The Black Sentry (4 page)

5

Daman he
ard the gong sound  and the Winnowing commenced. The people in the gallery shouted and cheered, some for a particular champion, some simply caught up in anticipation of the bloodshed that would follow.

Victor and Evan circled each other within the octagonal grid, each keeping a careful watch on hi
s feet, making sure he did not blunder into his opponent’s territory. This was the Patience Gambit, where the combatant played a cautious opening, biding his time, hoping the mounting pressure would impel his enemy to make an unwise attack.

Victor and Evan
were both strong fighters. The Patience Gambit went on for almost five minutes, the tension mounting with each cycle around the multi-colored grid.

Victor made a sudden change of direction, from clockwise to countercl
ockwise, catching Evan off-guard. He lost his balance and nearly stepped onto the red. The crowd drew in its breath, gasping at the near miss.

Evan
appeared to tire. He held his stick lower.

Come on
, Evan. Daman knew his friend could stand watch over the flocks for hours. But a day in the fields was probably the equivalent of ten seconds in this Arena.

Victor
rushed toward Evan, swinging hard with the bulb end of his winnower. Evan faltered. The winnower clubbed him on the back of his head. He hooked Victor’s winnower with the blade end of his own. The two sticks were interlocked, one wrapped around the other. The boys engaged in a fearsome tug-of-war, each pulling with all his might to yank his opponent onto the other color.

The crowd roared
. Victor appeared to have the advantage. Evan staggered, reeling from the blow to his head.

Daman
found himself thinking of Evan’s parents, both kind and friendly people, and what it would mean to them if Evan lost.

And then, without warning, the balance shifted.
Evan dropped to the ground, as if his legs disappeared. Victor was unprepared for the sudden move. He lost his equilibrium and teetered, just long enough for Evan to jab his stick between Victor’s legs and twist, throwing his opponent even further off balance. Victor tumbled precipitously forward.

His right foot hovered
over the yellow.

The shouting from the gallery reached a fevered pitch
. Even those who lacked any personal involvement with the players shouted and cheered. At the last possible moment, Victor flung himself back onto his own color, but as he did so, Evan whirled and caught Victor with the sharp end of his winnower. The blade cut into Victor’s side, just below the ribs. Victor cried out. Blood splashed down on the grid.

The tumult from the stands
reached a thunderous high.

Victor struggled to his f
eet, one hand clutching the gaping wound. He seemed wobbly, uncertain. He knew what they all knew.

T
he Winnowing would not last much longer now.

Victor, both hands on his stick des
pite his wound, bravely blocked and parried his enemy’s blows. Each thrust knocked him lower. His resistance weakened.

Evan landed another blow to the bleeding gut, and Victor tumbled
to the ground. A cry rang out from the gallery. The crowd leaned forward, anticipating the final moment.

Evan raised the bladed end of his
winnower and ran at Victor for a final lunge. A second before he connected, Victor rolled out of the way.

He h
ad not been as exhausted as he led his opponent to believe.

Evan’s stick rammed into the ground
where Victor had been with such force that Evan was completely thrown off kilter. He tottered, twisted sideways, did everything possible to hold his position.

But nothing worked
. He fell forward, his left foot touching down on the red.

The penalty
gong sounded.   

For
one turn of the glass, while Evan remained limited to the yellow, Victor attacked from all directions. With newfound energy, and despite his seeping wound, Victor came at Evan from every position at once, poking and prodding and piercing him in more than a half dozen places. Finally, Victor feinted with the pointed end of the winnower, then whirled around with the bulb end, smashing Evan in the face.

Evan fell
, his body a blanket on the multi-colored Arena floor.

In the stands, Daman
clenched his hands, his heart in a knot. This was not right. This was simply not right…

Victor pla
ced the sharp point of the winnower on Evan’s chest, then raised his hands in triumph.

The Acolyte signaled
the end of the Winnowing. “Congratulations, Victor Timmons. A lifetime of glorious service, doing the Sentinel’s most important work, lies before you.

“Evan Martel,” the Acolyte continu
ed, “you have been winnowed. You know the choice that lies before you. Do you choose death or transportation?”

Evan hesi
tated so long observers wondered what he might say. “T–T–Transportation,” he finally managed.

He would be taken b
y the Black Sentry–blindfolded–to another village, far from his friends and family. There he would be assigned some menial work or hard labor, which he would perform day after day until his eventual passage to Balaveria.

Victor, still dripping blood from the wound
beneath his ribs, limped out of the Arena to cheers and applause.

T
he Acolyte was not finished. “There is one matter more. Sentence has been passed against a member of this village, a man called Joseph Anton. Step forth, Joseph Anton.”

