an askew gaze at the other. “Think of all the possibilities.”

  Alem nodded.

  “Very well. Oh, and it goes without saying that you shouldn’t comment on our conversation to anyone. Rumors will emerge, as they always do, but you shall never confirm them. You will not want the other boys in the line to know that you’ve passed ahead of them.”

  Alem confirmed with another movement of the head and left the room with a bow.

  He crossed the suspended bridge toward the Tower of Christ and descended it to the ground floor.

  It seemed that people weren’t there with him, or maybe it was him who wasn’t there with them. Nothing seemed real.

  Lael arrived, mourning stamped on his face, and they walked the gold trails that snaked around the towers.

  “Did you watch?”

  Alem looked down and nodded.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that image.”

  His bloodshot eyes, his swinging body.

  “Was he scared?” asked Lael. But as he did, his eyes watered and he shut up.

  Alem didn’t answer.

  “Why did they force you to watch it?”

  “I think it was a test. Of loyalty.”

  “A test? So it is true what they’re saying about you? That you may be the next—”

  “Most Holy President, yes,” he answered. “But it’s not for a long time.”

  The grass around the promenade and towers was so green it made Alem’s eyes hurt.

  “That poster we saw….”

  “It was my mother. In the same dress I found in the vase.”

  “What are you gonna do about it?”

  “Nothing,” he lied. He wouldn’t drag anyone else to Umbra. This time he’d go alone.

  Lael looked thoughtfully at the clear sky; the sun was reflected strongly against the top windows of the Tower of Eden. He took some time, as if hesitating to reveal a secret, and then stared at his friend and said, “Alem, I have to tell you something.”

  There was a shriek in the distance, and then a figure fell from the heavens like a bomb, crashing into the ground with a bang and a slight tremor.

  Alem looked at his side to where the figure had crashed a few feet from him. He felt the blood draining from his head.

  In an impossibly twisted body, the bulging and bloodied eyes of the Most Holy President Icabode stared into the void in his direction.