There Comes A Prophet (28 page)

Orah scoured her mind. What else might the Temple have in store for them? Then it dawned on her. She'd focused on the wonders of the keep but had overlooked the horrors.

She approached the screen apprehensively.

"Did the vicars keep weapons?"

There was a pause. When the helper re-emerged, his answer was the word they'd all come to dread-unknown.

An obvious next question occurred to her, but she tried to resist. Anger overcame her doubts.

"Can you provide the seekers with weapons?"

This time, the screen blanked. When it brightened again, there stood the woman who had first welcomed them to the keep. Apparently, Orah's question required a response from one of the elders. The keepmaster's lips were stretched into a thin, unyielding line.

"The council knew the question of weapons would arise. We debated among ourselves and decided it was the abuse of knowledge that brought the world to its current state. It seemed foolhardy to encourage the seekers to start down that path. We determined to eliminate weapons from the keep. Of course, the foundation is here for you to re-invent them if you choose, but we'll not be party to it.

"Ignorance was the only weapon the Temple of Light needed to overturn our world. Knowledge should be your weapon to reverse the damage."

The image faded.

Knowledge should be your weapon
...

Orah's plan was coming together, but she needed a way to spread the truth. On a whim, she asked to print a picture of a temple tree. As the paper slid out of the wall slot, an idea came to her.

"Is there a way to print my own words?"

"Yes," the helper replied. "Say the word 'record' and as you speak, you'll see your words appear on the screen. Edit them as you wish. When you're done, say 'print.'"

"Can I print more than one copy?"

"As many as you wish. Say 'print' followed by the number of copies."

It was nearing dinnertime. She'd be late if she tried now. But she was so close. She said the word "Record."

"Nathaniel and Thomas are my dearest friends."

The words appeared as she spoke them.

"I would do anything to protect them from harm."

The new sentence was added to the first.

"Change the word 'harm' to read 'the Temple of Light.'"

Instantly, the last phrase changed.

"Print."

Immediately, a page came out with her exact words in temple lettering.

"Print five times."

Five more copies came out. She read each to make sure they were correct. Not a single flaw.

A new thought struck her. "How do you turn my voice into words on a page?"

"Your voice is recorded and stored. Then the sound is interpreted into text that can be printed or displayed on the screen."

"May I listen to it?"

The helper replied that she was to say play instead of print. She determined to try.

"Record." She stopped to think through the words, then spoke them tentatively. "May the light protect my dear Nathaniel from what I'm planning to do." Then after a respectful pause, she said, "play."

Her voice was unfamiliar, and she was surprised how timid it sounded. But worse, she was embarrassed by the passion of it-the way she spoke Nathaniel's name.

"How do I make it go away?"

"Say 'erase.'"

She did, and was relieved when the helper confirmed it was gone.

Her stomach rumbled. She suppressed her hunger with an iron will as thoughts tumbled around in her mind and arranged themselves into a vision. She'd always been organized, but never before did she have to plan for a revolution. There were still unknowns. Many risks. But for the first time, she believed it was possible. She gave the order again.

"Record."

A shiver started in the small of her back and traveled up her spine. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath and began to speak, her voice becoming firmer with each syllable as the words burned into the screen.

It read, "The Truth about the Darkness."

The Potential for Greatness

Orah's planning was going well, but she worried about Thomas. Over the summer, she and Nathaniel had come to value what the keep had to offer. Thomas had not. With no idea what was at stake, he'd surely vote no. As the deadline approached, she dreaded the choice: forsake the keepmasters or abandon Thomas.

She decided to provoke the issue over dinner.

"Summer's ending, Thomas, and soon you'll have to choose. If you'd like, I'd be happy to guide you through the keep. In the two weeks left, you might still learn enough to make the appropriate choice."

"What makes you think your choice is appropriate?" he said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I was only trying to remind you there's not much time left to use the screens. They'll give you a better perspective."

"What perspective is that? Nathaniel found maps that show an ocean we can never cross. You learned to predict the movement of the stars, but we can't change them. Have you solved any problem or invented anything new, other than finding ways to blame the Temple for all the world's ills?"

Orah winced. Too close to the truth. She'd learned much but mastered little, falling short of the keepmasters' expectations. Based on a belief in potential, she was about to cast her lot for a dangerous and improbable venture. She glanced at Nathaniel for support. His shake of the head was intended to calm her down but only fired her up. Better to confront Thomas now than on decision day.

"At least we've tried, Thomas. What have you accomplished?"

Thomas displayed the grin that had infuriated her since childhood.

"I've mastered my own subject, different from yours, and I've gone beyond it."

"Are you going to amuse us again with stories about custard?"

"Don't belittle my accomplishments until you've heard them. If you'd like, I can show you now."

He shoved his meal aside and went to the door, waiting at the threshold for his friends. Dumbfounded, Orah shrugged and followed, with Nathaniel trailing behind.

Thomas led them through the keep, apparently more familiar with it than she'd realized. With no hesitation, he found the anteroom for art and went down the corridor to music. In the viewing area, he asked them to be seated, while he remained standing alongside the screen. Once they were settled, he bypassed the helper and announced some foreign sounding words followed by a number.

The screen came to life. On it appeared a gathering of musicians holding instruments unlike anything Orah had ever seen. A man who seemed to be their leader called them to order with a small wand. The musicians sat at the ready. Hands positioned saw-like sticks over ancient strings banned long ago. Those with wind instruments raised them to their lips. With a smile on his face, Thomas took out his flute and did the same.

They began to play, and Thomas played with them note for note.

It was a magnificent sound, impossible to duplicate with the temple-sanctioned drum and two flutes. But the music was complex. Even Thomas could not have mastered it without weeks of practice. Now Orah understood how he'd spent his days, and the time had not been wasted. These must have been the best musicians of their age and Thomas was their peer.

