The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (4 page)

“Pact of the Ponds,” he said weakly. “No more arguments and
the game will begin.”

“This is no game.” She yanked her hand away and stared beyond
the tree line, as if searching for Thomas in far-off Temple City. “Something
terrible is happening to Thomas. I can sense his loneliness and fear, even at a
distance. Do you believe that?”

Nathaniel nodded. More than once in their years together she’d
seemed able to read his thoughts. “It’s possible... for friends since birth.”

“Can’t we find a way to help? Your father’s an elder. What
does he say?”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth as the shame from that morning rushed
back. He told her what had happened, and she had the same questions.

“How will he change?” she said.

“He might be sadder.”

“A sadder Thomas? What a horrible thought. Why didn’t you
press for more?”

“I tried. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell, but I said
things I never should have said. Since Thomas was taken, we’re all in a foul
mood.” He glanced at the hut skeleton. “Why don’t we cover the shelter now, you
and I? It’ll cheer us up and give Thomas a pleasant surprise when he returns.”

A crease formed between Orah’s brows and her eyes narrowed. “Our
special ceremony without Thomas? How can you think such a thing? He’s gone less
than two weeks and you’d forget him?”

First he’d snapped at his father, and now Orah had snapped
at him. The world had gone awry. This morning, he’d been angry with his father
for one of the few times in his life. He’d
never
been angry with Orah
before. “This is the Temple’s fault, with all their rules and ceremonies.”

“You mustn’t say such things.”

“Why not? No one’s listening.”

“Because the Temple protects us from the darkness.” She
recited from the book of light, a verse the elders used to admonish children. “
Beware
the stray thought. Like water dripping on rock, it can erode the strongest mind
and open a path for the darkness.
”

“We don’t even know what the darkness is.”

“The darkness is the time before the light, a time of chaos
and death.”

He stepped toward her. “That’s what we learned to recite in
school, but what is it really? You’re the smartest person I know. Can you tell
me what the darkness is?”

He studied her as she pondered his question. Her looks came
from the Weber side of the family, with olive skin and delicate but
unremarkable features, more than offset by flaring dark eyes. The sole gift
from her mother was a striking red tint to her hair. Together, they combined
into a fierce beauty, especially when outraged like now.

At last, her outrage vanished and she came closer, enough so
he felt her breath. “Yes, Nathaniel, I can tell you. The darkness is when a son
hurts the father he loves, when friends are separated, and when those who care the
most about each other raise their voices in anger.” Her expression hardened,
and her delicate features disappeared. “By that meaning, I swear the darkness
will never return.”

The strong words narrowed his vision, so he saw her now as
through a tunnel. When the moment passed, he noticed something cold on his
cheeks.

A light snow had begun to fall.

As festival approached, Orah came to agree with Nathaniel.
Covering the NOT tree would affirm their friendship with Thomas rather than deny
it. Despite her distress at his absence, she had no way to help. So the day
before festival, she and Nathaniel gathered to wrap the structure in green to
welcome Thomas home.

Before they entered the forest, Nathaniel fetched an axe
from the woodshed while she rummaged about for twine. They met as dark settled
upon the clearing outside the village.

Stars winked into being and a moon rose, less than half-full
but bright enough to light their task. She picked a branch lush with needles and
prodded Nathaniel to chop it free. As it fell, she grabbed the end, and
together they dragged it to the shelter. After she located the perfect spot,
they bound the branch to the slats with twine before returning to the woods. In
less than an hour, they had remade the bare structure into an enclosed dwelling
that seemed, under the stars, to have stood there forever.

Orah ducked inside and waited amused as Nathaniel crawled in
on all fours. Beneath the cover of branches, her breathing quieted as if she’d
entered a holy place. The smell of freshly-cut balsam filled the air like incense,
a comforting memory of childhood.

Custom prescribed a blessing when they’d finished their
work. This year was Orah’s turn. “May the light bless our shelter.” She stopped
at the tired old phrase, uttered without thought. This year’s blessing had to
be real. “Not the light the Temple claims to own, but the true light that burns
in our hearts.” She grasped Nathaniel’s hands and spoke for the both of them. “Dear
friend Thomas, we’re sorry to have covered this shelter without you, but know we
have not forgotten you. We’re here in the darkness with you. Not the darkness
of the Temple, but a warm and loving darkness that will soon embrace the three
of us again.”

