by Luka Petrov
The townsfolk had made maps of the island, indicating the ley lines, the cursed areas of the island. They exchanged them amongst themselves. Handmade and duplicated through analog printing, they showed grids of each island, depicting areas of danger or poisonous emissions, places where the forests or the land had become cursed by the blackout. They learned of these places through hearsay, whispers, and the knowledge of those that died. Such places bred the virus, exposure to the environment resulting in infection. People began to notice that bluebells grew around such areas—bluebells of a different shade—and a strange white fungus attached itself to trees. Posts were buried around the soil of these places, warnings to visitors, but no medicine had been found that worked. All that was known was that the infection spread by contact and killed the host within a number of hours. The disease became known as the Stranger’s Cold.
4. The Knife
The children sat in the room of the small island school, a room with boarded windows and an armed guard at the door. They were a class of eight- to ten-year-olds, all looking to the teacher at the head of the class. He was in his mid-thirties, his black hair now greying. Once a fisherman, he was now an educator of survival skills. Large taped-up glasses sat over his nose, strangely enlarging his eyes. In front of him, he had several knives laid out on the desk, varying in size and shape. Some seemed crafted from pieces of broken material, while others were made of animal bone and solid metal. One by one, he asked each student, all fifteen of them, to come forward and pick a weapon from the table.
The children were given each a weapon of a knife during the third grade. Before the apocalypse, the students were taught reading, writing, and history. Now, they were taught survival skills and how to defend themselves during an attack. The students did not know the difference, but their parents encouraged the new survival skill curriculum. It was the only way the community could ensure that the children, the island’s future, would have a fighting chance.
“These are weapons a’m sure ye’r kenspeckle with,” he coughed, placing his fist to his mouth. “I mean to say, tools that I’m sure you’ve used before.” The children approached slowly, cautiously, as if they would be told off for using such items of warfare. A large boy named Brice took the largest machete in his hands, grinning as he watched his face gleam in the metal. “Ye be careful with that,” warned the teacher, patting Brice on the back. The fat boy sat down with it, pretending to stab the air. The possibility of war was constant with the lowlanders forever approaching the islands.
“Why don’t you come up here, Siobhan,” said the teacher, beckoning the pale-faced girl to walk toward the table. She sat shyly, her pink eyes large as little bulbs, biting her lip. She almost never did anything without her brother, who was currently sick with fever. “Go ahead. We’ll show Hamish when he gets back,” the bearded man said. Slowly, she rose to her feet, a short and delicate young girl with gentle, unusual features. She looked as if a doll had been mixed with a human.
Approaching the table of knives and reaching down into the mess of blades, Siobhan was the last to take one. The one she chose was made of polished ivory, an antique hunting knife with a long thin blade of glinting steel. “Crackin’ choice,” the teacher smiled, waiting for her to take her seat. She stood on her tiptoes suddenly, whispering into the teacher’s ear. “Can I take one for Hamish, too?” He nodded in reply, and she picked a large black army knife with a leather case, slipping it into her pocket.
The teacher took his own blade in his hands, illustrating with his own neck. “A knife is a dangerous thing,” he said, raising his hand to stop anyone from doing the same. “We use it for cuttin’ up everythin’ from apples, meat, to people who try to hurt us.” As soon as the teacher said this, the sound of gunfire could be heard outside the window. All the children turned, but none said a thing, a mutual understanding running through them. It was known that raiders had headed toward the island and were being slowly held off at the shoreline.
“Ye only use a knife when ye want to get someone away from ye, or ye want to kill ‘em,” warned the teacher. “We don’t use ‘em on our pals.” The students nodded their heads, looking somewhat guilty for some reason. Then the teacher saw Brice, his large cheeks covered in freckles, mock stabbing another boy in the back of the class, the two muttering to each other. Immediately, the teacher bounded toward the boys, separating the two from their knives. He bent down to get close to their faces, his bearded frown full of emotionless clarity. “We don’t use ‘em on our pals. Are we clear on that?”
