Grumbles from the crowd, calls of not possible.
The arch vicar waved them to silence. “You say they’re blameless? You may be right. The Book of Light tells us, ‘Beware the stray thought. Like water dripping on rock, it can erode the strongest mind and open a path for the darkness.’ Now we understand the wisdom of the holy book. No one is immune. Sadly, these children have been infected by the darkness, and we must eradicate the disease before it spreads.”
Orah marveled at his mastery—forgiving and damning them in the same breath. She glanced at her neighbors. Their eyes had glazed over as when the sun icon speaks.
The arch vicar’s voice echoed in the chill air. “Would you allow the darkness to return?”
Mutters of no, no.
“Unlike the darkness these young people worship, the Temple has renounced violence. We stand defenseless and need your help.”
A few nods, but otherwise silence. Fingers tensed around rocks.
“It is written, ‘If there comes among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and gives you a sign or a wonder, saying, Let us return to the darkness, you shall not hearken to the words.’”
The nods ceased, but the children of light remained enthralled.
“‘If your brother, or your son or daughter, or your wife, or your friend, who may be as your own soul, entice you saying, Let us abandon the light and serve the darkness, you shall not consent to him, but you shall surely kill him. Your hand shall be first upon him, and afterwards the hand of all the people.’”
His voice resounded like Thomas’s music in the keep, rising and falling and moving the souls of its listeners. He shook his fist at invisible forces.
“‘And you shall stone him with stones, that he die, because he has sought to thrust you away from the light.’”
He stepped aside, leaving a clear path between the villagers and the friends.
Time slowed for Orah, and her vision broadened. Thomas waited, frozen in place on her left, and to her right, Nathaniel stood tall, his head tilting ever-so-slightly in her direction. They might have enjoyed a lifetime together had they not been dreamers of dreams.
In a moment, the voice from the sun icon would speak, the judgment would be handed down, and rocks would fly.
She waited for her heart to pound, expecting her breath to quicken, but instead, she stayed calm as a spring day. Before the arch vicar could continue, her feet seemingly moved on their own as she separated from her friends and stepped toward the crowd.
“Look at us.” Her words rang out, no longer the voice of a scared girl pretending to be brave. “We’re your children. We swam in these waters with you and celebrated festival together here in this square. We’re not infected with a disease or tainted by the darkness, but we’ve stumbled upon a truth, maybe through foolishness or luck, but a truth nevertheless. Things are not as the vicars claim. These wagons aren’t magic. They were invented long ago by men and women who thought for themselves and dreamed dreams, people whose accomplishments and very existence the Temple hid from us and labeled as the darkness.”
Confusion spread through the crowd. A few edged forward, rocks in hand, but most held back, shuffling their feet and eyeing their neighbors.
Deacons crept toward her, but the arch vicar dismissed them with a wave. “Leave her be. Let the people see how much the darkness has seized her soul.”
She refused to back down. “In the privacy of your homes you complain about the teachings, but say they’re necessary to keep the darkness away. Their real purpose is to make us afraid to think for ourselves. For light’s sake, think for yourselves now. He’s asking you to kill your own children, not for a crime but for daring to question the Temple.”
She confronted the arch vicar, whose face had reddened in the rays of the half-risen sun, but the old clergyman was a believer, had fought what he knew as the darkness his whole life.
He met her glare and cut her off, his voice resounding through the square. “Look how she’s revealed herself, this demon of darkness, twisting the truth to corrupt your minds. Is this what you want for yourselves and your children? She and her friends must be stopped or the darkness will spread.”
Nervous feet shuffled forward, and more arms were raised.
The arch vicar’s lips curled upward even as his brows sagged to meet them. He accepted the sun icon from the monsignor with both hands and lifted it above his head.
An evangelical fervor illuminated his face. “Oh Holiness, father of these children of light, the people await your judgment.”
All movement ceased. Those assembled held their breaths, leaving no sound save the song of newly awakened birds, chirping to greet the dawn.
The sun icon crackled to life with the voice of the grand vicar, the human embodiment of the light in this world. “Oh, Sun, giver of life, we stand in judgment this day so the light may be returned to the village of Little....”
The grand vicar’s words trailed off and a new voice spoke, not as strong or as well-trained, but to those who knew him well, the speaker was clear—Nathaniel.
“We are the seekers of truth, responsible for the postings. Now we speak to you directly through the sun icon. You may ask how we gained access to temple magic, but what you hear is neither magic nor of the Temple, but rather the genius of men and women from long ago, from a time the Temple calls the darkness. Here’s the truth....”
The arch vicar’s hands began to shake. Before another word could be transmitted, he cast the sun icon to the frozen ground, leaving a vacuum of sound, total silence in the village square.
But not for long.
Orah’s mind became a spiral of swirling lights, bright thoughts, a glowing purpose—and at the hub of the spinning wheel, the power of an idea.
She recalled the speech she and Nathaniel had composed, and whispered to him. “Our words, your voice.”