Nathaniel gasped at her statement—too close to heresy.

She squeezed his hands to regain focus. “Thomas, we are with
you. Say it with me Nathaniel, so it will be stronger.”

Both inhaled deeply and spoke. “Thomas, we are with you.”
Then she added, “Return to us safely and soon.”

In what moonlight filtered through the branches, the puffs from
Nathaniel’s breath filled the space between them.

***

For as long as Orah could remember, she’d looked forward to
festival, but Nathaniel’s coming of age and Thomas’s absence made this year
feel different. She’d tossed in bed last night, a cloud of uncertainty hanging
over her, but when she awoke this morning, the usual excitement filled the air.

The celebration began at noon with footraces. The youngest competed
first, followed by the older children, and finally those of age, from seventeen
to twenty-five. Boys and girls raced separately, so she and Nathaniel could
cheer each other on.

She’d always been fast, but now, as the oldest in her group,
she managed to win all three of her races—the sprint around the commons, the
longer run through the village, and a scramble between obstacles. The scramble
required more agility than speed, and favored the younger girls, but this year
she competed with a special intensity.

Age worked against Nathaniel. As a new adult, he competed
with men whose muscles had thickened and minds had grown accustomed to the
length of their limbs. Deriving no inspiration from her victories, he ran
poorly in the first two events. Then, in the scramble, he fell at the finish,
lunging in an attempt to make the final three and skinning his knee.

When all the races had finished, the elders awarded prizes
to the winners—by tradition an elaborate wreath made from the flax that grew
around Little Pond.

Flax filled a vital need for the people of the Ponds,
harvested for both its fiber and seeds, but in the spring when its blossoms
bloomed, families would go out among the stalks and search for the most
beautiful flowers—the whites and lavenders, and the blues valued most of all. Orah
recalled long June evenings with her father before he died, sitting and weaving
stalks into rings. Then the flowers would be hung on the walls to dry, looking
like the wings of a butterfly. A simple prize, but even the oldest decorated
their cottages with festival wreaths won long ago.

The elders often delegated the awarding of prizes to someone
close to the winner—a parent or, for the older ones, a betrothed. When the time
came for Orah to receive her due, Elder William Rush called on his son.
Nathaniel gaped at him, but his father smiled, offered the victor wreaths and
gestured toward Orah.

Everyone knew Thomas had been away a long time—longer than
the usual teaching—and most had watched the three friends grow up together. The
crowd murmured its approval as Nathaniel placed the wreaths on Orah’s head so
gently he disturbed not a hair.

But both Orah and Nathaniel had forgotten the last part of
the tradition: male presenters were expected to kiss a female winner, once on
each check. Their neighbors, however, had a better memory and urged them on.
Nathaniel took on a look that said he preferred to be elsewhere, but in
response to the crowd, he rested a hand on Orah’s arm and leaned in to brush
each of her cheeks with his lips.

She laughed and rolled her eyes, but a sudden glow warmed
her skin, and a flush of crimson added to the color of the flowers.

***

By the time twilight came, Orah waited eagerly for the
feast. All the races had been run. Happy winners pranced about, sporting
wreaths on their heads. Food and drink covered every surface, from the railings
of the commons to the Temple altar. All that remained was the lighting of the
bonfire and the festival tree.

A spruce stood in the village square with candles attached
to every branch.
Would the vicar disapprove of this tradition as well?
He
never joined them for festival and no villager ever discussed the celebration
with him, so the unseen and unspoken was allowed.

The lighting of the tree started at the top. This year, the
elders chose Nathaniel to help. He planted himself at the base while strong
arms hoisted a nimble ten-year-old onto his shoulders—a role once filled by
Thomas at a similar age. The boy paused to balance and then straightened.
Nathaniel’s father passed a pole up to him with a flame attached to its tip. He
kindled the topmost candle and worked his way down. Once the top third of the
tree blazed with light, the boy vaulted to the ground and many hands lit the
rest.

Orah watched open-mouthed as one by one, the burning candles
chased away twilight. Then Elder Robert grabbed the burning pole and, amidst an
air of expectation, tossed it into the bonfire stack. Within seconds the dry
wood crackled, and the flames shot higher than the festival tree.