Everyone nodded again, chanting a unanimous ‘yes.’ Afterward, each pupil was given a dead rabbit and instructions on how to skin it. A few of them had already been taught, but those who hadn’t learned lessons on how long it took for an animal to rot in the wild, what organs to eat and what not to, and how to preserve a creature’s hide. “Th’ reason we teach ye these skills, is so one day ye kin protect yer own family,” said the teacher, hanging his rabbit skin on the edge of the table. “One day, this island may not be safe.” The children looked both excited and scared, terrified of the prospect of being on their own. Holding the knives, each felt both a great strength and an ultimate vulnerability at the protection held within their hands.
“Now, yer kin, ye musta keep the knife sharp at all times, ye here?” the teacher instructed the students. He pulled out the knife from the holster on his pants and a whetstone from the back of the classroom. He prepared to sharpen the blade by adding oil to the whetstone. The students left their dead rabbits at their desks and gathered around the table where the teacher demonstrated how to sharpen the knife. “Hold the blade flat against the stone, ye hear? Raise the back of the blade slightly and stroke the full edge of the blade across the stone. Use a smooth and circular slicing motion, as if you were cutting a thin slice off the stone. Everyone got it?” The students each nodding their heads. Brice went up to practice sharpening his blade.
Next, the teacher showed them some hand-to-hand combat techniques. “Ye kin will have to fight with yer hands sometime. I want ye tau be able to do these maneuvers,” the teacher explained. He demonstrated on Bryce, who still held his machete. “Tau first thin ye do is secure the weapon,” the teacher started off before demonstrating on Bryce. As Bryce swung the machete at the teacher in an overhead fashion. The teacher blocked Bryce’s hand, the one wielding the machete. Then, with the other hand, he reached under Bryce’s arm that he held and unlatched the machete handle from Bryce’s grip. “Der, ye see. The enemy is no longer much of a threat wit no knife.”
The teacher tossed the machete onto the table next to the whetstone. He then grabbed Bryce by the neck and secured Bryce’s arm under his arm. The teacher then took a step to sweep Bryce’s leg from under him. Bryce was now off balance, and the teacher gently placed him on the ground. “Next, ye need to stomp on their face,” the teacher said as he motioned how he would now stomp on the face of the assailant, stopping his foot right in front of Bryce’s face.
The teacher continued to show them defense techniques, blowing out the candles to reenact jumping out of the dark, leaping out of hiding at an enemy. “Sabotage is the best form of offense, the enemy will never see you coming,” the fisherman explained. He showed them how to carve sharp implements from salvaged wood and branches, how to build a spit from scratch, and how to twist a blade right into a gut for a finishing move. Such classes were commonplace on the island, the survival skills of the children held at the utmost importance. But before the bearded fisherman had finished, a bell rung from the hallway of the building—a bell that signaled an emergency meeting.
Most meetings of this kind were meant to warn the children of where they could or could not go on the island, updating them to the shifting maps of contamination. They were rounded up into formal lines and marched down beside the metal-shielded windows. Siobhan worried for her brother back at home that he was not being made aware of whatever warning they might receive. She was extremely protective of her twin brother, always
looking out for him at any moment she could.
They followed each other down the hallways, moving toward the sound of the bell. In an assembly room full of candles, they were met by the faculty of the island’s teachers—practicing doctors, ex-soldiers, agriculturalists, and historians. Each had an expression of sober realization, the look of a people who felt their community was in danger.
The head teacher, a grey-haired woman with a pointed face, once used to be the mayor of one of the islands. Now, she addressed the entire school of pupils, a population of hundreds. They were the next generation of the island’s bloodline, the only hope of an actual future for the Orkneys. Most children stared at each other with fearful eyes, but Siobhan looked out into the front row of faculty members, awaiting their speech. Though she had been raised by the doctor, she was already aware that he was not her father. Long ago, he had explained the situation in which she and Hamish had arrived. She knew they were orphans, left by a mother who had died delivering them to a beach.
