Phoenix Without Ashes (15 page)

“Rachel—” Louder than a whisper.

“Is someone there? Who is it?” Her words were sleep-slurred.

“It’s me, Rachel.”

“Devon?” She glanced over her shoulder and then back intently at the tree. “Be quiet lest Ruth awaken.”

Devon said, “I have much to tell you.”

“Ssh.”

He lowered his voice. “I’ve seen wonders few would believe. But I’ve come back to get you.”

“Devon, Elder Micah has declared you to be an agent of chaos. The men have hunted you each day since you disappeared. The Creator’s machine speaks against you.”

“I know... I know...” said Devon wearily. “We all live under the rule of the Elders. But they’re
wrong,
Rachel. So wrong, you can’t know.”

“The Creator’s machine speaks of a death decree—”

“Rachel, listen to me. I’ve been outside of this little hundred-kilometer world. Everything I dreamed about in the hills, everything I wondered about is true. I’ve seen such wonders. The stars, and the black of space, and the inconceivable size of this great Ark we ride.”

Rachel said, “You’re frightening me, Devon. Perhaps they’re right; maybe you
are
a child of evil.”

“Do you believe that?”

She hesitated. “I don’t care if you are.”

“Then listen to me,” he said. He wanted to talk. Everything the sphere projector and holo narrator had told him, he wanted to spill out. “Listen, the Elders, your parents, all the rest... they are blind. They see only what they wish to see. As long as they are told what to do and their crops come in hardy, they don’t care how the world is run. They are little people, and they are doomed because of their worship of ignorance.”

“Devon, Ruth—”

“No! Listen, this is important, more important even than us.” He gulped a breath. “The Creator was a metalsmith who devised ways for structuring the sky so it would never rust or corrode or fall. The Creator was something called an environmentalist who plotted our world and all the others on graphs so they would run for a thousand cycles without breaking down.”

Rachel said, “I don’t know what these words mean!”

“The Creator was a philanthropist who knew she would die when the Earth died, and she gave all her wealth to set this metal Ark afloat in a sea of darkness. There was an accident, Rachel. A terrible thing that killed those I who
really
ran the ship; not the Elders, but
crew,
men and women like us... and the accident threw us all back, like barbarians, and we spent four hundred cycles becoming I what we are today... so much less than what we
need
to be, to survive—”

She interrupted him. “Stop! Please, Devon, you’re upsetting me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to—”

“It’s not those things. I don’t care what new dreams you’ve had in the hills and what wonders you’ve encountered. It’s the Elders—”

“Rachel—”

“—and it’s the Creator’s machine. Do you want the death decree to become a surety? And that it will if Elder Micah should hear you speak of this. Devon, all these strange dreams you mention—”

“They’re not dreams,” he said. “They are real and they can’t be escaped or wished away.”

“I fear for you,” said Rachel.

“I fear for us. Even should Micah and the others take my life, not one of them would live more than five cycles. Not anybody, not even—” He chopped off the word, unwilling even to say it.

Rachel leaned from the window and put out her hand. Still clutching one solid hold, Devon extended his right arm. Their hands met in space and their fingers plaited together. Devon welcomed the warmth of the touch.

“I wish that I could help you,” she said.

“There is a way,” he said, “now.”

She waited silently.

“During my exile... the hill on which we met. Have they searched there?”

She nodded. “Two days ago. Tomorrow the men will search the hills in the north.”

“Then I’ll go back to that hill. I need time to think out what I wish to do. Will you bring me food?”

“Of course,” she said, disengaging her fingers. “Just a moment.” Rachel disappeared from the black rectangle of window.

Devon tried to estimate how long she was gone. He silently counted up to sixty by thousands. Five times. Six. He thought he could see the first faint glow of dawn in the east. He hoped it was only his imagination.

“Devon?”

He turned back to the window.

“Can you catch this if I throw it?”

“I’ll try.” He took a firmer grip on the limb above. “Is it heavy?”

“No.” She tossed the bundle in a short arc. He caught it neatly.

“What is it?”

