There Comes A Prophet

by David Litwack

  "Why didn't you tell me?" he said, careful to keep the edge from his voice.

  His father's hands began to move, scrubbing his skin as if trying to remove a stain. When they finally dropped to his lap, his eyes were red.

  "I was ashamed, Nathaniel. You don't know what it's like. In a teaching, they show you deep into the darkness, so you know why the Temple stands. You see horrors beyond imagination."

  He went on to tell of the small hole, the lack of light, the thirst and hunger, the exhaustion and what, after all these years, he could only describe as the visions of the darkness.

  Orah asked what Nathaniel was afraid to ask. "But why ashamed?"

  Nathaniel's father licked his lips and thought long, then stood and looked down at the two of them.

  "The end of the teaching is up to you. After a while, you beg to return to your normal life. Shortly thereafter, you'd give a limb to go home, be blind for life, just to go home. But the vicars want more, something deeper you might never get back."

  Nathaniel sputtered, hardly able to get out the words. "But if there was no sense to it, why didn't you tell them what they wanted?"

  A sorrow seeped into his father's bones, making his shoulders droop.

  "You've admired courage and honor, Nathaniel, since you were no taller than my knee. And that's what the Temple demands before the teaching will end. To go home, you have to give up your courage and honor."

  "I don't understand what you're saying?"

  His father's voice was so low he had to strain to hear. But a single word rang out: Betrayal.

  "Betrayal?" Nathaniel said. "But who was there to betray?"

  Orah's mother jumped up. "Enough, William. It's more than I was asking for."

  He shook her off, his back stiffened.

  "To end the teaching, you must betray a friend. Why does Thomas avoid you? It's likely you who he betrayed."

  Orah's mother placed herself in front of him and confronted her daughter and Nathaniel.

  "You mustn't blame him." Her voice rose with each word. "Don't ever blame him. He had no choice."

  The fire buzzed and flared. Nathaniel's eyes widened.

  "What happens next?"

  "Most who are betrayed are never taken. There are enough candidates. Time passes. We grow older. The betrayal becomes nothing more than an entry in the Temple records. That's why I finally told. I was led to believe that... " He turned away, unable to continue.

  Orah rose suddenly, her face a single, unbearable question.

  "Who did you betray?"

  Nathaniel failed to comprehend. What had Orah seen that he had not? Her mother rushed in and grabbed her by the arms, but she twisted away.

  "Who," she said, shouting now, "did you betray?"

  Her mother waved wildly at Nathaniel's father.

  "It's enough William. Say no more."

  But Nathaniel's father brushed her aside and came to within an arm's length of Orah. Their eyes met. His expression melted into shame.

  Orah let out a shriek and raced from the cottage.

  Silence filled the emptiness left by her flight. Then the topmost log of the fire, the heaviest, chose to crush the embers beneath it. When it fell, the pyramid of flame dropped as well and the room became dimmer.

  ***

  A few days later, Nathaniel attended Orah's coming-of-age. While not as big a celebration as festival - only friends and relatives were invited - it was an important event. While awaiting the guest of honor, Nathaniel kept twisting around, hoping to spot Thomas. But to no avail.

  He wanted to see Thomas, to welcome him home, to tell him he understood. He and Orah had discussed what had happened, trying to understand it. Impossible. What had happened was beyond understanding, beyond forgiving. But of one thing he was certain: he blamed neither his father nor Thomas. He blamed the Temple of Light.

  Finally, Orah emerged and took her seat on a platform erected in the village square. Her mother had the honor of cutting her hair to the prescribed length, just covering her neck. Afterwards, she was accompanied inside by three female relatives. Moments later she reemerged, the gray of youth shed, wearing the black vest and long dark skirt of age-now a full child of light. Next, elder Robert stated the precepts of the Temple, one at a time, waiting while she repeated each even though she'd known them for years. When she was finished, Robert led the assembled in the blessing of life, recited upon attaining major milestones.