“To th’ students o’ oor school, we must announce that oor land haes become compromised. The danger has become too high t’have ye all here.” The children seemed to freeze, the words clenching their throats and chilling their skin. The feeling of departure set in, the feeling of being abandoned returning to those that had been. The headteacher continued her voice like that of God himself. “For yer ain safety... we are movin` ye aff this island... tae a school not far away. When things are safer, we wull return ye tae yer families.”
It wasn’t long before the children were escorted back to their various houses, in order that they might collect their personal belongings and say goodbye to their loved ones. Siobhan noticed that as they walked throughout the island that the many houses and shanty town buildings were lit from the sky glowing with the fireworks of gunfire and explosions. There were boats out on the waves firing at others, each able-bodied man employed to fight for their land’s protection.
Siobhan arrived at her house, the other children waiting outside in lines under the protection of armed teachers. She knocked on the red door, the white cross now weathered by time and acid rain. Soon she was inside, embracing the doctor. He placed his hands on her snow-white hair and gently kissed her on the forehead. “You must remember all that I’ve told you,” he whispered, grasping her tightly. “I’ve made you up a medical kit. Keep up your sewing, and always remember to purify your water. Antiseptic is key, if you can find it.”
The small Siobhan looked up with pink, watery eyes at the only father she’d ever known. He was already completely enamored with the twins, having found meaning in his life through teaching them his own methods of survival. In many ways, he felt as if the Gods had placed these children in his care in order that they all learn from each other. With a very quiet voice, Siobhan began to cry, asking the doctor whatever she could. “Where will we go? When will see you again?”
All the questions were answered with haste and not with detail, for the teachers outside had opened the door. “Not long before the boat,” they chastised, ushering Siobhan away by the pale skin of her arm. She looked up to the stairwell of the building to see her brother descending in a feverish state. His eyes seemed to move in all directions, his body weak from fighting off a virus. By the time he reached the doorway, his strength was gone, and he collapsed into her arms.
The bearded teacher looked directly at the doctor, and the exchanged a glance of absolute seriousness. “Tell me,” said the teacher, “that this boy has not got the Stranger’s Cold.” The teacher swung his head heavily from side to side, gently pushing the boy further into his sister’s arms.
“They have been nowhere near the contamination zones, nor have they made contact with anyone of the such.” The stare lasted some time longer until the teacher was satisfied, and both children were whisked away into the evening light.
Above the trail of pupils was the next light, one that hadn’t arrived for several weeks. The deep green aurora shone above them and upon the buildings, giving the island the appearance of a glowing city. The eldest of the youth were left there and returned to their homes while the youngest were walked toward the other side of the shore. Down a steep cliff face, a stairwell stood, ancient and rebuilt in places, a rope slung on the edge for safety. In pairs they walked down into the beach below, many weeping but others singing to calm themselves and the others. Explosions sounded off in the distance, the sounds of an island under attack by lowlanders.
Once Siobhan and Hamish reached the shoreline, he had regained some consciousness. His pale skin was a heated red, the blood underneath pumping to fend off the viral toxins. Medicine was hard to come by or manufacture now, but these hardy children seemed to survive through radiation and sickness, protected perhaps by evolutionary advantages.
“Hamish,” whispered Siobhan, who held him up as best she could with the help of the freckled Brice, “we are about to leave our island. It’s time to say goodbye.” Hamish turned around with one slow sweep of his head, looking out to the town they had forever called home. A single tear ran down from one eye, the green lights above glimmering with unexpected glory.
Words pierced his lips, the tall pale boy gulping with sadness. “Cheerio for nou mah island. Ah, will see ye again...”