“Bread, cheese, several apples picked from the tree in which you perch, some strips of dried beef. Now wedge that in a fork; I have something else.” She threw him something soft and bound tightly with cord. “It’s a quilted comforter. The autumn darkness grows chillier nightly.”

“Won’t your parents know?”

She laughed softly. “There are many apples, much cheese; the bread is stale. The comforter is a spare for my sister and me to use when the winter arrives.”

“Thank you,” said Devon.

“I will try to bring you more,” she said. “Perhaps I can come tomorrow, after vespers.”

“I wish I could kiss you.”

“I too, Devon. I love you.” Then she quietly shut the window.

Devon had to shoo Dog back when he reached the edge of Aram’s property. Dog retreated reluctantly after he was tossed a bit of cheese from the precious packet of food. Devon waited for his own meal until he had gained the hills.

TWENTY

Aram and his family were awake and functioning an hour before dawn. Both Rachels, Old and Young, began preparing breakfast. When that was done, they would start cooking the midday meal for the men who would arrive in another hour to help Aram with his harvest. Aram and his neighbors had willingly participated for a few days in the search for mad Devon. But time was time and the wheat would not wait. So the family prepared for the arrival of the harvesters. Aram and Ruth fed the horses, milk cows, and the other beasts.

The kitchen steamed with the rich odors of ham, sliced potatoes frying, eggs, fresh bread, early apple sauce, and the steeping pot of bitter, black tea. “What about the bread,” Old Rachel said. “Have we enough loaves?”

Her oldest daughter looked up from the sink. “Loaves?”

“Yes. Loaves.”

“Loaves...” Young Rachel looked vague.

“Of bread,” said her mother. “For the noon meal. We have at least eight men to feed.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. My thought was elsewhere.” Young Rachel concentrated. “The three loaves yet unbaked will make it enough.”

“Are there not four loaves?”

“Yes, Mother, there are four.” She rattled the dishes in the sink.

Old Rachel wondered what could be wrong now. “Is something the matter, child?”

“No, Mother.”

Old Rachel ticked off possibilities in her mind. It couldn’t be the horror—Young Rachel had negotiated that female ritual four years before. Still, perhaps it could be that time of the month—mother and daughter rarely confided in one another about woman’s secrets.

“Daughter, is it the horror?”

“Oh no, Mother!” Young Rachel looked shocked.

“Oh.”

Old Rachel speculated on other possibilities. There was the recent unpleasantness with mad Devon. “Are you still upset about that terrible night with Devon appearing here, having attacked the Elders and stolen a sacred relic from the Creator’s machine?”

“I have pushed that from my mind.”

Old Rachel absently whittled the eyes from the panful of potatoes. Perhaps she should attempt a more positive tack. “Your father has spoken with Old Garth.”

“Oh?” said her daughter noncommittally.

“The stiffness in Old William’s joints seems to grow by the day. He is no longer unwilling to quit the forge. Young Garth has been a capable and willing pupil. I think we shall see Young Garth no longer apprenticed, but as the metalsmith himself before the winter is out.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Young Rachel. “Garth will make a fine smith.”

“When he accedes to the smithy,” said Old Rachel, “he will also be permitted to marry.”

Her daughter said nothing.

“Young Garth is a fine man. He is strong and dependable.”

“He is that,” said Young Rachel. Musing, she added, “He also has no imagination.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

Old Rachel felt angry and somehow hurt. “Daughter, he will be an excellent husband.”

“I’m sure he will, Mother.”

Her voice tightened. “Rachel, Young Garth
will
be your husband.”

“As decreed by the Creator’s machine.”

“Yes. As according to the Creator’s plan.”

They each worked in silence for a while. Old Rachel finished the potatoes and started slicing the ham. Young Rachel slid a tray of bran muffins into the oven.

“Mother? You always knew you would marry Father?”

“Of course, child. Our betrothal was known to our parents from birth. The Creator’s machine issued the genetic pronouncement, just as it did for my parents, and my grandparents, and so on.”

“But didn’t you ever—wonder?”

“Wonder about what?” Her eyes widened with puzzlement.

“Whether—” Young Rachel picked for words. “Whether it was something you should do?”

“Should
do?” The older woman shook her head. “Of course not. It was a certainty.”