  "Blessed is the light that has given us life, allowed us to thrive and brought us here to this day."

  Nathaniel studied Orah, trying to read her mood. When the ceremony ended with the communal "Blessed be the light," he caught her mouthing the words. But what struck him most was how grown she seemed, how she'd added to her normal seriousness a fierce intensity. His two friends had been changed by the Temple. Had he been changed as well?

  At the end, elder Robert marked a card with Orah's name, to be sent off with the next courier to Temple City.

  Now, it was time to celebrate. As everyone proceeded to the feast, Nathaniel lingered to congratulate Orah. He grasped her by the waist and swung her around. But as she faced the back, she caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder. She whispered "Thomas."

  Nathaniel let her down gently and turned. There he was, lurking in the last row like a distant relative from another village. Both approached their friend as if coming upon a bird in the path they wished to see more closely but not frighten away.

  Orah tried several expressions, before settling on gratitude.

  "Oh Thomas, I'm so thankful you've come. It's the best present I could have."

  He took one step toward them, the most he could do. Nathaniel made no motion that might scare him off. He was certain he glimpsed his friend behind the mask the teaching had imprinted on him. He was certain he detected a longing to be with them.

  But Thomas came no closer.

  Remembering his father's distress, Nathaniel chose his words carefully.

  "We'll always be your friends, Thomas, no matter what you've done. We're here for you when you need us. We're here to listen, when you want to tell."

  And then he waited.

  At the front of the commons, the feast was underway. Others were calling for Orah to receive her first toast. Thomas balanced on the balls of his feet. When the villagers called a second time, he spun around and fled. The mask of his face had never changed.

  ***

  When dusk had settled on the village and they were tired of entertaining, Nathaniel and Orah wandered off and, without intending it, ended up at the Not Tree. Nathaniel brushed snow off a flat rock outside the shelter and they sat in silence, huddling together for warmth.

  "What does it mean, this coming of age?" Orah finally said. "I feel no different. You've been of age longer. Can you tell me what it means?"

  Nathaniel shrugged. He had no answers and knew she had more to say.

  "I'll tell you what I think, Nathaniel of Little Pond. I think it means two things. First, we can no longer have illusions. We have to let them fade into the thin air from which they came. Second, we have to make choices. And that will be the hardest."

  As they talked, Nathaniel heard a crunch of snow from the path. His first thought was that they'd been discovered after all these years. So he felt relief when he spied Thomas emerging from the trees. He nudged Orah with an elbow and tilted his head toward their friend.

  Thomas paused at the edge of the clearing. Nathaniel waited, wondering at all the times he'd longed for something new and how his strongest desire now was to return to the way things were.

  "I knew you'd be here," Thomas said, his voice strained, but close to his own. "I always know what the two of you are thinking. That hasn't changed."

  One side of his mouth did its best to curl upward, passing for a grin. All three moved forward, silent as the snow-covered woods, and met in a steadfast embrace.

  Chapter Seven

  Confession

  Nathaniel plowed through the snow
, breaking trail for his friends. A storm had blown in from the north and swirled through the Ponds for the past two days, leaving in its wake drifts to the eaves of the cottages. This morning, the sky had cleared, though a headwind still howled, stealing breath and stifling speech. But Orah had insisted they mustn't leave Thomas alone. So Nathaniel trudged along, collar turned up against the wind, breaking though the newly fallen snow.

  He paused to get his bearings. Another hundred paces to Elder John's home. Once the steam from his lips slowed, he drove his knee forward and set out again.

  Except for the height of the storm, they'd managed to get Thomas outdoors every day. While before he'd complain about the slightest discomfort, now he seemed to thrive on the cold. Gradually, he was returning to his former self. Their efforts had been rewarded that morning when he told them the darkness was in the past or in Temple City, but not in Little Pond with his friends.