A cheer went up. While a few of the revelers stayed to watch
the fire spread, most headed for the food, but as they turned, they froze in
place. A hush rolled across the crowd, and Orah stretched for a better view.

There stood Thomas at the edge of the firelight, lingering like
a part of the shadows.

What did they do to him?
His pale skin stretched over
cheeks so hollow that his face showed no sentiment save exhaustion.

The adults hesitated to approach, and their children caught
their fear. Even Nathaniel wavered, too stunned to move.

But Orah rushed forward. “Thomas, you’ve returned to
brighten our festival. What a gift.” She reached out to touch him, but he
recoiled.

“A drink.” His voice rasped as if he hadn’t used it in days.
“May I have a drink?”

Someone offered a cup. His hands shook so much that the
liquid spilled on his soiled tunic. After two gulps, he glanced at the festival
tree and began to well up.

Nathaniel finally pushed through the crowd to join Orah. “Have
you been to Temple City? Did you see it?”

Thomas growled like an offended stranger. “I saw nothing but
darkness.”

Two elders placed restraining hands on Orah and Nathaniel.

“He’ll need time,” Elder Robert said. “Give him a few days.”

Orah pulled away and pressed closer. “What is it, Thomas?
Did they hurt you?”

Thomas’s head snapped around. He lifted his chin and straightened
as if about to deliver a sermon. “The Temple of Light does not harm its
children. Only in the darkness was violence done. The vicars have shown me the
truth. Horrible things happened in the darkness. I’ll dedicate my life to
ensure it never returns.”

The elders muttered how the teaching had made him wise
beyond his years, but now he needed to rest. Gentle, older hands led him away.

“He’s home at last,” Nathaniel said as their neighbors strove
to regain their festive mood, “but he’s no longer our Thomas. Only time will
tell whether what’s been taken from him returns or is forever gone.”

Forever gone
. Orah shivered.
Nathaniel’s wish has come
to pass.

Something had finally happened in Little Pond.

Winter settled on the Ponds and into the bones of its people.
No blizzards blew in from the mountains, but a light snow fell every few days,
leaving the pathways coated in white. Twilight seemed to come right after noon,
and the dark and cold stalked everyone.

For the farmers, winter meant idle time. By the first
snowfall, they’d completed the chores saved until after the harvest—cottage repairs
or fence mending—and the few animals they kept took a small effort each day. The
indoor season provided a chance to create little luxuries, to tool leather or
carve wood, and to catch up on reading.

Only the Temple provided the printed word, and the vicar
frowned on the owning of books. On the rare occasions when he brought a new one,
he placed it on the shelves in the commons to be shared by all. But during
winter months, the shelves lay empty. Neighbors passed books to each other
without ever returning them to the commons.

Orah had read them all, each a variation on the same theme--praise
the light and damn the darkness. She reread them anyway, hoping to gain a fresh
perspective.

When not reading, she consumed most of her daylight hours
weaving or contemplating her needle as it dipped in and out of the resulting
cloth, sewing garments to trade. Once a week when weather allowed, she trekked
the two hours to Great Pond with a few bolts of fabric to barter, and returned
with a pack laden with spindles of yarn.

Though the people of the Ponds stayed inside more and saw
their neighbors less, she managed to meet Nathaniel every day. As for Thomas,
he never ventured from home.

She let him be, heeding the caution of the elders:
He’ll
return to himself by spring, though he won’t be quite the same.

This gave her little comfort.

Occasionally she’d invite him to join her and Nathaniel,
leaving notes with a place and time. She offered to help or listen. She
promised not to judge.

He never came.

***

William Rush watched his son with concern. Nathaniel had
become withdrawn since Thomas’s return, and the gloom of midwinter seemed to affect
him more deeply this year.

The idea first came up during a visit to Susannah Weber. He’d
brought over a bushel of grain to trade for a new coat for Nathaniel, whose
growth had left his sleeves two fingers short of his wrists. William found he
could talk to the affable woman more easily than to his sullen offspring and quickly
discovered that Orah shared the same malady.

Susannah Weber looked different from her daughter, with
freckled skin and a short head of red hair, but she was just as direct. “Well
William, the time has come to intervene.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Leave the grain. Orah and I will bring the coat to
Nathaniel tomorrow at dinnertime.”

