Father Prodido joined his protégé at the table and straightened his vestment. It was becoming evident the religious leader wanted more than idle chit-chat with Tyran.
“Yes, very good, Tyran. Very good,” Father Prodido said. “We need a strong, god-fearing leader who will take a stand against the rampant ungodliness of Patrida, whether it be among the dissenters or those who speak ill against the council or the ignorant backbiters. Of course, you understand this.”
“I do,” Tyran said, attempting to speak with his mouth full, only to be interrupted by the religious leader.
“There have been too many recent trespasses the council has disregarded,” said Father Prodido. “But you see, Tyran, compliance begins with a strong arm at the top. Compliance produces upright and virtuous people. What we need is a leader who is neither weak among his supporters nor his enemies. We need a leader who will lead us back to the faithfulness of our founding. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Father Prodido was not only known for his position and rigid moral code in Patrida, but also for the eloquence of his words and his cunning stratagem. If Patrida’s council was a game of chess and Father Prodido’s true intentions could be known, they would see that he was always thinking two to three steps ahead. However, no one knew his true intentions, only that he desired to be around the table of influence and close to the ear of leadership. For this reason, the religious leader always stayed close to Ochi. He took every opportunity to ingratiate him with his words.
But it was in his close proximity to Ochi that Father Prodido concluded something had changed with him. Twelve months prior, almost a year to the date, Ochi secretly confessed something to the religious leader he had never shared with anyone else. Father Prodido believed this confession was directly related to the stranger apprehended in the woods earlier. Sitting alone with Tyran in the council room, he thought it was the right moment to share this information with him.
As the young man sat unwittingly across the table from Father Prodido, the religious leader continued to wax poetic about bringing Patrida back to its former greatness. His genius was not in his directness but in selling an idea with colorful language and imaginative context.
“You and I have an opportunity of a lifetime, together, at this very moment, to restore the glory of this island,” Father Prodido said. “And you, Tyran, will be the leader who will help us realize it.”
Tyran looked at the religious leader leaning forward from across the table and watched the flame of the oil lamp dance in his aged but determined eyes. The young man understood precisely what his mentor was suggesting and realized the most obvious and glaring omission.
“But where is my father in this plan?” Tyran asked. “I haven’t heard you say anything about him.”
Father Prodido put his pale hands on the dark wood and stared at the young man intently.
“Oh, your father is fine, Tyran,” the religious leader said. “But there is something you deserve to know about his past. In the first couple of years after we arrived on the island, when you were still a little boy, there was an uprising.”
Tyran nodded his head hesitantly.
“You mean the Great Liberation.”
“Yes, yes,” said Father Prodido. “You know it quite well. It was our liberation from a hostile group in Patrida that profaned our beliefs and ideals. They challenged your father at every turn. When we could no longer take their heresy and divisiveness, we drove them into the forest and eliminated each one of them.”
“I know all of this,” Tyran said, reaching for a piece of cheese this time. “But what about my father?”
“Your father, filled with tremendous animus and rage, pursued the remaining remnant by himself because they would not fight back,” Father Prodido continued. “He was determined to cut down every last person who had undermined his leadership as an act of personal retribution and vengeance. He took it all very personally. When he came face to face with the opposition leader, your father did not even give him a final word. He put a knife right through him.”
“Father Prodido, with all due respect,” Tyran replied. “There’s nothing new in what you’re telling me about my father. I grew up hearing these stories and knowing of my father’s valor in battle. From the time I was a teenager, I heard about how he single-handedly slaughtered every remaining infidel.”
“Yes, Tyran. You have,” Father Prodido said. “But there is one thing about the Great Liberation and your father you do not know. Your father di … ”
“Father Prodido! Tyran!” a voice called out. “If you’re still up here, everyone has gathered at Sanctuary. They’re demanding to know what’s going on with the prisoner. Ochi needs you to join him immediately.”
CHAPTER 3
Thura’s bedroom appeared smaller than it ever had before. The momentary feeling of liberation she experienced in the corridor, only a few minutes prior, had vanquished behind the closed door of her room. From inside the four walls, it felt sealed and constricted, almost suffocating. The only thing separating Thura from the bright flicker of the small, white candle sitting on her desk was the blanket on her bed she hid beneath in darkness.
In many ways, the young woman’s room was a microcosm of her life in Patrida. Her closed door represented her containment and restricted opportunity. The four walls reminded Thura she was limited, not only geographically on an island, but also ideologically in a strict and repressive religious system. The darkness surrounding her was symbolic of Patrida’s darkness and her years of unknowing within the system. The single candle she lit was her present, feeble attempt at pushing back the shadows. From beneath her blanket, the young woman created the only space in Patrida where she felt safe to ask questions and consider possibilities.
