The Black Sentry (7 page)

The Old Man shrugged
. “It was a thresher.”

“A
—what?”

“A thresher
. A device that helped farmers reap their crops,” Brita replied. “I’ve read about them.”

“Very good,” the Old Man sai
d. “Very good indeed.”

He was confused.
“But—we need no machines to help us farm.”

“So you say,” the Old Man replied, “but isn’t food scarce every year, particularly during the winter
? Aren’t there people with too little, especially in the Nether End? Aren’t there children who go to bed hungry? In the time of the Constructs, men were able to produce a thousand times as much food. There was no need for anyone to go without. Indeed, some had far too much.”

That silenced him
. He had seen the hungry–slaves, usually, though sometimes others. Sometimes even children.

“The
Resistance wants to restore the dreams of the past, or better yet to build new ones, and to end the tyranny of the Sentinel. So far, it has been just that–a dream. But now, for the first time...” The Old Man gazed at the red stone dangling around his neck, then fell silent.

Daman
could see that the Old Man tired and, despite earlier protestations, needed sleep.

“May I ask one more question?”
Brita asked.

The Old Man’s eyelids rose
. “How can I deny anything to she who reads?”

“I
want to know about—this.” She pointed to the top of his tunic, where the white backward collar showed through. “Why do you dress in this peculiar way? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said, “but there is more to it than I can possibly explain tonight.”

“Just tell me a little, then,” she urged. “Does it relate to the world before the Sentinel?”

“This is a very old costume, and a time-honored one
. I wear it as a symbol, a reminder, of a time when people worshiped out of love, not fear. When people had faith that freed them, rather than enslaved them.” He laid his hand gently against Brita’s radiant hair. “I wear it because it gives me something to believe in. Perhaps in time it will give you something to believe in as well.”

Brita pressed her hand against his.

He laid the pillow and blanket in a flat place in the back of the cellar so the Old Man would be comfortable and protected from casual view. He and Brita started up the stairs.

All at once, they heard a
sudden thunderous noise outside.

Brita jumped, grabbing hi
s shoulder. He didn’t mind, but at the moment he was more concerned with determining the source of the sound.

Someone pounded
on the cellar door.

“We know you’re in the
re,” they heard a voice call. “Open this door immediately. By the order of the Black Sentry!”

10

Daman knew he needed to do something, but he could not think what. His brain felt as frozen as his body.

Withou
t warning, Brita pushed him to the ground. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, leaned across Daman, and planted her lips directly on his.

Hi
s eyes widened with amazement.

T
he cellar door burst open. The blaze of torchlight illuminated the stairs.

“Who’s in
there?” the voice shouted. “Daman, is that you? Didn’t you hear me?”

It was
Mykah, in uniform, with a small platoon of Black Sentry behind him.

As soon as
Mykah entered, Brita broke off the kiss, as if suddenly startled, and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

Mykah
appeared puzzled. Then his eyes adjusted and he understood. What Brita wanted him to understand. The hood covered Brita’s distinctive hair, but it was still obvious that Daman held a girl in his arms.

A slow smile crept across
Mykah’s face. “Daman, you old dog.”

Awkwardly, he
tried to return the smile.

“Sorry to interrupt,”
Mykah said, clearing his throat. “We’re all searching for this Rebel the Acolyte warned us about. He was spotted in the forest today. We believe he has a local accomplice and may be hiding somewhere inside the village.” He grinned. “But I can see you have concerns of your own.” He laughed heartily, then moved his torch toward Brita’s head. A strand of her hair tumbled out from her hood.

The expression on
Mykah’s face was unmistakable. But he said nothing.

He turned abruptly without a word
. “Come on, men.”

They left, closing the cellar door behind them
.   

When they were sure they were alone, Brita extracted her face f
rom his neck. “Sorry,” she said abruptly. “It was all I could think of. Hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

“N–no,” he
said clumsily. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—”

She pulled away before he could complete his sentence
. “How are you?” she asked the Old Man.

“Even more impressed than I was before.
By both of you.”

He
promised to check on the Old Man again in the morning and to bring food. Then they both left him to rest.

