The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (2 page)

Nathaniel would try to add to the game, conjuring up stories
based on bedtime tales told by his father, beyond what temple rules allowed. He’d
pretend the darkness had been lifted by a knight, slashing about with a sword
and riding an armored horse, though weapons and the riding of animals had long
ago been banned. He’d insist the knight had built Temple City, then scaled the
mountains outside Little Pond and discovered a great ocean on the other side.

As he grew older, she’d warned him to keep such notions to
himself. Nathaniel and his notions. She prayed he wouldn’t pay the price
tomorrow.

She sniffed the air, trying to read the breeze, before
glancing back to the clearing where the unattended fire had begun to die.

The vicar stood alone in the middle of the square. With a
sigh, he set down his pack, carried all the way from Temple City. Inside would
be two of the Temple’s most essential mysteries: the season’s medicine and the
sun icon, greatest miracle of the light.

After stretching his shoulders, the vicar squared them to
the bonfire, picked up an abandoned cup of wassail, and poured its contents
onto the embers, which hissed and spit out a sweet-smelling steam. His lips curled
upward into his hollow cheeks, until his teeth showed and his face displayed a
rarely-used, but perfectly genuine smile.

Following his meeting with the elders, the vicar had two
hours to roam the village prior to the noontime blessing. He assumed the
posture he’d been taught—back arched, head up, eyes focused on the path ahead.
His beard was freshly groomed, a pencil-thin mark that traced the contour of
his jaw. His hair had been razor cut to an exact line that intersected the
middle of each ear. On his head was the not-quite-square hat of a junior vicar,
narrower in front than in back, all black, with no red stripes as yet. Even so,
the villagers would treat him as a proper envoy of the Temple. He’d followed
the rules and so would they. Little Pond would yield one of its young for a
teaching.

He measured his stride—three foot lengths per step. As each
heel struck, it made a mark that mimicked the hat, forming a sequence of
almost-squares in the dirt road. The squares detoured only to avoid the
occasional puddle left from an early morning drizzle.

Whenever he came upon villagers, he tried to engage in
conversation.

“The autumn’s been warm, thank the light. Did that make for
a productive harvest?”

This brought the trite responses he’d come to expect and was
able to ignore.

Next, he would ease into more personal topics. “Is everyone
in good health? Was the medicine sufficient for your needs?”

Then, intermingled, the contentious questions: “How goes the
struggle against the darkness? Have you noticed a change in behavior, anyone
showing signs of being tainted, someone who might need my attention?”

Most of the villagers, like villagers everywhere, chose
their words with care, answering at length but saying little.

“Oh yes, Anne bore Matthew a son. Elder Robert’s daughter
married a young man from Great Pond. The light’s strong in the people of the
Ponds. We’re true to the faith.”

They’d been conditioned all their lives to parrot back the
litanies of the Temple, and viewed this conversation as another ritual. By
midmorning, he was growing impatient and began pressing harder.

“Do the young congregate in unruly ways? Have some become
rebellious?” Then more bluntly, “Do any speak ill of the Temple? We must be
vigilant, my friends, or the darkness will return.”

Back in Temple City, a red stripe awaited his hat. Others
had achieved monsignor by his age, but he sought more than status. A promotion
would allow him to pass off the Ponds to a younger vicar.

How he loathed this village, a nasty little outpost at the
edge of the world, bounded to the west by a barrier of white granite mountains
ending high up in a sawtooth. Locals claimed ancients had scaled these peaks
and found beyond them a sea so great its far side could not be seen. But no one
in the age of light would have dared such a quest. Since it was forbidden to
speak of the time before the light, at least in civilized places, the rumored
trek had never happened. Yet here at the edge of the world, they still told
tales.

Not much changed in Little Pond, and he was bound to keep it
so. There were no big problems, only minor distractions. If someone strayed, he
exercised his duty as visiting vicar to correct the transgression before it
grew. Even a small change might undermine the light. The line must be drawn, he’d
been taught, before the darkness had a chance to return. Be vigilant always.

It was usually the young who deviated. The young, so adventuresome
and curious, had not yet learned the full horror of the darkness. Schooling was
less strict here, teachings less common than in larger towns, so once each
season he traveled to Little Pond and listened in the prescribed way, searching
for a candidate for a teaching. For the past three seasons, however, they’d
resisted the will of the Temple, tarnishing his record.

