The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1)

by David Litwack

  She withered under his glare and swung her hands behind her back, hoping to hide how much they’d started to shake.

  ***

  Nathaniel could no longer contain his sense of awe. The Ponds had only one-story buildings, all made of wood, but even from a distance Temple City soared. Elaborate stone structures rising six stories or more challenged the low-lying clouds. In place of the modest sloped roofs of his home, sculpted spires rose above all, as if aspiring to the light.

  His impression changed once inside. While the official buildings dominated the horizon, the dwellings within had been crammed together off trash-strewn streets—half-built hovels no one in Little Pond would deem fit to live in—and he found no hint of the hospitality of the Ponds. People cast suspicious glances as he passed. Children fled into their homes or ran into the soiled aprons of their mothers. All seemed fearful of strangers, and trudged about in tattered tunics with the bent-over gait of someone recently beaten.

  Though quick to reach the gates of the city, he’d lost time finding his way inside, wandering in circles and passing the same buildings again and again.

  On each circuit, he’d run into bands of men marching four abreast—temple officials, he assumed, but not vicars. They wore no hats, and their black tunics matched his except for an insignia on their chests—the sun icon shining down on the adoring family of three. In the center of the sun lay a gem in the shape of a star. It held no color of its own but reflected the colors from its surroundings.

  The men strutted about with disdain for all they passed. He took a hint from the locals and shied away from them.

  After the third loop, he became desperate. Time flowed like lifeblood leaking from his veins.

  He finally approached a woman whose kindly appearance reminded him of Orah’s mother. “Pardon me, can you tell me how to find a vicar?”

  Her brows crumpled together, forcing a crease above the bridge of her nose, and the kindness in her eyes disappeared. “By the light, man, why? No one speaks to the clergy unless spoken to first.”

  “Please help me. My friend’s been taken for a teaching, and I have to find her.”

  The woman’s pupils grew large. Her mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, she showed him her back and scurried off.

  After the third such rejection, he changed his approach. When a boy trudged by with his head down and a sack of flour under his arm, Nathaniel stopped him. “Who are these men, marching with the mark of the Temple?”

  “Why, sir, they’re deacons, defenders of the light.”

  “Do you think they’d take me to a vicar?”

  “They might, or they might beat you for sport. I’d keep my distance if I were you.” The boy took a few steps away, then called back as he broke into a trot. “Don’t go near them till I’m gone, and don’t let them know we spoke.”

  Nathaniel’s head throbbed, and the air around him grew thin. The sounds of the city became muffled, as though he were underwater. What good is courage without a plan? He finally gave in and approached the deacons directly.

  After a series of rude questions, the vicar’s henchmen aligned in a square-shaped formation with him at the center, and marched him through the arched gateway of the main Temple building, with stern statues of deceased clergy eyeing him as he passed. The corridor ended at a massive chamber with hundreds of officials bustling about.

  A low-level lackey ushered him before one of the dozens of desks that lined the walls, where an ill-tempered clerk scribbled Nathaniel’s request down and repeated it in a nasal whine. “You say your friend has come for a teaching, and you’re offering to take her place. Is that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The clerk paused and punctuated his writing before looking up. “Hmmm. Most unusual.” He folded the request, marked it with a wax seal in the shape of the sun, and handed it to one of the couriers dashing about everywhere.

  After so much time lost, the chance to keep Orah from the teaching had passed, but Nathaniel still hoped to save her from the worst. He stepped forward to accompany the messenger, hoping to speed up the process, but the clerk signaled for him to wait.

  With the flurry of business in the hall, he worried he’d wait for hours, but the courier returned in minutes and gestured for him to follow.

  They ended up in a round room with vaulted ceilings much as his father had described. Three clergy sat at a raised desk along the back wall, all well-fed and with beards greater than any he’d ever seen—senior vicars with more red stripes on their hats than he could count.

  The one in the center with the most stripes began. “You are Nathaniel Rush of Little Pond?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you are here to... request a teaching in place of Orah Weber?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The senior vicar shook his head. “Extraordinary.”

  The vicar on the left leaned forward. “No one ever requests a teaching.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ve come to offer myself in Orah’s place. I’m of age, from the same village, and would serve your purpose as well. My father’s an elder and my neighbors regard me with favor. My teaching will make Little Pond stronger in the light.”

  The vicar on the left grumbled and murmurs of disagreement spread between the three.

  Nathaniel edged closer to eavesdrop, but they noticed his approach and fell silent.

  “Nathaniel of Little Pond,” the senior cleric intoned, trying to restore order to the proceeding. “We’ll need time to confer alone. Our servants will bring you to a holding area in the meantime.”

  He rang a bell with a miniature sun icon for a handle. Four deacons marched in, formed the well-practiced square around Nathaniel, and prepared to escort him out.

  He rose to his full height, arched his back, and refused to go.

  The men of the Ponds stood a good hand taller than the people of Temple City, and Nathaniel stood a hand taller than them, so he towered over the deacons.

  They wavered, looking to the clerics for guidance.

  The vicar on the right waved them off with a flip of is hand. “What now?”

  “My request is urgent. I want my friend relieved of her teaching at once, or my offer will not stand.”