Nathaniel began reciting the next words so seamlessly they might have come from the shards on the ground. “Here’s the truth about the darkness. We’ve stumbled across a place called the keep, where the best thinkers of that age spent their lives recording knowledge, committed to saving the past for this day. There we found wonders beyond imagination, ways to make our lives better without depending on the clergy. There we discovered our potential. The Temple would like to hide the keep from us, to prevent us from learning and growing. They claim we must fear the keep, but the darkness was not a time to be feared, but a time from which to learn....”
The arch vicar stood as if rooted to the ground, his jaw grinding. Finally, he signaled, and the deacons rushed forward.
Nathaniel raised his voice even as he struggled to evade their grasp, daring them to stop him. “The vicars offer us fear, a fear of thinking for ourselves. They’ve stolen a sacred right—the right of every person—” He twisted toward Orah. “—to have the potential for greatness. They offer us a world of limits. We can be much more. The future is in your hands.”
He shook off the deacons and squared his shoulders to the crowd. Orah and Thomas joined him, and the three locked arms.
The arch vicar sneered at them and turned to the villagers. “You see the power of the darkness, which has gone beyond what I had imagined. Too late. Our leader has handed down his judgment. He has declared them apostates, and they must be removed from our world. Let them be struck down now.”
As he spoke the final word, he slammed his fist into his hand. More arms were poised, more fingers tightened on stones, but before anyone could act, Nathaniel’s father burst from the crowd.
“My son’s voice. It’s all true.”
Deacons blocked his way, but he shoved them off with thick forearms and moved next to Nathaniel.
“I stand with my son.”
The arch vicar grimaced, but motioned the deacons to step aside. “Now we know where the seeds of darkness were sown.”
Then Orah’s mother strode forward and came to her side. “And I stand with my daughter.”
The three became five as
the village watched. No more arms were raised, but none were lowered. The red morning sun had cleared the treetops.
Suddenly a buzz swept through the crowd. Fingers without stones pointed at a tramping noise, the din of marching feet.
Orah turned along with friends and parents, clergymen and deacons. Men and women began to arrive, first in ones and twos, then tens and twenties. When finally gathered, they numbered more than four hundred.
A middle-aged man with thinning hair came to the fore, the spinner Orah knew so well. His wife stood beside him, arm in arm. He needed a moment to catch his breath, but when he finally spoke, his voice sent tremors through the air.
“The people of Great Pond stand with the seekers of truth.”
Nathaniel’s father stared at them, assimilating the situation, then set his jaw and turned to the clergymen—facing them for the first time as an equal. “Take your wagons and leave the Ponds. If you return, it will be on our terms.”
Flustered deacons formed a wedge around the vicars, a battle formation. Now at last, hands with stones found a target. Voices shouted. Arms were raised.
Outnumbered, the deacons backed down and retreated. Left with no choice, the arch vicar signaled the others to the wagons, but unafraid for himself, he lingered, a true believer.
“This is a sad day for the light.” He pointed a bony finger at Orah. “You know not what forces you have unleashed. When the darkness descends upon our world, let it be remembered it started here in Little Pond.”
The monsignor held open a door, and the arch vicar swept inside. The wagons sprung to life with a roar. People covered their ears as wheels spun, kicking up dust that rose twenty feet or more. When the dust settled, the vicars and their men had gone.
Arms relaxed, and rocks thudded to the ground. As quiet settled over the village, Orah found her neighbors gaping, waiting for someone to fill the void. Now her heart pounded and her breath quickened. No words came to mind.
Then she recalled the shoemaker’s daughter and remembered her proud face reciting the pass phrase. She faced Nathaniel and grasped him by the hands.
“We have traveled far, but our journey has just begun. The true light drives us on.”
He picked up on it instantly, her friend since birth. “May we find the end we seek and may the truth we discover hasten a new beginning.”
She glanced back at the villagers, raised her chin and proclaimed: “Thus ends the age of darkness. Let the age of enlightenment begin.”
EPILOGUE
Spring finally arrived. The seekers’ bulletins had been read by thousands, and within weeks, thousands turned to tens of thousands. The rebellion had spread like wildfire, exactly as Orah had planned.
Thomas had muddled through the winter while elders from surrounding towns convened. As a seeker of the truth, he was obliged to attend these meetings, but at last the agony had ended.
Today, the people of the Ponds celebrated a new holiday, the festival of freedom, and tomorrow, the best of the region, led by Orah and Nathaniel, would embark on their initial expedition to the keep.
He didn’t know if he wanted to go.
On this, the first mild day of the season, the trees prepared to spread their seeds to the world. He sat on a log and dangled his feet in the pond until he barely felt his toes, and then swung them out to warm. Sunlight filtered through the branches, causing ripples on the ground as they swayed with the breeze. Overhead, cream-colored pods from a honey locust floated down like snow.
December had been filled with bickering, demands from the people and righteous indignation from the Temple, until everyone agreed on conditions for the meeting. Adamsville was designated as the site. Nathaniel’s father was chosen to represent the rebels, and the arch vicar would lead the clerics.
