Phoenix Without Ashes (19 page)

“It has to, Father.”

“But why?” His father’s voice was anguished.
“Why?”

“
Father, Rachel loves Devon. I have known this always. And he would die for her—and will, at first light. How can I stand between them when I care nothing for Rachel save as friend?” He had to force the words out, knowing they bore barbs which pierced his father. “Is this not evil, too, Father? Please. I must know.”

Old Garth steepled his fingers. “We are told, my son. We are told by those who know how best we should live. By the Elders who listen to the voice of the Creator’s machine, who care for us and make our yield full and our lives pure. We must listen to them, Garth.”

“Then I will marry Rachel,” said Garth, “and Devon will die for loving her.”

“Devon will die,” said his father, “for heresy and his other crimes against all of us.”

“Father, no crime was committed against me.”

“No crime? To seek to lie with your woman?”

“Not
my
woman...” He shook his head exasperatedly.

“There is still,” said Old Garth, “the matter of honor.”

“Not mine, Father. I honor Devon as friend.”

“That of your family, then?”

Garth looked away stonily.

The old man said slowly, “There is a problem most often faced by the young. The time comes when one realizes that what he wishes to do and what he
must
do may not both be accomplished.”

“I want to do
right,
Father.”

“I, too, want you to do right.”

“Then must I choose between honors?”

“If that is the Creator’s will, yes.”

“But
how?”
Garth brought his fists down hard on the table.

“Does it matter?” said Old Garth. “Regardless of how you reconcile your own soul, Devon will die at first light.”

“It matters to
me.”

“Then heed,” said his father. “There was a time once when I set a box snare for weasels. For entire weeks I caught nothing so I neglected the trap. But one morning I chanced upon it and saw the snare had been tripped. When I lifted the box, I found a live, snarling female weasel. Beside her were the mostly eaten remains of a male. The two had been trapped together.”

“So?” Garth said.

“Be patient. The point is that inside that special limitation of the box, both creatures could not exist; and there came the time when one had to be sacrificed, else both would die. So it is with your passion and your obligations.”

“I hate that story,” said Garth.

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment; then Old Garth began to smile. The tension between them dropped away as he got up and walked around the table to his son. “So do I,” he said. “I never could find a good time to use it.” Old Garth placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You must make your own choices; it is not my place to make them for you.”

Garth stood up and faced his father.

“Perhaps you should go to speak to Devon,” said Old Garth. “It might ease your pain.”

They embraced then; a sad, rough love flowed between them.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Elder Micah visited Devon in the penalty shed hours after Jubal had returned the prisoner and padlocked the door. Devon sat by the door, watching the approaching lantern bob through the darkness. When he saw whose face was reflected in the yellow light, he said flatly, “You.”

“Yes,” said Micah, looking down at him through the mesh of the door. “I.”

“Why am I not guarded? You’re the first I’ve seen since Jubal and the others went.”

“I hardly think you can escape,” said Micah quietly. “As to why no one guards you—it has been a very long time since anyone was stoned to death in Cypress Corners. It is a harsh death. Most do not care to see you until the appointed time comes ‘round.”

“Why don’t you talk like an Elder?” said Devon.

“I do not come here now as an Elder. I am a man who comes to the penalty shed, a very old and tired man.”

Devon looked at Micah unbelievingly. He had seldom heard an Elder speak this way. “What do you want?”

Micah hesitated. “Nothing. Only to speak with you for a while.”

They remained then in silence with the metal netting between them. Micah cleared his throat.

“Where is Rachel?” Devon said.

“At home, I imagine. With her family.”

“She hasn’t been harmed?”

Micah said mildly, “She is to become the wife of Young Garth. Rachel will suffer no hurt.”

“I want nothing to happen to her on my account.”

“Your taint will be expunged only with time, Devon. The Creator is patient and merciful. Young Rachel will be offered every chance.”

Devon’s body drooped with fatigue. “This night is endless.”

“It only seems so to one who has not meditated upon his own folly.”

“I’ve heard that sermon, Elder Micah.” His voice was weary.