Young Rachel sat aimlessly, hands still in her lap.

“Daughter, the potatoes should be turned.”

“But didn’t you ever question the certainty?” Young Rachel’s voice involuntarily lowered as though she were uttering a public obscenity. She walked slowly to the stove.

“What’s that?” said her mother. “Question it? Certainly not—I’ve never questioned any pronouncement of the Creator’s machine. Nor of the Elders.”

“Did you love him?”

“Your father?”

Young Rachel nodded.

“What had love to do with anything? He was—is my husband. Aram is as fine a man in his own right as Young Garth is in his. Love is a meaningless word.”

“I do not love Young Garth.”

Old Rachel shrugged and said, “That has nothing to do with the marriage; it would be impious to think it did.” Young Rachel turned away, saying nothing.

Her mother caught the small movements of her shoulders. “Child, are you crying?” She put down the slicing knife and crossed the kitchen to her daughter. Her hands were clumsy because she was not accustomed to holding her children; but she clasped her arms around Young Rachel. “Oh daughter, daughter,” she crooned. “Is it so important to you, love? Your husband will be good to you. He will care for you.”

“It isn’t just love,” said Young Rachel in a small voice. “It is the lack of choice.”

Her mother sighed. “‘Choice is the breeding pool for temptation,’” she quoted, “‘and temptation is the spawning ground for sin.’”

Young Rachel continued to cry.

“You will become accustomed,” said her mother. “I did.”

They held each other silently for another minute. Then both heard the approaching voices from outside.

“Your father and Ruth,” said Old Rachel. “Come, there is food to serve.” She crossed to the stove.

Aram stamped into the kitchen, clapping his hands together. “Cold!” he said. “The chill of Belesh is upon the land. Wouldn’t surprise me if it frosted any night now.”

“I will pick the last of the tomatoes today,” said Old Rachel.

Aram nodded agreement. “Good thing we got the apples in.”

Young Rachel set down the teapot on the table. Casually, but without looking at her father, she said, “How cold do you suppose it is in the hills?”

“Well, daughter, that’s hard to say.” Aram looked puzzled. “Being they’re closer to the sun, I’d guess they’d be warmer. Except during the night when it’s the moon they’re up near to—then I’d guess they’d be colder.” His face assumed an irritated expression at having been asked such a foolish question. “Have you got some good reason for asking?”

“I was curious.”

“Wasteful talk,” said Aram. He sat down at the head of the table and began to serve the food. Breakfasts were usually quiet, save for the sound of champing jaws and Aram’s running monologue in which he plotted out the course of the work day.

“... if we can finish off the forty by the creek by noon, then I’ll send Joshua and Young Jedediah up to mend that fence—”

“Father?”

Aram frowned at Young Rachel. “Daughter?”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Is it more important than that foolish query about the weather in the hills?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Very well.” Aram used the respite to cram half a slice of crisp bread into his mouth.

Young Rachel said, “When will the end of the world come?”

Ruth giggled. Her mother hushed her with a silent look.

Aram chewed contemplatively. After a while, he swallowed and said, “The Book tells us it is so.”

“But when?”

“Is this a matter of immediate interest?” said Aram sternly. “The end will come when the Creator sees fit. And that will happen only when sin has assumed the ascendancy.”

“Soon?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said her father, “though there are those who think the demonic possession of Devon can be construed as a sign.”

“Could it be?”

“A sign? Elder Jubal told me that the madman Devon is more likely a warning from the Maker that piety is coming into precious short supply in Cypress Corners.” He ruminated. “Just look for yourself. You can see it all around. Order is becoming loosened. There are those who ignore the rules. Impious questions are increasingly asked.” Aram looked glum. “I knew it, I watched it coming for cycles. Nothing has come without warning.” He sighed. “I did not pray enough.”

“Then perhaps the end
is
near,” said Young Rachel.

Her father raised his head. “Why must you make my breakfast more melancholy, daughter? The harvest weighs heavily enough without adding the burden of world’s end.”

She said quietly, “I am sorry, Father.”

Aram returned to his food.

Young Rachel said, “I beg pardon, but I have one more question.”