  When neighbors saw the three out and about, they gladly invited them in. One by one they came forward, first with sympathy, then with stories of teachings.

  "My uncle, Edward - he's long gone- had a teaching. Wouldn't talk about it until his fortieth birthday. Kept it inside all those years. He was a good man, but after he let it out, he was a better man."

  "My brother Richard-you know him, gone off to work in Great Pond-had a teaching. Came back, said nothing for two months. Then went to the village square and spat at the altar. Never said a word after that, but he was fine."

  Elder John never spoke about teachings, but for some reason insisted they visit him every few days. As soon as the storm cleared, Orah decided it was time.

  When they reached the door of his cottage, the recent widower was waiting to welcome them in. He placed a kettle on the fire and hovered while it came to a boil. Once they had their hands wrapped around hot mugs, he gave them a lesson on the Temple.

  "The Temple is far from perfect. We recognize that here in the Ponds. But it's better than any other choice. We know how terrible the darkness was-we read it in the book of light. But the memory of bad times fades. We're taught that even a small step backward may lead again to the darkness."

  He checked on each of them to be sure they were listening.

  "I don't know myself but they may be right. Their methods are harsh and I wish it were otherwise. But they hold our world together."

  Orah could not keep still. "But aren't there better ways to make us know the darkness without... " She glanced at Thomas. "... hurting anyone?"

  John sighed. "You don't understand. It's not knowledge they mean to impart but fear. They take one in three, sometimes more, at a young age. By making them afraid through the teaching, they make us all afraid. In that way, we come to fear the Temple, even as we respect what it stands for. And for all these centuries, that has kept the darkness away."

  Nathaniel listened as if he'd just come of age. His world was growing more complicated. He'd always been faithful to the light except in his innermost thoughts, shared only with his friends. But the vicars knew nothing about that. What cause would they have to take him?

  One in three. The rest were entries in Temple records. But Orah's voice echoed in his mind.

  No more illusions.

  ***

  March arrived. The drifts settled to knee-high under their own weight and then melted to the ankles. In the common pathways, the snow was beaten down and spread with ash so it was easier to walk. Within weeks, the roadways would clear and the vicar would come for the spring blessing.

  As the snowed thawed, so did Thomas. More and more, details of his teaching emerged. Orah worked with him like a mother easing a splinter from a baby's finger, using insight gained from Nathaniel's father. She'd ask, "In this dark hole, Thomas, was it cold and wet as well?"

  He'd sometimes answer, but never mentioned the betrayal. Though all knew about it, none would bring it up.

  One day, as the three wandered through the village, making irregular tracks in the snow, Nathaniel watched Thomas lift his face to the early March sun, letting it give back warmth. He seemed more at peace than at any time since the teaching. For now, Nathaniel's own worries seemed unimportant, and he was happy to share his friend's good feeling.

  Nathaniel stepped in front and stopped, causing the group to form a circle.

  "There's something I want you to know, Thomas. Whatever you were forced to do wasn't your fault. From what my father said, the strongest character could not resist the teaching. The vicars had no right to demand my name. But know as of this day, I forgive you."

  Thomas's good mood vanished, and the sallow look from festival returned. He stared past them, seeing another place.

  "There was the hope of leaving, always out of reach. And the need to tell ... It was the only way to go home."

  This was the most he'd ever said about the teaching. Orah urged him on.

  "They killed my father, Thomas. Don't let them destroy you. So what if you gave them Nathaniel's name. You had no choice."

  "Not just his name. They wanted more."

  Nathaniel's head snapped around. "More? What else could they want?"

  Thomas began to sob. "They wanted to know your dreams."

  Nathaniel was torn between outrage and fear of consequences to come. He saw Thomas as he must have been at the teaching-exhausted, frightened, broken. His heart reached out, but the question could not be contained.

  "You told them about my dreams?"

  Thomas turned and stumbled away.

  After a rare moment of uncertainty, Orah steadied herself.

