The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (8 page)

Suddenly, Orah’s voice echoed in his mind.
No illusions
.
His eyes narrowed. “Why would you trust me?”

“I have no choice. When I die, the first clue of the keepers
will die with me, and the chain will be broken. You’re our only hope.”

The moment had come, Nathaniel realized. More than the
decision to run to the mountains or to follow Orah to Temple City, he now faced
the
real
test. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and relaxed.
“I’m ready.”

The old man dragged his cot aside and knelt on the floor. He
then picked at the far wall with his fingernails, and a pebble came loose, revealing
a hidden compartment. He groped inside and pulled out a rolled-up parchment, ordered
Nathaniel to step away, and squeezed the scroll through the peephole.

Nathaniel grasped it as if it were spun glass. “What is it?”

“All you need to begin the search: the city, the symbol, the
pass phrase and the rhyme.”

Nathaniel unrolled a parchment unlike any skin or paper he’d
ever seen, pure white but with a hard sheen, so the surface looked wet but felt
dry. He wanted to believe in the keep, but when he unfurled the scroll, his
doubts returned.

“It’s blank.”

“The words will appear when held over a flame. Don’t worry. The
scroll won’t burn. The words will show for a few seconds and then vanish when
they cool.”

Nathaniel rushed to the candle, but the old man barked for
him to stop. “Not here. Not anywhere near Temple City. They must never learn what’s
on the scroll. Look when you’re far away.”

“How will I understand what it means?”

“That’s the seeker’s task, but I can start you on your way.
Each scroll contains the name of a town and a symbol. Use these to find the
next keeper. After that come the phrase you must speak and the required
response of the keeper. In this way, you’ll know to trust each other.”

A cough racked the first keeper. Only when it subsided did
he continue. “Finally, you’ll find a part of the rhyme that shows the way to the
keep. Each scroll will contain one four line verse. Don’t try to make sense of it
until you’ve discovered the final scroll. The rhyme must be whole to be
understood.”

Nathaniel stared, trying to make the words appear with the
heat from his eyes.

“One last warning: don’t dawdle. The keep’s waited too long
and may already be dying.” More coughing, and when he resumed, his voice
sounded rasping and raw. “I’ve told you all that’s been passed down through the
ages. My twenty years of suffering is nearing an end. My life’s work is done.”

The old man limped to his bed and collapsed.

Nathaniel mouthed a silent prayer, not to the Temple, but to
the light. “Be blessed in the light, first keeper.” He rolled up the scroll, concealed
it in his sock, and lay down.

But he found no rest that night.
Here in this cell, as the candle flickered and his hope dimmed, he’d found what
he’d been searching for his whole life.

Something to change the world.

Thomas leaned against the split rail fence and glared at the
hard ground.

His father had sent him to prepare
the southwest field for planting, though the earth had not fully thawed. Better
than brooding, he’d said.

The teaching had left him weak in body, and this chore he’d
grown up with seemed harder this year—his shoulders burned, and he needed a
moment to rest—but his spirit ached as well. After months of nights haunted by
dreams, he’d begun to find some peace... until his friends had been taken.

He poked at the ground with the spade, rolling a clump of
stubborn sod, but his mind ventured into the dark place where his friends must
be. Memories of his teaching brought nightmares, but the thought of Orah in the
vicar’s cramped cell frightened him more. He’d tried to dissuade Nathaniel from
going, but his friend’s growing bond with Orah defied reason. Now, he had
nothing to do but wait.

Their fates were his fault, the result of his cowardice. His
friends would fight harder than he did and resist longer. Light knows how long
their teachings might last, or, when they returned, how much would remain of
their spirit. Like Nathaniel’s father, he’d bear this guilt for the rest of his
life.

He propped the spade up against the fence and switched to a pitchfork,
lifting it high overhead until his shoulders shuddered. He took aim and pounded
the prongs into the clump again and again. When he could no longer lift his
arms, he stared at the pitchfork, now buried in the frozen earth.

My friends.
How he wished he could help them, if only
he could be as brave.

Nathaniel shifted the pack on his shoulders. Temple servants
had filled it with provisions and slathered it with oil until the leather
gleamed in the sun. The newly restored pack rested soft and supple against his
frame, but he kept fidgeting with the straps to give his hands something to do.

Orah marched three paces in front, her jaw pointing to the
road ahead.

