There Comes A Prophet (35 page)

"Because I plan to march into the village square. Little Pond is my home. I won't run again."

"But you'll be killed."

"Better to die for what I believe in than to be hunted down. And I'll have the chance to stand before my people. Maybe they'll listen and believe. Or if not, maybe they'll regret my death and act later. And while the vicars and their men are distracted, you and Thomas can slip away."

Then he waited. Thomas came to Orah's side and they both stared at him, Thomas with sorrow, but Orah with that fierce intensity that made her so beautiful.

"No, Nathaniel," she said at last. "At the trial in Temple City, I thought I'd lost you. And then I lived with that damned peephole between us. And for the past weeks, I waited for the day they'd take you away. I'm not leaving you again."

She held her ground, eyes smoldering, daring him to disagree. He scoured his mind for a way to dissuade her, anything to keep her safe. But she believed as he did. And if their situations were reversed, he'd never leave her side.

"Very well," he said. "They're waiting for us. Let's not disappoint them."

Orah turned to Thomas and rested a hand on his arm.

"Dear Thomas. We're sorry to abandon you at last. Run to the southeast, keeping to the woods. Maybe when the vicars have vented their rage on us, they'll be less intent on tracking you down. You may be fine. You've always been good at surviving by your wits."

Thomas surprised them by flashing his grin. "Are you kidding? I'm coming with you."

Before Orah could respond, he held up a hand.

"My mind's made up. My feet hurt, and most everything else. Like you, I'm tired of running." He turned grim. "Besides, the prospect of stoning three of their children will have to make our neighbors think. And I want to see the vicars' faces when we march in together."

And suddenly Nathaniel saw, not the Thomas of their childhood, but a man like himself. His expression changed to acceptance.

Orah drew in a breath, and began dusting off her clothing and combing her fingers through her hair.

"What are you doing?" Thomas said.

She smiled at him.

"Getting ready. I want to look my best for the ceremony."

The Edge of the Storm

Shadows in the night, marching with steadfast stride.

The people of Great Pond were on the move. All had read the messages copied in haste from person to person. Deacons had been about that evening as they had for the past few months, asking for the young people from Little Pond but now with an increased urgency. Then, after midnight, a roar approached from the east. Harsh lights raced through the streets. People were pulled from their beds and questioned. Houses were searched.

And then the caravan of clergy left, heading west to Little Pond.

Now, the spinner and his wife led the people in the dark. They were farmers, the blacksmith, elders and the young. All walking west, shadows in the night.

The Beginning

Nathaniel led them on a path he'd traveled since childhood. Ahead, the harbinger of first light gave contrast to the roof of the commons, distinguishing it from the sky. Familiar shadows reminded him of festival-the mound of charred logs from the prior night's bonfire, the spruce waiting to be set aglow. Fond memories, gatherings with friends. And now approaching the square for the last time.

By now, the hint of dawn should have brightened the landscape enough to show gaps between the trees. But there were more shadows than he remembered.

As he drew closer, the shadows changed into the hunched forms of men and women, enough for all of Little Pond. The whole village was arrayed in a half-circle guarding the commons. Nathaniel felt like he was walking into a headwind, though the morning had become still. He kept on.

At the far side, more ominous shapes, mounds completing the circle. A sound like metal snapping into place. Then another and another. The mounds grew eyes that cast an eerie glow. Fast wagons, as expected.

In the glare, he could make out the faces of elders and schoolmates, of friends and neighbors. Each wore a ceremonial robe and each clutched a rock the size of an apple.

Nathaniel strode to the center of the circle, with Orah and Thomas by his side.

Stragglers from more distant farms came stumbling in. And last of all, Nathaniel's father and Orah's mother. They wore no robes, and their hands were empty.

Wagon doors opened and deacons emerged, followed by clergy-vicars and monsignors, bishops and arch bishops. The monsignor who'd ministered to the Ponds came to the front, cradling the sun icon in his arms. He used the Temple voice to announce his superior.