At the end, the music soared like ships taking off to the stars. The musicians went silent. Instruments were set down. But Thomas continued to play, enhancing the melody and going beyond it to melodies of his own creation.

Thomas had been right, and Orah could only applaud. Here was the reason the keepmasters had locked themselves away for fifty years-innovation reborn. But for Thomas, there was no history or politics-only music. He was lost in his own world, and it was sublime.

***

Nathaniel cradled the device in his hand. Orah had made remarkable progress, and this was the final stroke-an opaque cube with rounded edges, slightly larger than his fist and made of the same substance as the deacon's star. As he stared, trying to see to its core, it took on the color of water. On one end, there was a red dot and a tiny lever. It had no other features.

"Are you sure it'll work?"

"Yes," Orah said with only a trace of doubt. "The keepmasters have assured me. We only need to record the words and it will transmit our message at the proper time."

"And what are these for?" He pointed to the dot and lever.

"The device is too small to retain much power from the sun. So it has its own source of power but with limited duration. The helper said we should turn it on only when we're ready."

"How long?"

"He couldn't be exact. With no direct sunlight, a month at most. With some exposure, maybe more."

Nathaniel had spent the day with Orah composing messages. On the table lay the results-four sheets of paper. All had the style of a Temple bulletin except for a title on top and a signature at the bottom. The title described the content, beginning with
The Truth about
followed by the Temple claim being disputed-the darkness, teachings, medicines and temple trees. The signature read simply:
The Seekers of Truth
.

These would be the portents that aroused the people. The cube would be the proof. All that remained was to record the message. He handed Orah the script they'd crafted, but she declined.

"I've heard my voice from the screens," she said. "No one would follow me."

"You underestimate yourself."

"Trust me, Nathaniel, your voice is stronger. They're more likely to listen to you."

He began to argue but stopped as the realization came crashing down. The one who placed his voice in the cube would be interrupting the human embodiment of the light in this world. It was a death warrant.

He held out his hand for the script.

"Show me what to do."

***

Thomas entered the sleeping booth and ordered the helper to lower the slab. He recalled that first night, how he worried it would be too hard but found it more comfortable than his bed back home.

He lay still, slowing his breathing and waiting for the keep to dim the lights. But after a restless minute, he thought better of it and ordered the helper to leave them on. Aside from avoiding nightmares, he had lots to think about.

Nathaniel and Orah were committed to taking on the Temple. They'd become secretive in the past few days and now, instead of researching the keep independently, they worked together. Though the debate would wait until tomorrow, their decision had been made. All that remained was to determine his fate.

Despite the bright lights, exhaustion overcame him. His eyelids drooped, and his mind began to replay scenes from a younger day. He recalled how the traveling peddler would come to Little Pond each spring and bring some curiosity to attract a crowd. One year, he placed a wooden box on the ground and urged everyone to gather round. Thomas, as one of the youngest, took a seat in the front. With a flourish, the peddler sprung open the box, and out popped a squirrel on a leash.

With one hand, the peddler held the end of the leash and with the other, he played a penny whistle. The squirrel began dancing to the music. At the end of each refrain, the peddler yanked on the leash and the squirrel reared up on its hind legs, looking for an instant like a grotesque little man, tiny fingers grappling at the air and eyes bulging out.

People clapped and children laughed, but Thomas was horrified. That evening, he was too upset to eat. His father scolded him, explaining that a squirrel was not deserving of so much concern; he needed to learn to accept the order of things. But that night, Thomas cried himself to sleep.

He shook off the memory, sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His friends were smarter than him and braver too. But he knew something they'd overlooked: as soon as they made this decision, they were ruined. Once they left the keep, their fate would be sealed. Orah's careful planning might buy them a few weeks, but eventually they'd be caught and punished. Then their only hope would be to barter the secret of the keep.

The keepmasters had done their share of harm. And though he was furious at the vicars, he had to admit the Temple had done some good. If he was uncertain which side was in the right, better to avoid confronting authority. No. Attacking the Temple was not worth the risk. Better to yield to the order of things.

But most of all, he worried about his perspective. Was it his own or clouded by the teaching as Orah claimed? Had he now become the dancing squirrel, with the vicars tugging the leash?

***

Decision day. Thomas suggested they meet outdoors, in the place where they'd entered the Temple of Truth less than three months before. They settled on the landing with the gold plaque, on the topmost of the fourteen stairs.

It was a near-perfect September day. A warm breeze blew through the gap formed by the skeletons of once-great buildings. The blue sky was enhanced by a few wispy clouds that formed chevrons along the boulevard as if pointing the way home.

Thomas sat between his friends and gazed at the bleak landscape.

"So unlike Little Pond. By now, we'd be taking our final swim of the year. The water would still be warm, but the cold air would convince us to stay out until next summer."

Nathaniel picked up the thought.

"Soon our neighbors will take to the hills for apple-picking. Remember how we used to pick-ten in the bag, one in our mouths. They were so crisp, they cracked when you bit into them. By evening we all had stomach aches."

Orah was in no mood for nostalgia. "Nothing can compete with childhood. But going back to being a child isn't one of our choices. The options before us are: stay in the keep, negotiate with the vicars or fight for change. Staying here doesn't work and we'd be fools to trust the vicars. That leaves one choice."

Thomas stroked the granite on which he sat. "Can't you think of another way, one that leads us back to our old lives? I'd give anything to be sitting on a log instead of this hard stone, dangling my feet in the pond."

Orah stared out as if searching for a different answer, then gave up.

"Sorry, Thomas. I have no other ideas. The vicars will never let us roam freely, no matter what we offer in exchange. Look how they treated the first keeper, and he had just one scroll. Only confronting them can give us a chance to go home."