Several members of the Black Sentry
dragged Mister Anton from the side of the Arena.

Daman’
s heart fell. He knew Mister Anton well, and he knew why he was being sentenced. He had a barn near Blaine River where he kept pigs. This year, however, the river overflowed and flooded his barn. Most of his animals were killed.

“The Prosecutor has found this man guilty of failing to pay tribute to the Sentinel
. We all must give our Master the first and best part of the bounty. But Joseph Anton did not. He hid his wealth and evaded his duty.”

“If I
had given all that the Sentinel demanded,” Anton said, “my wife and daughters would have starved.”

“The time of choosing is upon you, Joseph Anton,” the Acolyte boomed
. “The Laws and Ways of the Sentinel permit no exceptions. What will it be—exile or execution?”

As D
aman knew too well, exile was even worse than transportation.  It meant total separation from this or any village, living alone with no access to food or protection from the Creepers and the Savages. Most villagers considered exile a coward’s way out, or a fool’s. Death was a certainty either way. The only difference was that execution would be quick, while the death resulting from exile might be protracted and painful.

“Ex
ecution,” Anton said.

But what would
happen to Anton’s children? They would be left without a provider. Their only hope was that his former wife would be assigned a new husband, but that seemed unlikely, since she was no longer of childbearing age.

Anton was led to the center of the Arena
. A canvas drape was placed over his head. “This is the Shroud of the Sentinel,” the Acolyte intoned. “From this day until the time of your execution, you are no longer a part of this community. You are no longer of the Sentinel.”

How harsh that must be,
Daman thought, to be irrevocably separated from everything you’ve ever known. Despite the fact that he had been told since birth of the wisdom of the Sentinel’s Laws and Ways—it didn’t seem right.

He hated the feelings swel
ling up in his heart—but he couldn’t make them go away. This wasn’t right. This simply wasn’t right.

“So it is now and ever shall be for those who fail the Sentinel
. The Laws and Ways are wise and must be obeyed.”

The crowd repeated his words
. “The Laws and Ways are wise and must be obeyed.”

This litany continued for
several minutes. Although he knew the words, he found he could not make himself repeat them. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the parents of Evan, the boy who had lost the Winnowing, slinking out of the Arena, their eyes streaked with tears. How could they endure the pain of knowing with absolute certainty that they would never see their son again?

He
glanced to one side and noticed that, once again, his own father was looking at him.

“It is the Way of the Sentinel,” his father said, without much feeling
, answering the question he hadn’t asked. “The Sentinel is a good and kind Master.”

He
didn’t reply–because the thoughts boiling in his brain were too unformed to express. He had always admired his father, and he had always valued his opinion. But how could his father blindly accept what was so unjust? How could he respect someone who was willing to live with such inequity?

And what was happening to him. He did not remember even feeling this way about the Sentinel before. But now his anger all but overwhelmed him.

A moment later, Anton disappeared from sight. The cloak that had been placed atop him fluttered to the ground.

The Acolyte resumed his incantation
. “Thus be delivered all those who have sinned against the Sentinel.” He brought the Celebration to an end. “Remember all that I have told you. Remember the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel. Go now and live in harmony as the Sentinel has proscribed.”

Daman
left with his family, but he did not feel jubilant or festive. His stomach churned and his head throbbed. What is wrong with me? He felt as if something had snapped inside his brain. Or perhaps, a missing piece had fallen into place.

He remembered the word the Acolyte had used–Rebel
. Was this what it was to be a Rebel? Was he thinking like the fiends who had terrorized the world of the Ancients with Constructs?  

He
knew almost nothing about such matters. But he knew what he had seen in the Arena today made his heart ache. He would miss Evan. How would his family replace him, both as a worker and as a son? How could there be any wisdom in the Laws and Ways if they resulted in such unnecessary hardship and cruelty?

And, he asked himself, if these Laws were wrong, how many of the other Laws governing the Sentinel’s perfectly ordered
paradise might be wrong?

6

After the Celebration of the Sentinel concluded, Daman helped his father take down his booth. Then they returned to their small thatched-roof cottage.

A
lthough there was much conversation at dinner, there was little discussion of what they witnessed in the Arena. His mother tried, alluding to Victor’s clever triumph or “the unfortunate Mister Acton,” but she was met by silence from both her husband and son.

After
Xander cleared the table, his mother retired for the night.

“Daman,” his father said
. “I would like to speak with you.”

He had no trouble guessing
what the subject might be. His foolhardy outburst in front of Mister Hayes.

He star
ed down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Father. But when Mister Hayes talked so arrogantly, finding fault with poor Mister Blackthorne, a man who has never harmed anyone and has helped so many...I couldn’t contain myself.”