  The vicar in the center stared at him, stroking his beard, and an impish expression stole across his face. “Your friend has only arrived this morning. We’ve just finished with her, and will deliver our pronouncement soon. Now with your permission....” He waggled his thick brows and pointed using only his eyes. “Follow these gentlemen to your... guest quarters.”

  He gestured for the leader of the deacons to approach, leaned in and whispered a few words. The deacons reformed and guided Nathaniel away.

  As he walked out, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  While the two younger vicars stared in bewilderment, their superior gazed after him, deep in thought.

  ***

  The deacons led Nathaniel down a narrow stairway to an underground hall. On one side, the wall bore no markings other than the etched decay of years. As his boots echoed on the stone floor, his imagination turned these scars in the stone into images—demons with exposed skulls or shrieking birds of prey. He turned away. On the other side stood a more ominous sight, a row of stout doors, each with a tiny window concealed by a metal slat controlled from the outside—and each anchored by an iron bolt.

  Nathaniel understood the true purpose of this place—not a guest house but a prison. They’d keep him locked up here until they handed down the judgment. He prayed he hadn’t condemned both Orah and himself to a teaching.

  One of the deacons opened the door and escorted Nathaniel inside. The room was not the cramped cell he feared, with a wide floor and headroom to spare. A serviceable cot lay to one side and a table and chair to the other. Though windowless—the walls were below ground—a tarnished brass receptacle on the table held a lit candle. At least he’d have light.

  He settled on the cot and stared at the wa
lls as the deacon shuffled out and locked the door behind him. Years of decay had worn down the stones, leaving a layer of dust on the floor and a stale taste on his tongue. Yet he refused to be discouraged, still determined to save Orah. He hoped the vicars would accept his offer.

  As for his notions of Temple City, he’d been deluded. This place had not a whiff of ancient greatness. Men of honor would never build such a prison.

  “So this is the great Temple City,” he said with a sneer.

  “Not quite.”

  Nathaniel froze. Had someone actually answered, or had he already gone mad? A grating came from the opposite wall, like the gnawing of a rat on stone. He grabbed the chair for defense, but what happened next took him by surprise.

  A flicker of light filtered through a hole in the wall, followed by a muffled voice.

  “You see, they built many Temple Cities. This is only one. Not the biggest either.”

  Nathaniel set the chair down and edged toward the wall. “What did you say?”

  “Not the biggest. I’ve seen only three, but one was bigger, at least as far as I can recall. They brought me here so long ago.”

  Nathaniel came closer. “Who are you?”

  The voice on the far side of the wall gained strength. “You see, the Temple designed their world on a grid—east to west, north to south—a Temple City every six days, each location responsible for children of light within a three-day-walk. Do you know for what purpose?”

  Nathaniel had no idea how to respond.

  “Control, of course. To control you and me and everyone else.” The voice became deep and mocking. “So the darkness shall never return. Why else do you think we’re here in these cells? To protect the world from the darkness? No. To control our thoughts.”

  Nathaniel had never heard such blasphemy spoken so bluntly—and here in Temple City.

  The man’s rant sailed on. “The self-righteous vicars and their henchmen who strut about. Deacons they call them, defenders of the light, but they’re only rough men, uneducated, who do as they’re told because the Temple provides them power they could never obtain on their own.”

  “But who are you?” Nathaniel said, trying to be more assertive.

  The man cackled. “I’m the guest in the next room. Their favorite guest because they never let me leave. ‘If there comes a prophet,’” he boomed, mimicking the vicars, “‘you should stone him, even if he be your own child.’ But if I’m a prophet, why haven’t they stoned me? Do you know why? They’re afraid to let me stand before my people, terrified of what I might say.”

  “How did this hole between the cells get here?”

  “I bored through the stone myself, yes I have, scratching with a bit of this and that. Through a wall as thick as a grown man’s head.” He tried to laugh, but only an unhealthy cough emerged.

  A madman, surely, but Nathaniel couldn’t let such a claim go unchallenged. “That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible? A persistent man can do anything. It took twenty years, but I wore down the stone before they wore me down.”

  Twenty years. Nathaniel sucked in a breath but stayed silent.

  “Let me have a look at you,” the man in the next cell said. “I see so few people.”

  Nathaniel peered through the hole but saw nothing.

  “No, no, not so close. It’s only a small hole. Go back to the far wall. Your turn will come.”

  Nathaniel did as asked.

  “A young one, eh? Fine-looking and tall. Let me give you advice, young man: don’t stay as long as I have. Tell them whatever they want and go on your way.” He attempted a long sigh which quickly degraded into a wheeze. Once he caught his breath, his voice rose. “Lie if you must. Why did they bring you here anyway?”

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer but stopped. This wasn’t Little Pond. The whole city brimmed with intrigue, and he was fast learning mistrust. “Let me see you first. It’s my turn.”

  He heard scuffling steps from the far side and put his eye to the hole.

  In the neighboring cell stood an old man with skin so loose the outline of his skeleton showed. He panted and his mouth hung open, exposing a tongue covered with sores.

  Nathaniel looked away.