  "It's the Temple fault, not his. We have no choice but to forgive. And for anything else, we'll overcome it together."

  Then she sped off, catching Thomas and letting his tears make a moist stain on her tunic.

  Chapter Eight

  First Test

  The equinox, barely dawn, the morning of the spring blessing. Nathaniel tossed in bed. What if the voice from the sun icon should summon him next? Would he submit like his father? And if not, would he ever see Little Pond again?

  He gave up on sleep, dressed and went outside to pace. In the watery light of pre-dawn, it was easy to see the way. As he circled the storage shed, he found he was hungry and stepped inside to hack off a slice of ham. As he crouched on a bench eating, he noticed his travel pack hanging on the wall and an idea began to grow. He could fill the pack with food. His sheepskin jacket hung nearby. Even at this hour, a brightening sky foretold a good day to be outdoors.

  He'd never win a battle with the Temple. Even if he could resist their strange powers, the dread he'd observed in the villagers would make it impossible to defy them. And once he was in Temple City, he'd either lose his honor and courage or never return.

  But...he could vanish for the day. While everyone was required to attend the blessing, there were always a few who had business elsewhere, were sick or visiting distant relatives. If he were absent, they might not think to call his name. Or they might call him, and, when he was found missing, do without a teaching for the spring. He could hide until the vicar was gone.

  His heart sank as soon as the idea was formed. Here was his first test since coming of age, and he was choosing to run away. No illusions. It was his only choice. But in his wildest imagination, he could never conceive of his knight making such a choice.

  ***

  By the time he filled the pack, the glow of sunrise was on the horizon. He donned his jacket and hurried off to the Not Tree. But once inside, all he could do was sit cross-legged and stare at the balsam walls.

  Time passed slowly. After an hour or so, he began to worry. Was he still too near the village? If temple magic found him, would this place implicate his friends? So before Little Pond was up and about, he determined to go deeper into the woods.

  Five-minute later, he stumbled upon a familiar trail. All schoolchildren of the Ponds made the trek to the mountains in the west. They'd hike to the foothills, then climb through bushes and scree to the base of the white granite, where they
were told to touch the rock and feel the edge of their world. Here they may come, but no farther. Most never forgot that moment, but few repeated it. The mountains were a two-hour walk and, despite the stories, everyone believed they were insurmountable.

  As a more adventurous sort, Nathaniel's father used to bring his son and his friends there for a summer's outing when they were little.

  Before he knew it, Nathaniel found his feet on the path. The excursion would give him something to do, take him far from the village and let his mind clear. When he returned, he could claim he'd forgotten the vicar's visit and gone off to the mountains to celebrate his first spring since coming of age. The elders would chastise him but might believe the young, absent-minded romantic. But there was something more. This path-if the stories were true-was the beginning of the voyage across the ocean. In his uncertainty, he hoped such a place could provide answers.

  As usual, his mind wandered, this time to younger days on the trail with his friends. As they hiked, his father would make up games to reinforce their schooling and keep them from getting bored. He'd start with geography, giving them five seconds to answer.

  "How many ponds in this region?"

  "Five."

  "And their names?"

  "Little Pond, Great Pond, Middle Pond."

  "The easy ones, Thomas. Nathaniel, you must know the rest."

  "Beaver Pond and East Pond."

  "And how far to Temple City?"

  "Three days."

  Then, when the children began to fidget, he'd switch to numbers.

  "How much is seven and nine?"

  "Sixteen," Orah called out.

  "I knew it," Thomas would protest, "but Orah always shouts it out first."

  "I understand. This next one's just for the boys. It's the year 1132 of the age of light. I was born in 1101. How old am I?"

  Nathaniel would glare at Orah, daring her to speak out of turn, and then answer, "Thirty one."

  "And a hard one, again for the boys. Nathaniel's grandfather was born in 1073. How old is he?"

  Thomas would look to Nathaniel, who could only stammer until the time had passed.