His father smiled slightly
. “Mister Hayes is a blowhard. But what you did was foolish.”

“Yes, sir
. I know that.”

“You do not want to become an enemy of the Black Sentry
. They deal with their enemies in a ruthless and…orderly manner.”

“Yes, Father
. I know.”

“I can see that s
omething is troubling you. What is it?”

It would have been wiser to keep these tho
ughts inside, but he couldn’t restrain himself. “It’s so unfair, Father.”

“What is?”

“Everything. Everything the Sentinel requires us to do. Forces us to do. Why can’t people make their own decisions?”

“You know what you’
ve been taught. There was a time when men were free to make their own decisions. Chaos reigned. The world was plagued by cruelty and inequity. Starvation and hardship. The Constructs dominated our lives.” He paused. “The Sentinel saved us from all that. He gave us a safe, predictable way of life. A better way.”

“I have heard that, yes.
” He mustered all his courage and looked directly into his father’s eyes. “But I’m not sure I believe it. Do you believe it?”

“I believe...
” His father stopped, then started again. “I believe there was another time. Before the Sentinel. Beyond that...” His voice faded.

“Please, Father
. Tell me.”

“Son, you have to understand
. A parent has certain responsibilities. He can’t do anything that might lead his child into a dangerous direction.”

“Surely you
see how cruel the Sentinel’s Laws and Ways can be.”

His father hesitated
. “There was a time, perhaps, when I was much younger...” He shook his head fiercely, as if to erase the entire line of thought. His eyes darted toward a cupboard in which he kept pots and pans and other equipment, most of which had been handed down by the man who had been the village baker before him. “Let me show you something. I think you’re old enough.” He winked. “You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

His father opened the cupboard, reached far into the back, and removed a small object that had previously been hidden
.

It was round and smooth and attached to a rusted chain
. Two gold arrows projected from the center of the face, which was covered with scratchings he did not understand.

“This,” his father said proudly, “was created by the Ancients, the people who lived before the time of the Sentinel
. It was called a Watch.”

He
took it gently into his hands. “What did it do?”

“By using the Watch, the Ancients were able to tell where they were in the day
. Whether it was morning or evening. How much of the day had passed.”

“But Father
—we can tell those things simply by looking at the sky.”

“
Yes, I know, but with the Watch, you could tell
without
looking at the sky. Without even going outside. And with greater precision.”

Was this an actual Construct
? The evil creations he’d heard so much about for so long?

He
examined it by the tarnished chain, wondering how it operated. Did the Ancients wear it around their necks? Did they lay it flat under the sun to catch a shadow? “Does it work?”

“N
o, it doesn’t, I mean–its been so long, I—I don’t–I—” He frowned. “To be honest, son, I don’t really know.”

“How could this tiny bauble tell them where they were in the day?”

He snatched it back. “Well, I don’t know. But it could.”

“How did you get it?”

“I had it from my father, who had it from his father. It’s been passed down in this family for generations.”

“If the Black Sentry knew
—”

“Yes
. Indeed.” He returned it to its hiding place in the cupboard.

“And yet you keep it, Father.”

He closed the cupboard. “I keep it because it represents time, and therefore reminds me that there was another time, when men were free to choose their own path.”

“A time of chaos.”

“Perhaps. Yet somehow, despite the chaos, they were able to create wondrous devices such as that one.”

Aft
er they finished talking, they retired for the evening. But Daman did not sleep well. His rest was plagued by vivid dreams, dreams of a long-forgotten world in which men could tell the time without going outside, a world of Constructs with large vicious teeth, a world of danger and disharmony. A world of chaos.

A world he
found himself longing for.

*****

The next day, wherever Daman went, everyone talked about the Winnowing, Victor’s triumph, and the surprise appearance of the Acolyte. He heard more and more about it until he was sick of the subject.

About midd
ay, he passed near the Arena making a delivery of fresh baked bread for his father. He was winding his way through the curving dirt roads that interlaced the villagers’ homes when a member of the Black Sentry—Benjamin Coffin—crossed his path. Coffin was in his forties. Early in his career he obtained an officer’s commission on which he grew fat and indulgent. He rose to great importance in the village, second only to the Captain of the Guard.

Coffin rushed down the road
accompanied by his personal slave, Fenton, who had been with him for many years. Apparently Coffin was too important to stop for a proper meal. Fenton tried to feed the gluttonous man as he walked, pushing bite-sized bits of beef into his mouth as they marched side-by-side.   

Fenton stumbled
and dropped one of the bites on the ground.

“Look what you’ve done, you clumsy oaf!” Coffin bellowed, grinding to a halt.

Fenton bent down and recovered the food, then brushed the dirt and sand from it.