  “Not pretty, no.” The man’s voice became clearer by the moment. “This is what happens to a body given hardly enough food and water to survive. The Temple doesn’t harm its children, oh no, but they don’t know what I am, so they keep me here. Would you like to know what I am, young man?” He paused, seemingly more for effect than expecting a reply. “I’m what they fear most: the truth. So here will I stay forever.”

  Despite his revulsion, Nathaniel returned to the hole and looked again. What did he behold? An image of madness? Or courage beyond anything he’d ever imagined?

  ***

  The clergy reconvened in a windowless room that was brightly lit despite the absence of candles. A pale glow flickered off the arch vicar’s face as he gazed into the glass panel, giving his actions a mystical cast—the light bestowing wisdom on its high priest.

  He tugged at his beard, nodding repeatedly, and spoke without looking away. “Perfect.”

  “What is?” the junior vicar said.

  “The boy’s background, his family, his profile... all as I suspected.” He faced the younger man. “I had him placed in the cell next to the old prisoner.”

  The younger vicar stared back, his lips spreading agreeably, but his eyes narrowed. “But holiness, the plan failed the last time.”

  It had failed, but the concept was sound. The last time, the arch vicar had spent weeks begging the council for approval, overlooking how they indulged him like a child. Let the old prisoner die, they had said. The secret’s nothing but a legend. Finally, to humor him, they conceded. When his plan ultimately failed, they shrugged it off and said: No matter. The secret will die with him. It’s nothing but a legend anyway. A myth.

  Alone among his peers, the arch vicar had immersed himself in the archives, where he’d found snippets of proof. He believed the place existed.

  Should he try again? This time, he’d have to act on his own. An unauthorized attempt, discovered too soon, might damage his standing with the council—support he’d need when the grand vicar passed to the light. Maybe they were right. Let the secret die with the old prisoner.

  Yet still, that ancient place haunted his dreams.

  His chest tightened at the thought of it, and his breathing became short. Why did that daunting remnant of the darkness pull at him so? In the archives, hints of what lay there had tempted him, almost more than he could bear. What did he hope to find that would justify risking a lifetime of service? If found, would he have the faith to resist its temptations, to destroy it once and for all?

  And why, at the thought of its destruction, did he already mourn its loss?

  Now, the light had granted a second chance. The boy from Little Pond had fallen into his grasp, a boy perfect for the task.

  The arch vicar waved his hand and the mystical glow vanished. “The last time was different. Our man was not true of heart.”

  “The old man’s cynical, Holiness, suspicious. He’ll never—”

  “I tell you this is different. The old man’s health is failing, so he’s more likely to trust someone, and the boy is naïve, but brave—a vessel waiting to be filled.”

  “How will you convince such a brash young man, Holiness?”

  “I’ll ask him to commit to the Temple, to lead the people of the Ponds in the light.”

  “But, Holiness, how can you be sure he’ll believe us?”

  The arch vicar consulted a slip of paper. “According to his friend... Thomas, our boy Nathaniel fancies himself destined for greatness. We simply offer an opportunity worthy of him.” He turned and headed to the door, but stopped and reversed himself. “And if that doesn’t work, he’ll believe us anyway.”

  “Why, Holiness?”

  The arch vicar’s pupils darkened to black embers, but a wicked twink
le showed in them. “Because he cares about the girl.”

  ***

  Nathaniel stood again on the mark at the center of the room and looked up at the three vicars. Only a few hours had passed.

  “Nathaniel of Little Pond,” the speaker proclaimed. “We have decided to grant your wish and send the girl home.”

  Nathaniel raised his chin and beamed at the arches spanning the peak of the dome. He’d done it—Orah would be set free. In his elation, he almost missed what the vicar said next. He quieted his thoughts and tried to concentrate.

  “We have one condition. You seem a fine man, eager to learn of our ways. Rather than a teaching, we believe you might better serve the light by becoming an envoy of the Temple.”

  An envoy of the Temple? He can’t mean.... “I don’t understand, Holiness.”

  “Let me be more specific. We’re offering to train you in the seminary to become a vicar.”

  The arch vicar’s words dragged Nathaniel down, seeming to cast him into the cell beneath his feet. “But I’m just a boy from a small village.”

  “Not a boy, a man of age who has asked for a teaching. We offer you more—the chance to serve your people, in addition to helping your friend. What do you say?”

  “Holiness, I....”

  “We know this is a difficult decision. Serving the Temple is a great honor but also a lifelong commitment. Once you’ve chosen this path, you cannot go back.”

  “There must be another way.”

  “There is no other way. If you agree, we’ll give you a week to go home and settle your affairs before returning to Temple City. Otherwise, the teaching of your friend will resume. You have two days to decide. In the meantime, you’ll remain our guest.” He leaned forward for emphasis. “Two days.”

  The vicars rose to leave, but Nathaniel stopped them with a shout. “Wait! I’ll consider your offer, but only if my friend can join me while I decide.”

  The younger vicars snapped their heads around in astonishment, but the arch vicar ignored them. “Very well, Nathaniel of Little Pond. While her teaching awaits, she may share meals with you. Her presence may help you choose the right path.”