Thura held her thoughts and questions close to her, however. Sharing them with others would do nothing but bring the severe disapproval of the council. While it was true that conflict was normal in Patrida, it only came from peripheral and inconsequential issues. The council hated dissension, but there was a threshold they seemed willing to tolerate, so long as it did not challenge Patrida’s status quo. That is not to say there were no repercussions for stirring things up. There certainly was. But petty conflicts did not result in heavy-handed punishment like those deemed more disruptive and treasonous.
For instance, if a person dissented by asking real, honest questions and challenging the religious or political order, the total weight of the council’s justice would crush the offender for their offense. As a young girl, Thura witnessed servants standing up to their husbands, even Father Prodido, and protesting their subjugation. But the system permanently silenced them. The structural integrity of Patrida was wholly dependent upon the suppression of honest questions and the elimination of free-thinking.
Thura vividly remembered one young woman named Fayme who stood up while Father Prodido spoke at Sanctuary. On that day, he boasted of Patrida’s greatness and how God had allowed freedom to flourish on the island. Interrupting the religious leader, the young woman asked him to define freedom. She asked that question specifically because she did not think he really knew what it meant. While her husband pulled at her arm to sit down, she remained standing until she received an answer. Father Prodido, indignant and burning with anger, told her that freedom comes only through adherence to God’s law. He then motioned for the guards to arrest her. She never asked another question again.
At the time, Thura believed reckless martyrdom would neither benefit her nor anyone else. As she grew older, however, Thura often thought about Fayme’s bravery. Not only did she stand up to Father Prodido, but she confronted the entire system that day in Sanctuary. As a result, Thura slowly began to understand why questions were dangerous to the religious and political system. That single, rebellious question about freedom was the one thing Father Prodido and the council feared most because it challenged the seemingly impenetrable walls of Patrida’s control.
An honest question did not float in the air
and dissipate into oblivion. It could land on fertile ground and take root in others, crumbling previously undisturbed soil in the process. That is precisely what happened within Thura all those years ago when Fayme decided to question Father Prodido publicly. The seeds Sophia had sown within Thura began to grow with Fayme’s courage to question authority. They took root and sprouted into even more subversive questions that Thura regularly considered, even under her blanket in the dimly lit room that day.
What is Patrida? Thura wondered. Why is it controlled like a prison? If this is freedom, why do I hate it so much? I follow the rules, why do I not feel free? If there is such a thing as freedom, where is it?
Unfortunately for Thura, asking questions only increased her restlessness. They did not make her feel any more liberated. Questions alone cannot produce freedom, she realized. They can only begin to unsettle the status quo. Thura was certainly unsettled and hungered for more, although she could not quite put her finger on what that more was exactly. All she knew was that she no longer wanted the enslaving chains of Patrida holding her back. She no longer identified with the mindset and beliefs espoused by Patrida’s leaders. In fact, she was beginning to resent them. She could no longer sit idly by tending to her work while watching the mistreatment of others from her window above.
Thura threw off her quilted blanket and stared at the lone candle straining in the darkness of her room. They shared the same struggle. This is not how life ought to be, she thought. Thura was done living in fear and hiding away her thoughts and questions. Searching throughout her room, the young woman found ten more candles, which she lined up on the nightstand in front of her window. One by one, she lit them and watched the first candle no longer strain by itself in the darkness as the other candles began to share their light.
Thura’s room began to glow. Its radiance poured out her window onto the darkened Monon. But as she watched the last few people move along the street toward Sanctuary, not a single person noticed the brilliance emanating from above. This is so typical of these people, Thura thought. This magnificent light is literally shining out into the darkness, and not one of you can see it.
The Patridian guards lit the last few torches that emblazoned the center aisle of Sanctuary. On each side were rows of long, rectangular stone slab benches sitting directly on the ground, perfectly spaced and uniform. The visual design of the area epitomized the monolithic and rigid nature of Patrida.
At front and center was the holy shrine, the sacrarium, with three Patridian flags planted equidistantly in front of it. Each flag was embroidered with the image of the shrine. Centered in the middle were the words Sacrarium Convenae stitched below it, which meant Sacred Community of Refugees. This phrase captured the first inhabitants’ heart and sentiment when they arrived on the island two decades prior as refugees themselves. But for everyone who had gathered in Sanctuary awaiting the presentation of their prisoner, it represented a sad irony completely lost on them.
One by one, Ochi, Father Prodido and Tyran walked down the center aisle in feigned solemnity. Hidden behind the singular emotion on each man’s face were very different feelings about the occasion. Father Prodido and Tyran shared a sense of excitement in parading the criminal before the crowd and feeding into the frenzy. Ochi, on the other hand, was much more subdued. While he was marching down the aisle physically, his head was somewhere else. But from the outside looking in, the three men appeared unified and resolved.
Complete silence had arrested the crowd as they watched each council member take his place in front of his respective flag. Ochi and Tyran stood on each side, while Father Prodido stood in the middle with the most prominent flag behind him. The religious leader taking front and center was not an unusual arrangement for the council. He almost always took center stage since he did the majority of the talking. However, everyone secretly knew he wanted to be the focus of their attention.