Ahead, the steeple of the commons loomed, the completion of
the loop near. Small villages often lacked enough young ones to teach, but if
he failed this time, a full year would have passed. Less than an hour remained
until the blessing—barely time to communicate to his superiors.

As he paused to consider his options, a white-throated
sparrow landed in a puddle to begin its morning bath. With a blur of wings, it
splashed about, lifting its neck and singing with a whistle too passionate for
its size. Its song was five notes, two long and three short, with the last
ending in a trill. The bird seemed unaware of his approach.

He knelt down, picked up a stone the shape of an acorn, and
straightened, never taking his eye off the bird. Then he took aim and threw,
just a flick of the wrist so as not to startle it.

The rock missed by a feather and the bird flew off.

He’d redouble his efforts. This
time, he’d find one for a teaching, an example so the light would shine
forever.

On the porch of the commons, he found the two elders, John
and Robert, who had resumed their game from the night before.

He strode toward them. “Greetings, my friends.”

The two barely looked up, but stopped their play.

“Elder Robert and Elder John, I believe?”

They nodded.

The vicar reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out
a waterproof pouch. He removed a piece of paper from inside, making no effort
to hide the printing that the superstitious villagers took to be nothing less
than temple magic.

“Little Pond has had no teaching in almost a year,” he said.
“As elders, you know the importance of discipline. I need your help in finding
a candidate.”

The elders looked past him as if wishing he would disappear.

The vicar stayed quiet, letting the silence become a
physical presence.

The two men fidgeted in their chairs. Finally, Elder Robert
spoke. “We’re a small village. Enough have been taught that we can keep the
faith.”

“Children come of age all the time. Surely some need... correction.”

Robert’s voice grew resolute. “We take care of our own and
are loyal to the Temple. We give no reason to believe otherwise.”

The vicar noted the white mourning sash draped across Elder
John’s chest. Perhaps he’d be more pliable.

“I note you’ve had a passing to the light, Elder John.”

John looked away, as if the ache inside was none of the
vicar’s concern. “I lost my wife of forty-four years.”

“I’m sorry. May she dwell in the light everlasting.”

John nodded in gratitude, but the vicar gave no reprieve.

He pulled the paper closer and read deliberately. “Temple
records show two comings of age within the past half year and, as you know, the
records are never wrong.”

John’s voice cracked. “I don’t recall.”

“Why surely you attended the ceremonies.”

“I’m getting old. I can’t remember.”

“Perhaps, if you saw the names....” He turned the paper
toward them so they could read the bold writing done by no man’s hand. “The
records tell of Thomas Bradford and Nathaniel Rush.”

“Two fine young men,” John said after a moment. “From strong
families faithful to the light. The Bradfords work hard on a farm at the south
of town. They’re good folks and kind to their neighbors. Nathaniel’s mother
died in bearing him. He was raised by his father, William, one of the elders.
You met him this morning. You have no cause to bother either.”

The vicar rocked on his toes. “It’s not for you to say...
what’s a bother to the Temple of Light.”

John slid toward the edge of his seat and matched the vicar’s
stare. “William was sent for a teaching when he was young, a week after coming
of age. It was the longest this village has ever known. Is that not enough for
the Temple?”

The vicar pressed his face closer to John’s. “I will get my
teaching today, if not one of these young men, then another.” He glanced at the
paper. “The records show you have grandchildren. A little old, perhaps, but
maybe I should choose one of them.”

John’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair and he
began to rise.

Before he could get to his feet, Elder Robert intervened. “I’ve
heard one making light of the Temple. A teaching might help him lead a more
responsible life.”

John turned to him and licked his dry lips, but said
nothing.

The vicar narrowed his eyes into slits. His mouth twitched
at the corners. “Elder Robert and Elder John, you are true children of light.
Once you give me a name, I’ll need speak of your families no more.”

The elders’ every muscle sagged as they avoided each other’s
gaze.

***

The somber villagers assembled in the square, old and young,
men, women and children. Orah settled on a bench at the rear between Nathaniel
and Thomas, while the elders moved to the front.

As she waited for the ceremony to start, she took stock of
her friends.

Nathaniel sat straight-backed, eyes
unflinching, focused on the altar like a good child of the light. Thomas only
grinned. Both bore the obligations of all males who’d come of age: the
temple-prescribed black tunic beneath the ceremonial robe, the hair trimmed to
the temple-ordained length, and the thin beard marking their jaw line. But that’s
where the similarities ended.

