Semper (New Eden)

by Dudley, Peter J

  As I open my mouth to denounce what he’s about to say, he barks out above my protest. “And we are without a Semper. I, my friends, could take power into my own hands and lead the Home Guard myself against our enemies from Tawtrukk. Those savage mutants, who have slaughtered our citizens and burned houses on our border.

  “But that, my friends, would not be proper. Instead, rather than wait a week as is tradition, we will hold our Promotion at noon today, which is less than an hour from now.”

  A murmur from the assembly sounds of doubt, of apprehension, of agreement. It is a confused murmur, a murmur of uncertainty. An attack from Tawtrukk? Why did Baddock not tell me about it yesterday?

  Because Darius is lying. Finally, I can see it in his doggish grin. I can see it in his dull, coyote eyes when he looks down at me with what I’m sure he thinks is a fatherly air. I wonder if Freda also knows he’s lying.

  “With such a rare and difficult time upon us, a dual tragedy that has taken our beloved leader and robbed us of faithful citizens, we must move swiftly.” He looks down from the altar directly into my eyes now. “Dane, I do not envy the heavy burden you will assume today. Your future looks very difficult, but I know that Southshaw will prosper for generations to come.”

  He looks over the congregation once more. “The Promotion will be held in the courtyard. Please assemble everyone there. With double tragedy darkening our day, we will celebrate a double happiness with the marriage and promotion of our new Semper and First Wife!”

  He spins on one heel, grabs Judith’s elbow, and marches her briskly down the back steps. Freda and I hurry to keep up, and we follow him across the empty courtyard to the door of the Semper’s house. As I did yesterday, I follow him through the door into the waiting room where Chiliss only two hours ago dressed and prepared me for the Wifing. It seems an eternity ago.

  Darius stops and waits for the door to thud shut behind us. He speaks as he turns very slowly, his eyes sharp and dark as he snarls out the words. “True to the prophecy,” he growls. “As I suspected.” He steps directly in front of me. Although he is twenty years older than I am, he is my size. Still, I find I have to work myself up to face him man to man. He has been my father’s brother since before I was born. I have had to obey him as I would my own mother, or Baddock, or the Semper himself. Now I must stand and face him as he fights to restrain his anger. I can tell he wants to strike me, but I also know he doesn’t dare. There is a line even he may not cross.

  “I will not let you destroy Southshaw, Dane. You’ve disobeyed my counsel and your mother’s decision once. You will not do so again.”

  I struggle to keep my composure but stand still as he leans into me, bringing his nose just inches from mine. When he speaks, I feel flecks of spit hit my own lips and cheeks. He trembles in his rage. “But your insolence has, in a way, cleared the path to righteousness.” He turns his head slightly to regard Freda. “The people are happy with your choice of a wife. Although Lummon was the better option,” he sneers at Freda before turning back to foam at me once more, “you have given me a double gift with your stupid impetuousness.”

  He steps back one step, and I see he has never let go of my mother’s elbow. Her face has grown even more stony and vacant in the past few minutes, and there’s a hint of despair behind her absence now. I see her lips move with a single, silent word as Darius spins her around before dragging her with him down the hall toward the Semper’s bedroom. Which part of me realizes still is not my bedroom, yet.

  He calls back over his shoulder, “Get dressed. You are to be promoted in twenty minutes, children.”

  Freda and I look at each other, and I see her normal composure has been shattered. Fear fills her eyes as she whispers a question, the same single word that my mother mouthed.

  “Prophecy?

  CHAPTER 13

  We burst through the door into my bedroom, which is a shambles of clothing strewn everywhere. Chiliss flits about in panic, whimpering and mumbling as she lifts first one shirt and then another, each time tossing it back to the bed or the floor or the chair. Her hair has flown partly undone, and it flops in a frizzed frenzy as she moves through the room. It’s several seconds before she notices we’ve entered.