He nodded, slowly at first, and then more rapidly. “I can
make a meal.”

“And I’ll bake bread.”

Maybe together, they might lift the two young people out of
their low spirits.

***

Nathaniel jumped at the knock on the door. He’d been balancing
on his toes all evening, waiting for Orah to arrive. While he always looked
forward to her visits, he especially relished them now as they broke up the
long winter days.

She handed him the new coat and helped him try it on. It fit
perfectly. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, and at first
everyone relaxed, but once they sat down for the meal, the conversation wilted.
The parents tried to carry the discussion, but the mood around the table
dampened every attempt. Eventually, the room quieted until no sound remained
save the clinking of forks on plates.

After they finished eating, Nathaniel’s father suggested
they settle by the fireplace while he prepared tea. Nathaniel tossed two logs
on the fire. The wood sputtered and cast off sparks as if resisting the flames,
and then erupted into a peak of yellows and reds. Soon, with their chairs close
by, all felt a warm glow on their faces.

After a respectful pause, Orah’s mother dove in. “So how is
young Thomas?”

“We don’t know,” Nathaniel said. “He won’t let us near.”

“He’s not the first to be taken. Recovering from a teaching takes
time. He may need help.”

“But the elders told us to leave him alone.”

“I heard what they said, but some wounds don’t heal on their
own.”

Nathaniel threw his hands in the air. “Everyone tells us
what to do and what not to do, but no one will tell us what happened. How can
we help without knowing?”

Orah’s mother grabbed the poker and prodded the perfectly
good fire. After a painful silence, she stood and hovered over Nathaniel’s
father.

“They’re right, William. It’s time we tell them why we heed
the words of the vicars... and why we hate them as well.”

Hate the vicars?
Nathaniel knit his brows. Not the
usual parental sermon. He steeled himself, waiting for them to impart some
harsh truth.

“We’re loath to talk about it, William, but for their sake,
we must.”

After a puzzling hesitation, Nathaniel’s father nodded.

Orah’s mother shifted over to Nathaniel and took three long
breaths as if buying time to compose her words. “The Temple took your father for
a teaching just after coming of age. It lasted long, weeks longer than Thomas’s.
When he came home, he was all closed up inside. The Temple had stripped the joy
from him, but as the elders say, he recovered in time. He’s grown into a fine
man and a good father, despite the teaching and the loss of your mother.”

Nathaniel grimaced and sucked air in through his teeth.
My
father taken, and longer than Thomas?

Before he could respond, Orah’s mother moved on to her
daughter. “They took
your
father as well. We’d grown up together, much
like you and Nathaniel.” Her eyes glistened, and she needed a breath to
continue. “My sweet young man... when he returned from Temple City, something
in him had changed. We married, you were born, but he was never the same. The teaching
haunted him in his dreams. He’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold
sweat, and I had no way to comfort him. After he died so young, the vicar tried
to console me, but I refused to listen. Though I’d never shout it from the bell
tower, I blamed—I still blame—the Temple and their teaching. Your father had a
gentle soul, and the vicars broke his heart.”

Her chin sagged to her chest, and she collapsed in her chair.
Orah squeezed her mother’s arm.

As Nathaniel struggled to moderate his breathing, his father
buried his face in his hands.
What could have happened so many years ago to
affect him so?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nathaniel said, careful to keep
the edge from his voice.

His father’s hands began to move, scrubbing his brow as if
trying to remove a stain. When they dropped to his lap, his eyes were red. “I
was ashamed, Nathaniel. You don’t know what a teaching’s like. They show you
deep into the darkness so you appreciate why the Temple stands. You see horrors
beyond imagination.”

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

Orah asked what Nathaniel feared to ask. “Why ashamed?”

Nathaniel’s father licked his lips as if recalling the
thirst. At last, he stood and gazed 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 offer a limb just to
go home, but the vicars want more.”

Nathaniel sputtered, hardly able to spit out the words. “If it
made no sense, 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 since you were no taller
than my knee. That’s what the vicars demand from you before the teaching ends.
To go home, you must surrender your courage and honor.”

“I don’t understand,” Nathaniel said.

His father spoke so softly he had to strain to hear, but a
single word rang out: “Betrayal.”

“Betrayal? Who could you have betrayed?”