"People of Little Pond-the arch vicar of the Temple of Light."

Nathaniel watched the old man come out of the wagon and step toward him.

A hush fell over the square. The arch vicar raised his arms, fingers pointing to the glow from the rising sun, and spoke with an impressive force.

"Children of light. Your Temple is under attack. Three of your own have fallen under the sway of the darkness. I have petitioned his holiness, the grand vicar, to declare them apostates."

Grumbles from the crowd, calls of not possible. The arch vicar waved them to silence.

"You say they're blameless, that it's not their fault. And you may be right. It is written: 'Beware the stray thought. Like water dripping on rock, it can erode the strongest mind and open a path for the darkness.' And now we see the wisdom of the holy book. No one is immune. Sadly, these children have been infected by the darkness. But it is a disease nevertheless and must be eradicated before it spreads."

Nathaniel marveled at his mastery-forgiving and damning them in the same breath. He glanced at the villagers. Their eyes had glazed over as when the sun icon speaks.

The arch vicar's voice echoed in the chill air. "Would you allow the darkness to return?"

Mutters of no, no.

"But unlike the darkness these young people worship, the Temple is sworn against violence. We are defenseless and need your help."

A few nods, but otherwise silence. Fingers tensed around rocks but waited.

"It is written: If there comes among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and gives you a sign or a wonder, saying, 'Let us return to the darkness,' you shall not hearken to the words."

The nods ceased, but the children of light remained captivated.

"If your brother, or your son or daughter, or your wife, or your friend, who may be as your own soul, entice you saying, 'Let us abandon the light and serve the darkness,' you shall not consent to him. But you shall surely kill him; your hand shall be first upon him, and afterwards the hand of all the people."

His voice was like the music in the keep, moving the souls of his listeners. He raised a fist and shook it at invisible forces.

"And you shall stone him with stones, that he die; because he has sought to thrust you away from the light."

He stepped aside, leaving a clear path between the villagers and the friends.

Time slowed for Nathaniel. His vision broadened. Thomas stood frozen to his left. Beyond him the arch vicar, hands outstretched. And to his right, Orah, still managing to stand tall, her head tilting ever-so-slightly in his direction. They might have enjoyed a lifetime together had he not been a dreamer of dreams.

In a moment, the voice from the sun icon would speak. The judgment would be handed down. Rocks would fly, striking him and his friends. He'd been seduced by the great mission but had forgotten how to live. If he failed to act now, the hours and minutes of their lives would run out-to no avail.

He waited for his heart to pound, expected his breathing to quicken. But instead, he was as quiet as the day he'd discovered the mountain pass. Before the arch vicar could continue, he separated from his friends and stepped toward the crowd.

"Look at us." His voice rang out, no longer the voice of a scared boy pretending to be brave. "We're your children. We swam in these waters with you and celebrated festival together here in this square. We're not infected with a disease or tainted by the darkness. But we've stumbled upon a truth, maybe through foolishness or luck, but truth nevertheless. Things are not as the vicars claim. These wagons aren't magic. They were invented long ago by men and women who thought for themselves and dreamed dreams, people whose accomplishments and very existence have been hidden from us and labeled as the darkness."

There was confusion in the crowd. A few edged forward, rocks in hand, but most held back, glancing to their neighbors for guidance. Deacons crept toward him, but the arch vicar dismissed them with a wave.

"Leave him be. The more he speaks, the more the people will see the harm he would do if allowed to live."

Nathaniel refused to back down.

"And the teachings. In the privacy of your homes you complain about them but say they're necessary to keep the darkness away. But their real purpose is to make us afraid to think for ourselves. For light's sake, think for yourselves now. He's asking you to kill your own children. Not for a crime but for daring to question the Temple."

He turned and confronted the arch vicar, whose face was reddened by the rays of a half-risen sun. But the old clergyman was a believer, had fought what he knew as the darkness his whole life. He cut Nathaniel off, his voice resounding through the square.