Daman’
s stomach churned watching the poor slave grovel and scrape.

While Fenton
was crouched down, Coffin withdrew his crop and cracked Fenton on the backside.

Fenton leaped into the air, wailing
.

Coffin laughed
. “Let that be a lesson to you, slave. Don’t let it happen again. Understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Fenton answered, his voice cracking
. “I am sorry for my clumsiness. Please do not hurt me.”

Coffin did not listen
. He brought his crop around and hit the poor man again, this time on the side of his neck, not far from the purplish protuberance that distinguished the slave class. Fenton fell to his knees, crying in pain.

Daman turned
away, unable to watch the pathetic spectacle any longer. Apparently it was not enough that men should have slaves to fulfill their every whim. They must mistreat them as well. How could this arrogant bully treat others with such contempt?

And
then, he wondered, had his own treatment of Xander been any better?

He heard Coffin’s crop crack
again, he heard Fenton cry out, and before he knew what was happening, he saw a brown blur rush past him, intervening between the crop and the slave. Several moments passed before his eyes focused.

I
t was Xander. What did he think he was doing?

Xander positioned
himself between Coffin and Fenton. He grabbed Coffin’s arm and held it fast, preventing him from beating his slave again. They stood face-to-face, glaring into one another’s eyes.

“
What do you think you’re doing?” Coffin spat out.

Now that he’d been spoken to, Xander had the right to reply
. “I’m sure you did not intend to act so cruelly, Lieutenant Coffin. Obviously the heat of the day has inflamed your temper.”

“Get away from me!
” Coffin tried unsuccessfully to shrug Xander off. His already florid face flushed. His considerable belly vibrated.

X
ander held his ground. “I cannot let you beat this man like a rug in public. He has done nothing to merit such treatment.”

He could not believe what he heard
. For a slave to speak in such a manner was forbidden. To speak in such a manner to a Black Sentry lieutenant was suicide. And yet, he couldn’t help but admire the enormous strength Xander displayed. Despite his low station in life, Xander found the courage to do what no one else would.

Coffin’s eyes focused on Xander’s bulging temple
. “You’re a slave! And you dare–!” His eyes widened and his jowls shook. “I am ordering you to step aside.”

Xander did not budge
. “I am respectfully declining to obey.”

Cof
fin’s temper boiled so hot he thought the top of the man’s head might blow off. The heavy man lacked the strength to get past Xander. When he realized it was hopeless, he stepped back and lowered his crop.

“The Captain of the
Guard will hear about this,” Coffin said, eyes ablaze.

“Of tha
t I have no doubt,” Xander quietly replied.

Coffin storm
ed away, heading for the local Sentry headquarters not far from the Arena. A few moments later, Fenton scampered off behind him, obviously unsure where to go or what to do next.

He suddenly realized t
hey had become the focus of a great deal of attention. Several dozen passersby had stopped to observe the spectacle. Frowning, he ducked into a nearby alleyway. He wanted to speak to Xander alone, but he lost the slave somewhere in the darkness.

Someone was following him
. He walked faster, then faster still, then ran. Until the alleyway came to a dead end.

Trapped, he
turned to confront his pursuer.

To hi
s surprise, he saw it was not the Black Sentry, but Brita. “That...was a good thing you did,” she said quietly.

What”  He was confused.
Then he realized Xander hid behind a nearby pile of crates.

The slave emerged
. “I accomplished very little.”

“I disagree
. I think you acted heroically.”

Did she reall
y think so? He gazed at her amazing blonde tresses.

“You saved p
oor Fenton from a beating,” Brita continued.

“He will have twice that beating tonight when he returns to his master’s home,” Xander rejoined
. “And there is nowhere else he can go. I should not have intervened. My temper got the best of me.” He pressed one fist against the flat of his hand. “I could not stand idly by while that pompous—” He did not finish his sentence.

Daman
had never heard Xander speak so many words at once, much less with such passion.

“Still,
” Brita said, “if others follow your example—”

“
Who will follow? I will be transported as soon as this event is reported.”

“We wi
ll not ship you anywhere, Xander,” he said. “You will not be punished.”

“You will have no choice, once the Captain of the Guard reports this to the Magistrate.”

He fell silent. He knew Xander was correct. Coffin would never let this end without seeking redress.

“I will speak to my fath
er. We’ll do everything we can to see that you aren’t punished.”

“
Yes, I’m sure the village baker will have the clout to rewrite the Laws and Ways.”

He bit down on his bottom l
ip. He knew they both spoke from frustration. “He can try.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because…until just now...I thought I was the only one in the village who...questioned the way we live. The way we are forced to live.”

“You were wrong
,” Brita said, without explaining. “But Daman, how can we change—”