He
stopped Brita before she left for home. “I will come and see you tomorrow. There are...matters we must discuss.”

She nodded, then
he quietly returned to his house and crawled beneath the warm covers of his bed. He slept heavily but not well, and once again his sleep was filled with dreams—dreams of watches and threshers and books and different times, when Constructs roamed the land and people lived without the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel.

A time of freedom.

*****

Daman awoke full of energy
. After dressing, he went to the kitchen to see his parents before they left for their daily business.

Xander had alrea
dy set out the meal. Lieutenant Coffin’s report apparently had not yet reached the Magistrate.

His parents
were both at the breakfast table waiting for him. Apparently they’d been awake for some time.

He
hoped his mother had softened, or forgotten about his punishment, but he soon saw that was not the case. One stony look from her was sufficient to tell him his sins had not been forgiven.

“I said
last night you were to have no supper,” she said, through stiff, tense lips.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Yet when I went to the larder this morning, I found a loaf and a rind of cheese missing. Can you explain this?”

In fact, he had
eaten nothing. The missing food was what he had taken to the Old Man.

H
is father studiously watched them both.

“You took that food,” his mother pronounced
. “Didn’t you, Daman?”

He
nodded.

With
unexpected ferocity, she grabbed him by both arms and shook him violently. “When will you grow up, Daman? When will you learn to follow instructions?
Why can’t you do as you are told?
”

And then, as quickly as the rage had begun, it end
ed. She pushed away from him and pressed one hand to her forehead. A moment later, he was shocked to see his own mother crying.

She tried to regain control
but couldn’t. Finally she fled the room, tears streaming from her face.

As if he
didn’t feel badly enough already, he felt his father’s eyes boring down on him.

H
is father placed a roll on a plate with a small piece of cured meat. “Eat your breakfast.”

He
did. They sat in silence, and it was perhaps because of the silence that he became immediately aware of the tumult outside.

Even with the door clo
sed he could tell that something was happening. He heard confusion, running, arguing.

“The Black Sentry is everywhere today
,” his father explained. “The Acolyte’s private platoon has remained with him here and taken control of our local Sentry. They’ve blanketed the village. They’re determined to find this Rebel.”

He
tried not to react. “Really?”

“Apparently
they came close to catching him last night, but someone helped him escape.”

He
tried not to seem overly interested. “I’m surprised that anyone in the village would help a Rebel escape.”

“No doubt the Sen
try were surprised as well.” His father paused a moment. “Some reports I’ve heard claim a young boy helped the Rebel escape.”

“
Surely not.”

His father paused
. “I can’t help but remember that you were out late last night, Daman.”

“I was at a party
. Victor’s celebration.”

“So I hear
d.” He looked at his son with a strong and unbroken gaze. “I don’t suppose you heard anything about this Rebel?”

“No one sai
d a word to me about him.”

“I see.
” There was a long silence before his father spoke again. “Daman, you must be careful. If you do...hear anything about this Rebel, stay away from him. He will be dangerous. He is probably a member of the Resistance.”

He could barely
conceal his amazement. “You know of the Resistance?”

“Of course,” his father replied
. “And it seems–so do you.”

He
averted his eyes. “I’ve heard rumors. Stories, that’s all. I suppose you’ve heard the stories, too.”

His father kept his eyes locked on his son’s face
. “I was a member of the Resistance.”

His knife
clattered to the table. “But–you—” He paused. “You’re my father!”

“It was
a long time ago.” His father’s eyes seemed distant and unfocused. “I was young. Younger than you, even. Before my Winnowing. And I was in love with a beautiful girl.”

“Mother
.”

“No
. This was well before your mother was assigned to me. This girl’s name was Abigail. And she was wonderful. Smart, quick, fearless. Full of ideas. She didn’t believe people should be forced to do things they hated, or that their most important decisions should be made for them. She wanted us to join the Resistance, so we did. She wanted us to defy the Sentinel, to escape from our village. We thought about it and talked about it constantly. But in the end...” He sighed. “It was just too difficult. I couldn’t muster the...the strength, I suppose. The courage to turn my back on everything I had ever known, ever been taught.” He fell silent.