"See how he's revealed himself, this child of the darkness. He twists the truth to corrupt your soul. Is this what you want for yourselves and your families? He and his friends must be stopped or the darkness will spread."

Nervous feet shuffled forward; more arms were raised. The arch vicar's lips curled upward even as his brows sagged to meet them.

"You see. The people of Little Pond refuse to let you destroy their world."

He accepted the sun icon from the monsignor, grasped it in both hands and raised it above his head. An evangelical fervor illuminated his face.

"Oh holiness, father of all children of light, the people await your judgment."

All movement ceased. Those assembled held their breaths. The only sound was that of newly awakened birds, chirping to greet the sunrise.

The sun icon crackled to life, the voice of the grand vicar, the human embodiment of the light in this world.

"Oh, Sun, giver of life, we stand in judgment this day so the light may be returned to the village of Little-"

But then something happened. The voice trailed off and a new voice replaced it, not as strong or as well-trained as the grand vicar's. But to those who knew him, the speaker was clear-Nathaniel.

"We are the seekers of truth, responsible for the postings you've read. And now we speak to you directly through the sun icon. You may ask how we came to have access to temple magic. But what you hear is neither magic nor of the Temple. It's the result of the genius of men and women from long ago, from a time the Temple calls the darkness. Here's the truth... "

The arch vicar's hands began to shake. Before the sun icon could transmit another word, he cast it to the ground. As it crashed on the frozen earth, it left a vacuum of sound, total silence in the village square.

But not for long.

Nathaniel's mind became a spiral of swirling lights, bright thoughts, a glowing purpose, and at the hub of the spinning wheel-the power of an idea.

He recalled the speech he and Orah had composed, and began reciting the next words so seamlessly they might have come from the shards on the ground.

"Here's the truth about the darkness. We've stumbled across a place called the keep, where the best thinkers of that age spent their lives recording knowledge, committed to saving the past for this day. There we found wonders beyond imagination, ways to make our lives better without depending on the clergy; there we discovered what we're capable of being. The Temple would like to hide the keep from us, to prevent us from learning and growing. They claim the keep is to be feared. But the darkness was not a time to be feared, but a time to learn from..."

As he spoke, the deacons allowed him to continue, not out of respect, but from astonishment. Finally, the arch vicar recovered. At his signal, deacons rushed forward. But Nathaniel kept speaking, raising his voice and daring them to stop him.

"The vicars offer us fear, a fear of thinking for ourselves. They've stolen a sacred right-the right of every person ... " He glanced at Orah. "... to have the potential for greatness. They've given us a world of limits. We can be much more. It's your choice. The future is in your hands."

It was done. Nathaniel squared his shoulders to the crowd. Orah came to his side, and Thomas next. The three locked arms and waited.

The arch vicar sneered at them, then turned to the villagers.

"You see the power of the darkness, which has gone beyond what I could have imagined. But the grand vicar has made his judgment. They have been declared apostates and must be removed from our world. Let them be struck down now."

The final word echoed in the square. More arms were raised, more fingers tightened on stones. But before anyone could act, Nathaniel's father strode forward.

"My son's voice. It's all true."

Deacons tried to block his way, but he shook them off with thick forearms and moved next to Nathaniel.

"I stand with my son."

The arch vicar grimaced, but motioned the deacons out of the way.

"Now we see where the seeds of darkness were sown. So be it."

And then Susannah Weber burst from the crowd and came to Orah's side.

"And I stand with my daughter."

The three became five as the village watched. No more arms were raised, but none were lowered. The red morning sun had cleared the trees.

A buzz swept through the crowd. Hands without stones were raised and fingers pointed at a tramping noise, the sound of marching feet.

The three friends, their parents, clergymen and deacons all turned. Men and women began to arrive, first in ones and twos, then tens and twenties. When finally gathered, they were more than three hundred. A middle-aged man with thinning hair came to the front. His wife stood beside him, arm in arm. He was breathing hard and needed a moment before he could speak. When he did, his voice was crisp as the cold air.