5. House of God
The boat was an old fishing vessel, appropriated as a method of escape. Planks of wood were fastened with metals, its ancient hull modified to make it a sturdier ship. On it were over forty students crowded together like they were animals, all kept together by the shouting voices of the teachers. The sea reflected the green sky, giving everything the appearance of a dream. The children fought amongst themselves for space, shuffling around until they found relative comfort. All around the Earth, similar measures were taken by cities and compounds, moving generations away from the violence of battle.
Siobhan’s rose-colored gaze looked over her brother, and she pushed a bottle of purified water to his lips. Usually, such a bottle would be stolen by the others, shared around to quench thirst, but such was the boy’s sickness that none were willing, giving the twins space in case of possible infection. Hamish supped from the bottle slowly, his eyes heavy with fatigue, his heart beating hard as the boat sailed briskly over the waves. They were soon far away from land, the sounds of their island’s battle now a distant memory. Guards protected their ship, men in salvaged helmets holding rifles to the surrounding sea.
Hamish grasped the sides of the boat with courage, his sister holding him put. “What if this place is cursed, sister?” he asked, his words strangely articulated. Siobhan held him closer, brushing her colorless hair against his.
“Then we shall leave this island too,” she whispered, meaning every word she said. The others glared at the blonde-haired beings, afraid of their skin and its significance. But they stayed together, arm in arm, until the boat had docked at the shore of the tiny island, the place called Papa Stronsay.
The old ship docked with little complication. There was a large group of helpers situated on the beach, standing to assist with the bringing in of the children. Siobhan’s small face pointed toward the flaming torches of these men, each of them dressed in robes and belts, looking over toward the children as they left the ship. Hamish looked up too, slightly frightened by the light of their fire. “Don’t ye worry, ‘Amish,” she said, hugging him. “They’re here to look after us, to protect us from all the bad things.” Hamish looked around with an expression of agreement, believing whatever it was his sister said.
The other children descended, with Siobhan and her brother some of the last to leave. As they did everywhere, they stuck out like a sore thumb. Hamish looked much older than he was, with a back slightly bent from his height and from the carrying of heavy objects. Siobhan was dressed in a puffer jacket, a scarf made of animal fur wrapped around her neck. As they approached the boardwalk, the black-bearded teacher bent down to embrace the two. “Ye both stay out of trouble, won’t ye,” he said gruffly, holding them to his chest.
“Be good to these folk.” They agreed and were released, eyes shining as they watched the boat sailing away into the distance.
Once Hamish and Siobhan reached the land, they were confronted with the people who would look after them for the next several years of their life—the torch-bearing monks of the Golgotha Monastery, men who had sworn their life to Christ. The robed men looked down upon the strangely white faces of the children, holding them by their chins in admiration. “My name is Brother Michael,” one of them said, a bald-headed man with the face of a much older being. “And mine is Brother Simon,” said another, his face much younger, with the bluest eyes in all the land. Siobhan eyed them with suspicion while her brother looked up with glazed admiration. They led the children in a long formation up across the sand, through the grassy hills, and among jagged rocks. It was one of the smallest islands in the Orkney’s, used as a place of worship since ancient times.
The monastery agreed to take in the children from the other island to save the future of the Orkney Island, despite it being a burden to them. The monastery had an ulterior motive for taking in the children, they wanted the future generation and the generations after them to practice Catholicism. By deciding to take in the children, they would raise each of them with a Catholic education, ensuring the future of the Catholic Church.
Finally, they wound their way up to the monastery itself, a long stone building covered in moss and vines. Its prestigious exterior sported many outhouses and attached buildings, and a giant statue of the Lord positioned outside the front entrance oversaw them all. Siobhan stared up at the heavy crucifix he was hung from, a stone device held high above the doors. The doorway, painted black and made of recycled wood, was half swung open by the hands of the torchbearers. The children were brought inward to the inner sanctum and introduced to an altar filled with Catholic statuettes and glimmering gold portraits.