“Yet you never heeded; not when you first were directed into the hills; not upon your summons and return; not even now. Devon, you are a fool. Worse, an unrepentant fool.”

“How can I repent?” said Devon. “I have seen what I have seen, done what I have done.”

Micah did not answer. A night bird cried out in the woods beyond the town.

“All those things I said in the Place of Worship are true. Perhaps they’re heresy, but I experienced them. I’ve been beyond this world and returned. Why can’t you bend from your blindness for just a few moments and believe me?”

The Elder hesitated before replying. “I can believe you.”

Devon slowly raised his head and looked at the Elder.

“Yes,” said Micah.

“Then why—” Devon spread his hands to indicate the penalty shed, the town, the entire world of Cypress Corners.—why
this?

“Does it require an answer, boy? Were your childhood lessons so neglected that you require an explanation of the obvious?”

“It isn’t obvious,” said Devon. “There’s no reason for the people not to discover that their world is only one among many, that their universe isn’t bound by a metal sky. There’s no reason for them to be forbidden to ask questions.”

Micah said, “Stop. Again you overlook what is real.” Devon stared at him questioningly.

“This
is real.” Micah’s hand stabbed down at the earth. “And that.” He indicated the sky. “Regardless of what exists beyond, Cypress Corners is a handiwork unto itself. Let other men concern themselves with worlds that lie far from here; our concerns must be with this one. The Maker’s ideal is order, patterns out of chaos.” His features betrayed pain. “You see how woefully distant we have strayed from the ideal here in this small world. Can you imagine the incalculable damage should the universe be extended for us? No one may properly till the fields whose home is not in order.”

“There will be no homes to keep in order,” said Devon, “no fields to till, unless this great Ark in which we ride is preserved from destruction. That’s simple truth.” Micah shook his head. “If this Ark, as you call it, is to be preserved, then the Creator will see to it. You say there are hundreds of other worlds like Cypress Corners. Then it follows that there must be uncountable numbers of men who can repair this ship of yours. Let them do it and let us be unaffected.”

“But none of them know—” said Devon.

“Only you?” Micah’s eyebrows lifted. “Only
you,
Devon? There is a name for you, boy—it is megalomaniac.” Devon turned away in disgust.

“At first I wondered if we might be too harsh on you, boy.” Micah’s voice rose. “Now I wonder if this stringent punishment at first light might yet be too lenient. You are no more tractable than was your father—”

Devon interrupted him. “My father?”

“Old Devon,” confirmed Micah, lips drawing back into tight white lines. “The dissident, the warlock, the—” He nearly spat the words. “—question-asker.”

Devon stood up and put his palms against the mesh. “No one ever spoke those things of my father.”

Micah’s eyes seemed to glitter in the lantern-light. “No one knew, save me. He came to me with his ungodly confessions, thinking I could be gulled into helping; but I recognized the heresies. The Creator granted me clear sight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Witchery, lad. Old Devon and his mad visions of sights unseen by other men, his peepings into distant minds, dreams—”

“Dreams!” Devon cried. “He could travel in his dreams?”

“Aye,” said Micah. “To hell and back again. And it was to hell one-way that I finally sent him.” The Elder pressed his face close to the mesh and stared into Devon’s eyes. “You were to accompany the hell-spawn and his mate, yet somehow the Creator spared you. I thought that there must be a reason, that some way you might be redeemed. But I was wrong; you carried your father’s stigma all the while—”

“The fire.” The realization grew and flowered inside Devon’s mind. “You killed them!” He flung himself against the metal door; it flexed outward only slightly. He tore futilely at the screen as Micah backed away.

“Aye,” the Elder said. “It was the Creator’s work.”

“Murderer.”

Micah stooped to pick up the lantern. “The remaining night is short; you would use it to advantage to repent.”

“I will not.”

“Then lad, I leave you in peace to ponder your own thoughts. I shall see you at first light with Garth, Rachel, and the others.”

Devon’s voice was anguished. “Not Rachel.”

“But she is the most aggrieved party, Devon.” As he turned to depart, Micah added, “It is she who must cast the first stone.”