  “Dane! Oh, and Miss Tailor!” She seems shocked. A moment after the words have escaped, she flings her hands to her mouth in horror, rushes a clumsy curtsey, and bows her head. “I beg your pardon! Missus Semper-son!”

  Normally, I imagine, Freda and I would stifle chuckles. Today, though, mirth is hard to come by. Chiliss wobbles as she tries to hold her curtsey until we release her. Freda speaks first, with a voice that is far more gentle than mine would be right now. “Thank you, Chiliss. You are very kind. Please, please treat me with the same familiarity and love that you give to Dane. I deserve nothing more and desire nothing less.”

  Chiliss straightens from her awkward stoop, then surveys her mess. As if seeing it for the first time, she mumbles something about misbehaving garments and swoops in to scoop up an armful. “The problem is,” she chirps, “there ain't a thing good enough for you.”

  I'm about to ask why we can't just wear our splendid wedding outfits when Freda secretly caresses my elbow and says, "Oh, Chiliss, I am certain that you have exactly the proper clothing in your care.” She gives the confused older woman a steadying smile, lighting up the room with a quiet charm. “Surely you remember.”

  What is she talking about? How would Freda have any idea what clothing Chiliss keeps for me?

  Freda's grip on my elbow tightens as Chiliss' face slackens into befuddlement, twists into curiosity, then scrunches in concentration. Finally she erupts in a squeaky cheer and scurries through the side door toward the closets.

  Freda releases my elbow and says, “I hope they don’t require adjustment.”

  “What,” I ask trying to sound not entirely stupid, “idea have you put into her head?”

  “Oh, not to worry,” she replies airily. I'm about to pry when she yanks me sideways to face her, and the whole room seems to darken. “What did Darius mean? What prophecy?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  How much of Darius should I share with Freda? She is now my wife, soon to be First Wife. She should know the things my father told me.

  "Dane." Freda whispers the accusing word. How can she know my thoughts so easily? "Please. Include me. Let me know what you know. Or, what you suspect."

  She doesn't blink as she stares into my eyes, and I don't mind. Their pale green is intense and gorgeous. I try to catch my thoughts and remember what we were talking about.

  "I am your wife now, and nothing can change that. Whatever plans Darius has for you, he now plans for me as well." How can her voice sound so soft and yet so urgent at the same time? But the words catch me. I haven't thought this through. Have I doomed Freda by choosing her against Darius' orders?

  She's right, though. She deserves to know everything. Even more, I need her to know everything. “My father," I begin with a deep breath, "told me that Darius disagreed with him over matters of Truths and Laws. My father—well, you know, right? He tries to understand the intent of Laws, use Truths as a sort of moral guide. He doesn't—didn't—stick to the strictest letters of the books."

  “Yes," Freda responds with patience. "My father often said he was a lot wiser than even he knew.”

  “But Darius thinks differently.”

  “How?” Her concern has turned from urgency to insistence.

  “Darius believes that Truths was spoken directly by God and must be followed exactly.”

  This does not seem to have any effect on Freda, probably because every person in Southshaw is reared with the idea that both Truths and Laws are exactly that. I remind myself that in the past two days I've seen things Freda can't yet imagine.

  “What I mean is," I continue, "Darius allows no room for interpretation of the scripture. My father said he's formed a secret fundamentalist group. And it's been growing for some time.”


  She seems not to react to this. Has she already known about Darius' group?

  “But what about the prophecy? There's no prophecy in the books.” She concentrates, silently reciting the childhood rhymes that helped us learn the meanings in the books. I know she’ll come up with nothing because there's nothing to come up with. “In fact,” she concludes after a moment, “I would think the mere existence of a prophecy would be inconsistent with a fundamentalist approach to the scripture.”

  I would marvel at the clarity of her thought, and her ability to put it to speech so smoothly, but at that moment the side door bursts open and Chiliss puffs in, her cheeks red and her arms laden with bundles of cloth.