Each time he tried to catch her, she
sped up until he had to jog to keep up. Finally, he conceded and let her walk
alone.

That morning, the deacons had brought her to the city’s
western gate, the one leading to Little Pond. When she’d spotted Nathaniel
approaching, pack on his back, she’d turned to her captors and insisted they
return her to her cell. The bewildered guards assumed she misunderstood and, speaking
slowly, explained she’d been released.

By the time Nathaniel reached the group, she’d started shouting
at them, demanding an audience with the vicars. The deacons told her to go home.
Once a judgment had been handed down, the Temple was to be obeyed.

Nathaniel had grabbed her by the elbow to draw her away, but
she turned on him instead. Taking advantage of the distraction, the deacons slipped
off, leaving the two odd young people and their outlandish village ways on
their own.

Once alone, Nathaniel had tried to persuade her to give up
the fight and come with him. “For now, thank the light, we’re free.”

He’d waited for her to argue, to scold,
to get angry, but she did none of these. Instead, she pressed her lips into a thin
and bloodless line, squared her shoulders toward the west, and glared as if
challenging the horizon. After several awkward moments, she’d stomped off
toward Little Pond.

They’d now been on the road for more than an hour, and she
had yet to say a word. He longed to catch up and face her so he could reveal
the reason for his deceit, but the towers of Temple City still rose behind him in
the distance. He bit his lip and vowed to say nothing more until the accursed place
faded from view.

He’d wait until twilight, at that evening’s campsite, and
hope that when she learned the truth, she’d forgive him.

***

He picked the perfect clearing as the sun settled to the treetops.
A thick layer of pine needles carpeted the ground, good for a soft night’s sleep.
A small stream bubbled nearby, and a rocky outcropping sheltered them from the
road so no passing traveler would see their fire.

Before twilight fell, he went deeper into the forest to gather
firewood. Though Orah still fumed, she remained responsible enough to help with
the chore.

He knelt beside her as she gathered an armful of dead
branches. “Still angry?”

When she refused to answer, he reached across and touched
her for the first time that day. She grasped the kindling like gold, her
forearms tight and unyielding, but he pressed gently until her load clattered
to the mossy earth.

“You’re so stubborn,” he said. “Your anger has made you
blind.”

She spun around and faced him. “What don’t I see, Nathaniel?
The vicars have set the both of us free, neither locked away in a teaching
cell. Would you have me believe they’ve suddenly discovered mercy and let us go
without you bartering your soul?”

He was consumed by anticipation and dread—anticipation of
sharing the story of the keep, and dread she might receive it poorly. How would
she react?

“With all your learning, Orah, have you ever heard of the
keepers?”

Her eyes widened with surprise. Then a hopeful uncertainty crossed
her features, and she shook her head.

In the midst of the trees, as they knelt facing each other,
he poured out the tale: the founding of the Temple, their invention of the darkness,
the eradication of the good along with the evil, the elders who saved their
treasures in a place called the keep, and the generations of keepers who preserved
its secret for the coming of the seekers.

Her expression changed as he spoke, from anger to disbelief,
disbelief to openness, and finally to wonder. By the time he finished, her eyes
had become mirrors reflecting the fading light, as if the dreams of their youth
had come to pass. “How do you know this, Nathaniel of Little Pond?”

He told her of Samuel, kept prisoner for twenty years, the
first of the keepers.

She waited, considering all he said.

She wants to believe,
Nathaniel
thought,
but has one last doubt.

“How do you know the story’s true? What if all those years
in prison addled his brain?”

Without a word, Nathaniel reached into his stocking and pulled
out the scroll.

Her eyes went from mirrors to moons. “What is it?”

“The first clue in the chain.”

She reached out, but he yanked the scroll away. “Be careful.
It’s survived for hundreds of years.”

Orah laughed—a wonder to see again. “I’ll care for it as if
it were you as a baby.”

Once she grasped the scroll, she let her fingers glide along
its surface. “I’ve never seen such a parchment. It ripples like paper but feels
like glass. Is it temple magic?”

“Maybe magic from before the Temple.”

She unrolled the scroll and raised it to her eyes in the dim
light, but her wonder turned into a scowl. “There’s nothing on it. Is this one
of your tricks to distract me from never speaking to you again?”

He drew in a deep breath and prayed the old prisoner hadn’t misled
him. “The first keeper claimed the founders used their magic to hide the clue
on the parchment. To view it, we need to hold it over a flame. The scroll won’t
burn, but the heat will reveal its contents.”