The opaque backdrop of the forest’s edge matched the starless sky above. The barely perceptible pop and crack of each torch’s flame joined the muted gurgle of water flowing from the spring behind the flags. An eerie enthusiasm and anticipation temporarily suppressed the crowd’s rage and fear.
Father Prodido meticulously straightened each sleeve of his religious attire, again brushing off the lint and dirt only visible to him. His simple but dignified, white, long-sleeved robe decorated with the gold necklace and medallion centered on his chest glowed from the surrounding orange flames. The imagery on Father Prodido’s medallion perfectly represented the religious man and his aspirations. The depiction was of two swords crossed, overlaying praying hands. Inscribed around the image were the words Peace Through Strength. At last, deeming himself presentable, Father Prodido surveyed the audience with no visible expression on his face.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began. “We… are not alone.”
In unison, the crowd immediately jumped up from their silence and began to shout and scream, as they had done earlier along the Monon. While internally loving the animus he saw in front of him, the religious leader attempted to keep order by raising his hand for silence.
“The council convened, and our glorious leader will soon fill you in on what has been decided,” Father Prodido said. “But first, a few reflections on the day. As you know, in Patrida, we operate by the providence of God and the rule of law. This truth has been made evident among us, from our past and into our present. As such, we will not allow a single person, nor faction, to tear apart the fabric of this holy community.”
Off to the side, Ochi stood with his head down and eyes closed. The crowd could have mistaken it for a prayerful posture, but nausea had him disoriented and spinning. Ochi’s headache had followed him from the council room to the front of Sanctuary, pounding more intensely in his forehead and between his eyes. Exacerbating the pain were Father Prodido’s continued direct and indirect references to Patrida’s past and the Great Liberation.
“But on this day,” the religious leader continued, “we have entered a new era in the life of this sacred community of refugees. What once was a nascent and naive community, settled beyond the reaches of unholy, pagan influence, has become an attraction for corruption, a host for disease, a body for malignancy. On this day, an infidel has infiltrated our home and livelihood. A savage has threatened our peace and freedom. And this criminal could represent others like him who are surrounding this island or standing in these woods, readying to besiege us at any moment.”
Father Prodido was not content with a subdued presentation. He preferred the emotion of theatrics and performance art. The religious leader calculatingly pushed buttons to stoke the crowd into a directed fury against the enemy while leading them toward a common purpose and uniting narrative. Smiling and nodding his head at each person’s growing anger standing in front of him, Father Prodido raised his hand once again to silence the crowd.
“Thank God this council is committed to the strength of Patrida and the ideals that have made us great,” he said. “Thank God for his protection from any potential enemy and the valiant service of the Patridian guard and its leaders. We commit to you, the faithful of Patrida, that your way of life will be preserved. No conformity. No compromises. No mercy. Our no will be a resounding no! We will not become a community of yes, lest we lose the very heart and character of what makes us great. Our peace will be preserved through our strength. Our freedom will be protected at all costs because freedom is never free.”
The crowd stood and cheered in a wild and frenzied hysteria. Father Prodido closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, feeding off of their raw and unrestrained energy. Nodding his head in approval, the religious leader continued.
“Repeat after me,” he shouted. “Our no is no!”
The crowd chanted his words in perfect accord, but it was not enough for the religious leader. Like an emcee readying the crowd for the prizefight, his eyes opened wide as he shouted to the top of his lungs.
“Our no is no! Our no is no! Our no is no!”
“No! No! No! No! No!”
Clapping his hands perfectly to the crowd’s syncopated chanting, Father Prodido laughed hysterically as the people continued. No longer needing to feed off of the religious leader’s zeal, the people of Patrida, standing united in Sanctuary, discovered their common purpose and shared passion. What brought them together was not what they were for but what they were against.
Thura discretely made her way alongside the standing crowd toward the front, where she slid in next to her mother, Velos. The matriarch looked at her daughter harshly, as if to communicate her displeasure for her significant tardiness. Sheepishly and somewhat apologetically, Thura held out her wine-stained arms, which now looked more ghoulish as they absorbed the scarlet, flickering light of the torches. Her mother’s eyes opened widely, misunderstanding exactly what her daughter was showing her.
“It is only wine,” Thura mouthed in an attempt to avoid a scene in the front row with people all around. “I had to change clothes.”
Taking a deep breath, clearly holding back her frustration with her daughter, Velos turned toward the front once again. By this time, Father Prodido had already asked the audience to join him in the Patridian pledge, which was more of a mix between a pledge and prayer.
“I pledge my heart and my allegiance to Patrida and to the God who protects her,” he began with every voice joining him. “For in this sacred community, I find my peace, my freedom, and my refuge. Amen.”
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