Orah’s mother jumped up. “Enough, William. You’ve told more
than I intended.”

He shook her off, and his back stiffened. “To end the
teaching, you must betray a friend. Why does Thomas avoid you? More than
likely, he betrayed you.”

Orah’s mother blocked him from their view and stepped closer.
Her voice rose with each word. “You must never blame him. He had no choice.”

Nathaniel’s eyes widened as the fire buzzed and flared. “What
happens next?”

“Most who are betrayed are never taken. The vicars find
enough candidates on their own. Time passes, we grow older. The betrayal
becomes nothing more than an entry in the Temple records. That’s why I finally
told. They led me to believe that....” He turned away, unable to finish.

Orah let out a slight, almost imperceptible gasp, and then clutched
the edge of her chair and rose. Her lips contorted around a single unbearable
question. “Who did
you
betray?”

Nathaniel failed to comprehend. What had she heard that he
had not?

Her mother grabbed her by the arm, but she twisted away.

“Who,” Orah said, shouting now, “did you betray?”

Her mother waved wildly. “Enough William. Say no more.”

He brushed her aside and came to within an arm’s length of
Orah. Their eyes met, and his expression melted into shame.

Orah let out a shriek and fled from the cottage.

Silence filled the emptiness left by her flight. Then the
topmost log of the fire settled, crushing the embers below. The pyramid of
flame dropped as well, and the room dimmed.

***

A few days later, Nathaniel attended Orah’s coming-of-age. Though
not as big a celebration as festival, the occasion still bore the weight of a
major life event.

While awaiting the guest of honor, he kept twisting around,
hoping to spot Thomas. He peered past the crowd of well-wishers, friends and
relatives hugging and murmuring good cheer as they awaited the ceremony. No
sign of Thomas.

He wanted to tell his friend he knew what had happened and
welcome him home. He and Orah had discussed what they’d learned, trying to
understand.
Impossible
. He would never understand the teaching, but one
thing he knew with certainty—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, three female
relatives accompanied her inside the commons. Moments later she reemerged, the
gray clothing of youth shed. She now wore the black vest and long dark skirt of
age—a full child of light.

Next, Elder Robert stated the precepts of the Temple, one at
a time, waiting as she repeated each, even though she’d known them since first
school. Finally, Robert led the assembly 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. What struck him most, however, was how she’d grown. Coming of age
had added a fierce intensity to her normal seriousness. The Temple had changed
his two friends. Had it changed him as well?

At the end, Elder Robert marked Orah’s name on a card that
the next courier would take to Temple City.

Now came the time to celebrate. Most people proceeded to the
feast, but Nathaniel lingered to congratulate Orah. He grasped her by the waist
and swung her around, and as she flew, she caught a glimpse of something over
his shoulder.

“Thomas,” she whispered.

Nathaniel set her down gently and turned. Thomas lurked in
the last row like a distant relative from another village. The two of them
approached their friend as if coming upon a bird they wished to view more
closely but not frighten away.

Orah tried on several expressions before she settled on
gratitude. “Oh Thomas, I’m so thankful you’ve come. You’ve given me the best
present I could have.”

Thomas took a small step toward them. Nathaniel froze in
place, afraid that any motion might scare him away. He glimpsed a hint of his
friend behind the mask the teaching had imprinted on him, but Thomas came no closer.

Remembering his father’s distress, Nathaniel chose his words
carefully. “We’ll always be your friends, no matter what you’ve done. We’re here
when you need us. We’ll listen when you want to tell.”

At the front of the commons, the feast awaited. Relatives shouted
out to 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.

***

As dusk settled on the village, Orah tired of entertaining, so
Nathaniel drew her away to the refuge of the NOT tree. He brushed the snow off
a flat rock outside the shelter, and the two huddled together for warmth.

“What does this coming of age mean?” Orah said. “I feel no
different. You’ve been of age longer. Can you tell me what it means?”

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

“I’ll tell you what I think, Nathaniel of Little Pond. It
means two things. First, we can no longer harbor illusions. We must let them
fade into the thin air from whence they came. Second, we’ll need to make
choices, and that will be the hardest.”

A crunch of snow on the path, and Thomas emerged from the
woods. Nathaniel waited, wondering at all the times he’d longed for change and how,
now, he ached for things to return to the way they were.