Orah stared at the blank scroll, running her fingertips over
its surface as if touching the words would make them appear. Then she popped up
and rushed off.

“Where are you going?” Nathaniel called after her.

“To make a fire.”

He laughed. “Well you might want to bring some wood with
you.”

She fought back a blush and returned the scroll to Nathaniel.

After collecting their kindling, the
two hurried back to the clearing.

***

By the time they lit the fire, twilight had settled over the
land. Nathaniel found four green branches to make a frame, each as long as his
arm. While he whittled off their twigs, Orah fetched twine from his pack.

“What happened to your pack?” she said. “The leather looks
like new.”

“They cleaned it for my journey.”

“Why would they bother?”

“The benefits bestowed on a future vicar.”

An edge came into her voice. “But you’re never going to be a
vicar.”

“They don’t know that, do they? Come on, now, I’m ready.”

He pressed two sticks together, and Orah bound them with
twine, and then they did the same with the second pair. He held both parallel while
Orah slipped the scroll in between. Finally, they squatted by the fire.

Until this moment, he’d thought of the keep as only a story,
no different than the bedtime tales told by his father. If the clue failed to
appear, they were lost. With nowhere to go, the vicars would punish them
harshly for their deception.

Nathaniel glanced at Orah and hesitated.

She brushed his arm and nodded.

Gripping the ends of the frame, he eased the parchment over the
fire.

He waited. The parchment did not burn, did not even blacken,
but black markings wriggled on its surface, forming themselves into a picture
and words. He watched spellbound until the wood began to smolder, then laid the
frame on the ground within the glow of the firelight.

At once, the wonder of his childhood returned. He whispered as
in a place of worship. “The city, the symbol, the pass phrase and the rhyme.”

Orah raised her brows. “What does that mean?”

“Just as old Samuel said. Look.” He pointed to the first
word. “Adamsville, the city where we’ll find the next keeper.”

Orah brightened. “Adamsville. A town to the east. The shopkeeper
in Great Pond married a woman from there.”

“Do you know how to get there?”

“Not yet, but I can figure it out. What’s next?”

“The symbol, which tells us how to find the keeper within
the city.”

Below the name of the city was a drawing of three identical
objects, two side by side and a third behind and slightly above, each round at
the bottom and tapering to a dome near the top.

“They look like mountains,” Nathaniel said, “but I’ve never
seen any so perfectly formed, and what would mountains be doing in the midst of
a city?” He began to panic. What if he proved too dim-witted to solve the first
clue?

“I know what they are,” Orah said in her I-know-the-answer
voice.

He whirled on her. “Tell me.”

“Not now. I’ll tell you when the time is right.”

“Don’t make me wait, Orah.”

Sparks glimmered in her eyes, reflecting the firelight. “Who
had me waiting all day, worrying he’d bartered his soul to become a vicar?”

Nathaniel lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I did what I thought
best for both of us.”

She lifted his chin with a finger. “Much as I hate to admit
it, you may have been right. What comes next?”

“The pass phrase.” He tapped the next lines.
The first
born says to tell you he is doing well, blessed be the true light. May the true
light shine brightly upon him and disperse the darkness.
“We greet the next
keeper with the first phrase, and he responds with the second, a way to trust
each other.”

Orah turned back to the parchment and chanted the final words
aloud.

To the North, behind the rock face

To the East, towering o’er the lake

To the North, through forest of stone

To the East, the entrance shall be

She glanced up, pleading for an explanation.

He gaped at her open-mouthed and shrugged. “The rhyme that
leads to the keep.”

“What nonsense. It’s not even a proper rhyme.”

As they concentrated, hoping to wring more meaning out of the
words, the letters faded and the parchment once again turned blank.

Nathaniel kept staring, willing the words to return. Then he
remembered the advice of the first keeper: “Each scroll contains one verse of
the rhyme. Don’t try to make sense of the rhyme until you’ve received the final
scroll. The rhyme must be whole to be understood.”

When he glanced up, twilight had flown and night was
ascendant. The time for storytelling had ended, and the two of them readied for
sleep.

As he lay on the pine needle carpet, in the darkness and under
the stars, the seeker’s burden came tumbling down upon him. After so many
generations, he alone had been entrusted with the mystery of the keep—a dream
come true.

Why then, in the darkness and under
the stars, did he feel so small?