Though Thomas was a few months older, he looked younger.
Where Nathaniel’s whiskers could use filler, only charcoal could make Thomas’s
sand-colored fuzz look like a beard. He had boyish features that seemed like
they might linger well into middle age, and he acted younger too. When they’d
been in school, Thomas loved to chide her for studying too much, but she spent
much of her time keeping him out of trouble and covering up for him when he
misbehaved.

The vicar stepped to the front, and a hush settled over the
villagers. Everyone turned to face the stone altar. Little Pond was too small
to have a building dedicated to the blessing, so its inhabitants had built the
altar at the request of the Temple generations before. With no resident vicar, they
often used it for other purposes, such as holding festival pies. Such use would
have enraged the vicar had he known, but the people of Little Pond took
advantage of what they had.

Now the altar gleamed, covered by a satin cloth, pure white
but for the emblem of the Temple, a yellow orb whose rays beamed down on an
adoring family: father, mother, and child. A gold icon three hands high stood
at its center—an image of the sun.

While her neighbors wasted little time dwelling on the light
or worrying about the darkness—they had enough to do to get by in their daily
lives—all were respectful of the ceremony. They reserved their true awe,
however, for the sun icon. Through it, they heard the grand vicar speaking to
them four times a year from far-off Temple City. Each time, he’d astound them
with his knowledge—babies who were born, couples wed, young people who’d come
of age. It was a true miracle.

The vicar approached the altar to the right of the sun icon,
and faced the congregation with arms raised and bony fingers pointing toward
the heavens.

“Dear friends,” he intoned. “The Temple brings you
greetings. Another season is upon us. Blessed be the light.”

The congregation responded in a monotone. “Blessed be the
light.”

“The grand vicar is the human embodiment of the light in
this world. He sees into your hearts and knows if darkness dwells therein.” The
vicar pivoted toward the icon and stared at its center. “Holiness, is this
village worthy of receiving the blessing?”

Like the others, Orah held her breath—not because the answer
was in doubt, but because the voice emanating from the sun icon always inspired
her. A crackling rose from its metallic center, and children would later claim
it glowed.

“People of Little Pond.” The voice resounded through the
square. “This past season, we have felt your love as you walked in the light,
and so, you have been blessed with a fruitful autumn. We welcome three new
children.”

The disembodied voice went on, listing the names of newborns
along with their parents. As each was mentioned, eyes turned. Heads nodded
approval as if the births were not complete until acknowledged by the Temple.
Afterwards, the chief clergyman recognized one marriage, a cousin of Orah’s to Elder
Robert’s daughter, and the death of Elder John’s wife. The people took it
positively—their communal father dispensing approval and sympathy.

The grand vicar finished with the usual blessing. “May those
newly arrived be welcomed, those departed be remembered, and all be embraced by
the light.”

With this cue, the vicar asked with a tremor in his voice, “Holiness,
are they deserving of the gift of life?”

“The people of Little Pond are deserving.”

The vicar turned to the audience. “Let the elders approach.”

The five elders, including Nathaniel’s father, stepped
forward, with the two oldest, John and Robert, bearing a sack that contained
donations collected in the past week.

“What is it you bring?” the vicar said.

“We give what we can to support the Temple,” Robert
responded.

The vicar took the sack of medicine from his pack and handed
it to the elders in a simultaneous exchange. The medicine was a gift from the
Temple, enough to last until the next blessing. Like every child in Little
Pond, Orah remembered the magic in that sack, white tablets for headaches, pink
powder for stomach ailments, and miraculous blue capsules that healed
infections during cold winter nights. Its contents would be stored in the
village pharmacy and dispensed freely according to need.

“Bless you, people of Little Pond. Through your generosity,
the light shall thrive.” The vicar stuffed the tithe in his pack and turned
toward the icon. “Holiness, will you lead us in the precepts of faith?”

The crowd rose to their feet. When the grand vicar began the
precepts, everyone recited with him.

“Blessed be the light. Blessed be the sun, the source of all
light. Blessed be the moon, the stars, and our own world which revolve around its
light. The light is the giver of life, the darkness of chaos and death. Those
who seek the darkness shall be doomed to darkness never-ending, but those who embrace
the light shall dwell in the light everlasting. While we believe and are true
to the light, the darkness shall never return.”