  “Now, don’t no one speak of any prophecy,” she pants. She dumps her armload onto the bed and breathes hard. When the color has run out from her cheeks and she has her air back, she looks hard at Freda. “First Wife or no, it’s bad luck to speak of the old prophecies.” She points at me and says, “Your grandfather had the good sense to have that book destroyed. Besides,” she says as she waves at the bed, “you don’t have time. You’ve only a few minutes to dress before the Promotion.” Chiliss tries to give us both a stern look, but after a moment she’s beaming at us with giddiness again.

  Freda sets aside her own seriousness and lifts up a pine green dress, elegant and simple. “You found them!” She holds it up to herself and nods thoughtfully. “In perfect condition, and certainly a close enough fit. If only I had a few hours to alter it…” Her smile is genuine as she dances to Chiliss and plants a noisy kiss on her cheek. “Chiliss, you are even more perfect than Dane says you are!”

  I’m about to protest that I don’t remember ever saying that when Freda throws a warning glance at me, and I hold my tongue. Chiliss is chattering something as she points at the other bundle of cloth on the bed. I realize it’s for me.

  “… same size as your father when he was your age. You could be the same person.” Chiliss is nattering and bubbling, as eager and happy as ever I’ve seen her. There’s been a wedding, and now her little boy is going to become Semper. I can see it’s almost too much giddiness even for her.

  Suddenly I get it. “This… this is what my father and mother wore for their Promotion?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” chirps Chiliss. “Oh! No, no, no. For their wedding. And, even better,” she says with a wink and a beaming smile, “can you guess who made them?”

  “No need to guess,” Freda replies. “This is my father’s work. There’s no doubt.”

  “First thing he ever made for them,” Chiliss confirms. Then she shakes her head as if she’s trying to shed all her hair at once, a short, violent burst. “But tut tut! Hurry! Only minutes! Minutes!”

  She scurries from the room by the side door again but turns with one last thought: “Now, Dane,” she says with another wink, “I know she’s your wife now, but you’ve no time for it. Keep your mind on your own clothes!” She disappears with a click of the door and the thump-thump of her steps down the hallway.

  “Why Dane,” Freda says, “I think you may be blushing.”

  Freda’s pale face has gone scarlet, but I don't dare say anything about it. Instead, I try to reassure her. “There will be plenty of time for looking later. Right?” If her scarlet could turn any more red, it does, and she turns away. I wonder how I gained this particular talent for saying just the wrong thing to her.

  Freda’s milky dress shimmers in the sunlight falling through the high windows. I stare at her back, her brown hair obscuring her graceful neck. Her elbows poke out and wiggle as she works at the buttons down the front of her dress. There are thirty-three buttons. I counted them during the wedding, and I count them now as she undoes each.

  I want her to turn around, want to watch the buttons coming apart one by one, the dress slowly open. Maybe I could see in the big mirror on my dresser... but when I look I see only my own stupid wide eyes. What are you doing, Dane? Give her some privacy.

  “Stop staring and get yourself dressed,” Freda says with an embarrassed, mocking giggle. But she does not turn around.

  I pull my shirt up and over my head, now a little glad that Freda is turned away. For the first time in my life, I regret not eating more when my mother told me to. She always told me I was too skinny. My bony shoulders and spindly ribs rise, lumpy, under my skin. My arms are insubstantial, like a boy's instead of a farmer's. And my neck is narrow and pretty, like my mother's. Even the scratches and scars on my arms from the last two days in the woods look weak. Childish.

  With new urgency, I yank off my trousers and slip into the others, then throw the shirt on. There's still hope I could fill out as I get older, like my father. But it won't happen by tonight when we come back to the bedroom without some other event to draw us away.

  Just as I get the last button secured, Freda turns around. I’ve missed it entirely. While I was looking at my meagerness in the mirror, Freda dropped her dress to the floor and slipped into the green one. And I missed the whole exchange.

  “No time, husband dear. We must go out to our Promotion.”

  She looks stunning with the deep, living green of the dress bringing an intense brightness to her eyes. “You look beautiful,” I mumble before I can stop myself.