“So
what happened?”

His father
shrugged. “Eventually Abigail was assigned to someone else. I lost my Winnowing, and was transported to Merrindale. Eventually I earned enough Merit to be assigned your mother, and later still, to be allowed a son.”

“Father...do you regret your decision?”

“Of course not. We have a good life now–better than many. If I had defied the Sentinel, I would never have had this cottage, and I would never have had you–the greatest pride of my life. And make no mistake, Daman–even if the Sentinel disapproves of displays of strong emotion–I care deeply for your mother. But,” he added, after a long pause, “I’ve never forgotten that beautiful girl of my youth.”

“Father?
” Daman said at last.

“Yes?”

“Do you...believe in the Sentinel?”

A deep furrow crossed his forehead
. “What do you mean? Do I believe he exists? Yes, of course he does.”

“
But the other night when you showed me your...treasure and we talked and—I just wondered. Do you believe?” He struggled to find the right words. “Do you believe in the Laws and Ways? Do you believe that the life the Sentinel demands is the best?”

“S
uggesting otherwise is heresy. The Black Sentry could take you away, could take all of us away, and our belongings, just for asking the question.”

“Yes, Father
. I know that. Will you answer my question?”

His fathe
r’s lips pursed. “There’s nothing wrong with being a baker, you know. It’s an honorable trade. But it’s not what I wanted to do. I wanted to be an inventor.”

“An inventor?
” He wasn’t sure what the word meant.

“I wanted to make things–wonderful things
. Like the Watch I showed you.”

“Constructs?”

“If you insist on calling them that. I wanted to make people’s lives better, to ease their labor, with my creations.”

He
nodded. “You would’ve been a good inventor, Father.”

“There is much about the Sentinel’s world that is good
. Order eases many burdens. Eliminates complications. Strife. Inequity. Uncertainty. And yet...sometimes at night, I long for the freedom to explore my own path, to make my own way. To fulfill my own dreams.” He looked up abruptly. “I hate the way we live, Daman. I hate the Sentinel and his world. I hate everything about it.”

“Then why
—”

“The Sentinel is all-powerful
. We do not have the strength to resist him. None of us do.”

“But if the Res
—”

His father
rose suddenly. “It’s foolish to speak of such things. Resistance is impossible. Look what’s happened to this poor Rebel and all those like him, running from village to village, never safe, always a short step from execution. No. The Sentinel’s Way is the only Way.”

Hi
s father left for the bakery. He knew his mother expected him to follow, to spend the day helping, until it was time to practice again for the Winnowing. But he did not.

*****

Careful that no one was watching, Daman made his way to the cellar and crept through the doors. The Old Man was wide-awake. He held a piece of parchment before him, studying it intently.

Was this a book? he
wondered. Was the man reading? But as he stepped quietly forward, he saw that the parchment bore pictures–irregular shapes in various colors and sizes.

“Is that a book?” he
asked.

“
Oh no–it’s a map.”

Once again, he
had to struggle with an unfamiliar concept. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Forbidden by the Sentinel,” the Old Man said
. “Who needs them? No one’s allowed to go anywhere. At least not on their own initiative.”

The fact that it was forbidden by
the Sentinel only made it more interesting. “Is that something you...read?”

“In a way
. But it isn’t made up of words, not primarily. It’s a picture. It helps you find your way. It’s how I found your village. And how I hope to get out.”

“But–how?”

“The pictures represent the surrounding countryside. By looking at the map, you can locate your destination and determine how to get there. See?” He pointed at a small blue dot toward the bottom of the map. “That represents your village, Merrindale.” He moved his finger upward. “This orange dot represents the nearest neighboring village, Clovis. This brown line shows the road that connects the two.”

He
nodded as if he understood everything, though in truth he understood almost nothing. “I suppose it must take years of practice to learn how to understand that.”

The Old Man laughed
. “Not at all. A bright boy like you–I bet you could learn it in ten minutes. Would you like that?”