TWENTY-NINE

Sometime in the black limbo between moonset and dawn, Devon heard a sound and came fully awake. There had been no true sleep; it had been a time of dozing, punctuated by waking nightmares.

The sound....
Repeated.
It was the harsh rattle of metal against metal. Devon lifted his head, raised himself on his elbows. The noise seemed to come from the screened window opposite the door of the penalty shed.

Devon called out. “Is someone there?” No one answered.

He heard the tortured screech of wrenching metal. Then there was a crash as the wire-mesh window was ripped completely out of its frame.

“Who is it?” Still no answer.

Devon got up and crossed to the newly unblocked window. The night wind poured a cold draft into his face. “Who is it?” he repeated. He could see little in the starlight, but he was sure nothing moved behind the penalty shed.

The lower casing was even with his chest. It took him four tries before he balanced with his hands on the casing and his upper body protruding out of the window. Feeling suddenly weak and knowing no more graceful way to escape the shed, he simply let his body topple forward. It was several meters to the ground, and he landed primarily on the shoulder he had bruised in the bounce tube.

Devon lay quiet for a while, coping with the pain. Then he got to hands and knees. He toughed something cold—it was the metal mesh, one corner curled back where the screen had been pried from the casing.

“Garth?” Devon whispered. At first he could think of no one else who might have torn loose the screen. Yet, he thought, anyone with a pry bar could compensate for not possessing brute strength. Who, then? Could Rachel have escaped her family’s confinement? Might Young Silas the Teacher have at last found his courage? Even old Granny Esther, given a long enough lever, could have loosened the mesh. “Are you still there?” he said. There was no response from the darkness; Devon felt instinctively that he was alone.

He got to his feet, using the wall of the shed for support. With the moon down, he was unsure how close morning lay. After a brief respite to regain his breath, Devon slipped away from Cypress Corners. The deeper shadows provided complete concealment. He encountered no one as he threaded his way through the town.

Once beyond the last dark buildings, Devon circled until he found the road he wanted, the route that led toward Aram’s farm.

The first edge of the sun flickered below the eastern horizon as the congregation gathered restlessly in front of the schoolhouse. It was a crisp autumn morning, the sort that fogged one’s breath. Some of the smaller children blew plumes at one another until the adults cuffed them.

Another kind of cloud hung over the assembled citizens; there was a collective confusion, a wary apprehension abroad this morning. The congregation was not so much a mob as it was a crowd waiting to be led.

Elder Micah stood with the other members of the Council beside the heap of stones. The sun sprang a halfframe above the hills. Micah said, “Bring the heretic to meet his fate.”

Jubal and two others moved off quickly toward the penalty shed.

Micah surveyed the congregation. “Where is Young Rachel?”

Granny Esther came forward. “Aram and Old Rachel are fetching her.”

“Why is she not here now?”

The old woman hesitated, slightly embarrassed. “This is difficult for her, Elder Micah. She, like us, has ne’er seen a stoning, much less helped with one.”

Micah raised his voice wrathfully. “Dost thou see, all! Dost thou see the seeds of impiety planted by this feckless child, Devon? Tonight we pray longer, lest the wickedness take root in us all!”

Young Goodman said, “Elder Micah, may we now take up stones?”

The Elder nodded. “Choose thee well.”

The congregation began to file past the heap of stones. Goodman and Esau picked through the rocks until they found jagged, fist-sized missiles. Granny Esther took in hand the smallest, smoothest pebble she could find.

“Elder Micah!” Jubal pushed through the crowd. “He be gone!”

“Gone?” said Micah. “How gone, how?”

“The window be torn loose. He has fled.” Jubal stood there panting, unsure what to say next, afraid he would somehow be assigned blame.

Micah said, “Found him once did we... find him again we shall.”

“Surely he will not return to the same hill,” said Jubal.

The congregation milled in confusion. Closely followed by Jubal, Micah pushed his way through the crowd until he found Garth standing with his parents. “Young Garth, bearest thy crossbow this morn?”