  She blushes again and rolls her eyes. “Chiliss told you to keep your eyes to yourself.”

  “Oh, no,” I stumble. “I was dressing. I didn’t see anything.” With horror I realize my voice is full of regret instead of reassurance. “I mean—“

  “We have to go.” Freda takes my hand and leads me through the door, down the hall, and into the entryway. My mother and Darius wait there. Darius has removed his anger and replaced it with a disconcerting smugness.

  My mother stares at me with a wild kind of distraction in her eyes. Her gaze bores through me and wraps around me, completely swallows me up. “Linkan…” She reaches her hand out, but her confusion dissipates into sadness.

  I should not have worn my father’s outfit. I must look exactly like him on the day they married. This was a bad idea, but who could have known my mother would be hit so hard? She seems so distraught that for a moment I almost forgive her for letting Darius bully her into marriage so soon.

  She struggles to recover herself and turns away from me, her glance snared by Freda. The image seems to strengthen her. “My dear,” she says, in a crackly, weak voice, “you look beautiful. Finally, that dress has found a wearer worthy of it.”

  Freda does not blush but replies gently, “Nonsense, First Wife. It was made for one woman only. I am humbled to be allowed to borrow it for a few hours in a time of need.”

  My mother nods with her sad smile, and Darius calls us to order. “If the women are done cooing over clothing, we are needed outside.”

  Without waiting for reply and without giving Chiliss the time she needs to fuss over me one last time, he heaves the door open and strides into the midday sun. Judith follows directly behind, in step. They disappear into the blinding brightness. Are we going to the chapel after all? There's no sound except the click-click of Darius' boots. Surely the entirety of Southshaw is outside. How can it be silent?

  Freda hesitates, but I take her hand and lead her through the door. I focus on my posture, a commanding gait, not squinting. Even if no one is there.

  One step, and an avalanche of sound destroys the silence, crashes over us. A thousand Southshawans pack the square, every one cheering, clapping, whistling, stomping their feet on the turf. Even more people than at the Wifing. If that’s possible. We stop still, stunned. Whatever was running through my mind a moment ago is gone, and all I can do is stare at the throng.

  After a few seconds, Freda says something, but I can’t hear it. I lean a little toward her and say loudly, “What?”

  She keeps looking at the crowd. “Darius is not pleased.”

  I resist the urge to look at him. I am sure he craves this feeling. A fleeting image comes to me from before I was born, of a young Darius standing down on the grass wit
h the crowd. He'd have been off to the side but still just one of hundreds as they cheered his brother like this. And now here I stand, his brother’s son, receiving the adoration he covets. He'd kill to be in my position, but I don’t look at him.

  It’s nearly a full minute before the cheering thins, and the whole time Freda and I have simply stood and received their greeting. The sound fades in pockets until it’s half its original strength. Part of me welcomes its end so we can get on with the ceremony. Another part of me wants it to last just a little longer.

  Surprising myself, and to the delight of the throng, I lift my hands in return greeting to the crowd. They respond with a roar of renewed vigor. Freda’s hand is still in mine, so the effect is a simultaneous acknowledgement of our friends’ love. Love… the word courses through my mind, and without thinking I turn to Freda and pull her to me. I push my lips against hers in a strong kiss, stronger than I’d intended, surprising us both.

  This has the desired effect. The square erupts again, as loud as the first instant, and I hold the kiss a few extra seconds to urge them on. Freda does not pull back, but she puts no more romance into it than if I’d kissed the back of her head. No matter. We both know that's not the point right now. She likely understands it better than I.

  We draw back from each other and pause a moment to gaze into each other’s eyes. But it’s not romance we’re sharing. It’s triumph.

  After a few seconds we turn and face the crowd, and Darius takes this as his sign to step to the front of the stage. The crowd wants to keep cheering us, but it tumbles into confusion with his confident appearance front and center. The cheering crumbles, and in moments it's entirely dead.