January consisted of posturing and pomp, with a plentiful smattering of sermons about the darkness. Eventually, necessity drove everyone together. The Temple had no means of support without the people. The people needed the medicine the Temple provided, and perhaps missed its spiritual ministrations as well. Most of all, after a thousand years, neither side had an appetite for violence.
In the midst of negotiations, the grand vicar passed to the light. The Temple council offered the position to the arch vicar. He declined at first, but when no one else wanted the job, they declared the old man the human embodiment of light on this Earth by default.
After long days fraught with ill will, the parties reached the terms of a truce. The practice of teachings would end. The people would accept ministrations from the vicars and continue to tithe. In exchange, the Temple would provide medicine and, most importantly, safe passage to the keep.
Orah worried that each day brought the keep closer to extinction. Practical as always, she proposed inviting the gray friars to accompany them, hoping they might use their skill to take over maintenance.
The council of priors had agreed at once. The brothers, it seemed, had more interest in tinkering with devices than arguing about the darkness.
This led Nathaniel to suggest a delegation of vicars come along. Their guidance might help avoid the mistakes of the past, and the gesture might ease the rift with the clergy. An outraged Orah accused him of dreaming again. Allowing the vicars near the keep seemed absurd to Thomas, but experience made him reluctant to doubt Nathaniel. Stranger things had happened.
His feet had warmed in the sun, and he swung them back to the pond. As the tingling spread to his ankles, he slowly shook his head. No, he’d pass on the trip. Once to the keep was enough, and he had better things to do.
That afternoon his newly formed group of musicians, a modest five with a drum and four flutes, would meet for their first session. He’d composed a tune for them but believed it needed a string instrument. While he’d heard many in the keep, he never bothered to study their construction, so now he sat on the log and tried out his newest creation.
He had chosen a backing of rosewood for the teardrop shape and, after some testing, had settled on spruce for the sounding board. He’d lovingly sanded the wood through the winter, until he could sense the grain with his fingertips. Then he’d tap the side with his thumb and gauge the vibrations, shake his head and sand some more.
Across the hole in the center, he’d strung catgut, which would produce different tones depending on how tightly he stretched them. To allow for adjustment, he’d wrapped them around pegs inserted into a short neck. For now, the instrument had five strings, but for next freedom festival, he might add a sixth. He twisted the knob to tighten the final string and plucked them in sequence. The first three sounded perfect, but the others needed tuning.
He remained undaunted. He’d call his new instrument a lute, after a similar one found in the keep. He might even name it a Bradford lute, since his had a unique tone, though not yet ideal.
But he knew he could make it better.
---THE END---
Acknowledgements
From start to finish, a novel is an enormous effort and would not be possible without a great team. It starts with my beta readers, including the members of my writing group, The Steeple Scholars from the Cape Cod Writers Center, and continues with Lane Diamond, Dave King, and John Anthony Allen. It finishes with the wonderful formatting and cover art of Mallory Rock. Through it all, the encouragement of others kept me going, my friends and family, including my dear wife, who has put up with my writing aspiration through the good and bad years.
I borrowed the quote engraved on the steps of the Temple of Truth from Robert Kennedy. The full text is: “The greatest truth must be recognition that in every man, in every child is the potential for greatness.”
Finally, I want to acknowledge my readers, who are, after all, the reason I write, and especially for prodding me to make this book the first in a trilogy. So many of you wanted to know what happened to my characters after this book ends, that I was compelled to give them life once more. Orah and Nathaniel are grateful.
About the Author
Th
e urge to write first struck when working on a newsletter at a youth encampment in the woods of northern Maine. It may have been the night when lightning flashed at sunset followed by northern lights rippling after dark. Or maybe it was the newsletter’s editor, a girl with eyes the color of the ocean. But I was inspired to write about the blurry line between reality and the fantastic.
Using two fingers and lots of white-out, I religiously typed five pages a day throughout college and well into my twenties. Then life intervened. I paused to raise two sons and pursue a career, in the process becoming a well-known entrepreneur in the software industry, founding several successful companies. When I found time again to daydream, the urge to write returned.
My wife and I split our time between Cape Cod, Florida and anywhere else that catches our fancy. I no longer limit myself to five pages a day and am thankful every keystroke for the invention of the word processor.
You can find me at my website (www.DavidLitwack.com ), where I blog about writing and post updates on my current works. I’m also on Twitter ( @DavidLitwack ) and Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/david.litwack.author). If you’d like quarterly updates with news about my books, my works in progress, and my thoughts on the universe, please sign up for my newsletter.
What’s Next?
THE STUFF OF STARS
(The Seekers – Book 2)
By David Litwack
Watch for the second novel in this dystopian sci-fi series, coming November 2015. For more information on this book, please visit the Evolved Publishing website.
~~~~~
But what are we without dreams?
Against all odds, Orah and Nathaniel have found the keep and revealed the truth about the darkness, initiating what they hoped would be a new age of enlightenment. But the people were more set in their ways than anticipated, and a faction of vicars whispered in their ears, urging a return to traditional ways.
The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Page 29