The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1)
Read The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Online
Authors: David Litwack
~~~
The Children of Darkness
(The Seekers – Book 1)
Copyright © 2015 David Litwack
Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Mallory Rock
~~~
ISBN (EPUB Version): 1622534336
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-62253-433-3
~~~
Editor: John Anthony Allen
Senior Editor: Lane Diamond
~~~
eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any
part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal
Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it
may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share
this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase
your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
~~~
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them
fictitiously.
Chapter 1 – A Dreamer of Dreams
Chapter 14 – Pact of the Ponds
Chapter 19 – The End of the Chain
Chapter 20 – The Rhyme That Was Not
Chapter 22 – Water and Dark Walls
Chapter 27 – A Question for Heroes
Chapter 31 – A Plan for Revolution
Chapter 32 – The Potential for
Greatness
Chapter 38 – A Sliver of Moonlight
“Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and
Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.” ~
Albert Einstein
Orah Weber kept watch on the twilight-shaded woods, longing
for Nathaniel to appear but wishing he’d stay away. Behind her, the people of
Little Pond warmed themselves around a modest bonfire. Every evening for the
three weeks leading to festival, the mound of logs would grow until the finish
of the games. Then the grand fire would be lit and the feast served. Although this
night was only the first, the fire blazed brightly enough to light up the
square.
She gazed at the bell tower above the commons. Perhaps
Nathaniel was right, and on this night, he was in no danger. The bell had not
yet tolled; the vicar had not yet arrived. Spicy-sweet wassail still bubbled in
its cauldron, and the music played on.
A trio struck up a lively reel, and she turned to listen,
tapping a toe and patting her thigh to the rhythm. At the fire’s edge, a girl
bobbed up and down to the beat in a purple hat with three snowflakes
embroidered on the brim. Nearby, young couples looked on while elders sat on
the porch of the commons with firelight flickering across their faces.
She had spent that afternoon with Nathaniel, sitting on a
log by the pond. The leaves in the surrounding forest had completed their
autumn change, and stunning hues of red, yellow and orange reflected off the
still water. She’d stared at the colors, struggling to find a way to convince
him. After her fifth try, she stood and planted her hands on her hips.
“I forbid you to come,” she said.
“Since when are we in the habit of forbidding each other.”
“Since you’ve come of age and grown too bull-headed to take
care of yourself.”
She’d been close with Nathaniel for as long as she could
remember. Even as a small boy, he’d wondered what the world must be like beyond
their tiny village, but now he was an adult and she on the threshold. She’d
always been the mature one, bothered by his childish notions. Time to forego
his fantasies and become more responsible.
Yet he resisted, stubborn as always. “What would you have me
do, Orah? Cower in my father’s cottage.”
“Not cower but be less conspicuous when the vicar arrives.”
“Only one in three are taken.”
She bent low and pressed her palm to his cheek to force him
to face her. “It’s not worth the risk. Have you forgotten the look of those who’ve
been taught, the far off gaze, the dreams seemingly ripped away?”
He grasped her wrist and eased her hand aside. “What good
are dreams if they stay unfulfilled?”
They’d had this conversation many times before, every day
for the past month since he’d come of age. He’d brood on this one thought—life
was passing him by.
“But we’re so young,” she’d say, “our future so filled with
possibilities.”
He’d scoff at her, never satisfied with the way things were.
“What possibilities are there in Little Pond?”
Little Pond was the smallest village along the edge of the
mountains, much smaller than Great Pond, which had two shops and an inn. The
pond that gave her home its name was a lovely spot, filled with lake trout and
frogs with huge eyes, but Great Pond was triple its size with an island in its
middle. It bettered Little Pond in every way.
Nothing much ever happened in Little Pond, and so nothing
much happened in their lives. Yes, they were both good at many things, but he
always wanted more. At seventeen years, he was already one of the strongest in
the village, though he’d never been tested in a fight. He could run fast, among
the fastest in footraces at festival, though he’d never finished first. Like
her, he possessed a fine mind, the two of them the smartest students in school,
though he always scored second to her.
And so, despite her
encouragement, he brooded. Was he destined to be good at everything but fall
short of greatness? What if the opportunity for greatness came only once in a
lifetime, a single perilous choice to change the world? Would he charge forward,
believing in his own courage and strength, or run away? That, he claimed, was
the test of greatness. Yet he feared their preset life in Little Pond offered
no chance to find out.
She was different. Her family had been weavers in Little
Pond for as long as anyone remembered. Unlike the surrounding farmers, her days
followed a predictable pattern. Five days a week, she worked the loom. Two
days, she traveled to Great Pond to trade for yarn. The flax never failed, and
her neighbors always needed cloth.
Still, she wondered. Should she be more like Nathaniel?
Should she long for something beyond the village of her birth?
As a seven-year-old, she’d watched her father die. She could
still see his sunken eyes, so filled with hope as he whispered his final words.
Now, little Orah, don’t cry. You have a wonderful life
ahead of you. Study hard in school and don’t let the vicars set your mind.
Think your own thoughts, big thoughts based on grand ideas, and find someone to
love.
She yearned to think big
thoughts as he’d urged, to do important things with her life, but not so much
that she’d take risks like Nathaniel.
Now, as she stared at the bonfire on this night before the
winter blessing, a new worry consumed her. Though one in three were taken, none
ever recounted what happened during the coming-of-age ritual. Every child in
the village grew up fearing the teaching, all except Nathaniel. She suspected a
part of him hoped for it.
“At least I’d get to see Temple City,” he’d say, “the light’s
eternal fortress against the darkness. At least something different would
happen.”
Orah startled from her reverie, as Thomas separated from the
crowd, pointed to the tree line and cried out. “Well look who’s come to do us
honor in the village square.”
Next to Nathaniel, Thomas was her best friend, the three
inseparable since they’d learned to talk. While Nathaniel was prone to notions,
Thomas found trouble wherever he went, too often relying on her to rescue him.
He’d taken to needling Nathaniel at that age when boys’ voices change. In a
period of a few months, Nathaniel had shot up to over six feet, a full head
taller than Thomas. For a time, he was gangly and unsure what to do with his
arms when he walked, prompting Thomas to tease him to no end. One day, when
Thomas had gone too far, Nathaniel challenged his shorter friend to a fight
behind the schoolhouse.
She stepped in between, urging them to stop their boyish
nonsense and remember they were friends. Nathaniel picked her up and moved her
aside.
Before the fight could start, Thomas winked at her, dropped
to one knee at Nathaniel’s feet, and begged. “Please, holiness, don’t hurt
Thomas. Thomas is your friend.”
She’d laughed despite herself, and to this day recalled the
incident as a fond memory of childhood. No fight occurred between friends that
day and none since.
Now, as she watched Nathaniel saunter in from the woods, she
was pleased he’d come despite her protestations. Her face grew warm from
something more than the heat cast from the fire, but she held back, letting
Thomas make first contact.
He tugged at Nathaniel. “Come on. I’ve been waiting for you
to get our first wassail.”
“I thought I’d find you with the players.”
Thomas’s face sagged. It’d been all he’d talked about the
past few weeks—the chance to play his flute at festival now that he was of age.
Apparently the players didn’t dare let him take part. Music was frowned on by
the Temple of Light. By rule, a group was restricted to no more than a drum and
two winds. Other instruments, such as strings, were banned as remnants of the
darkness.
“I tried,” Thomas said. “They told me to wait my turn. I’ll
have to settle for wassail.”
He gestured to the cauldron bubbling in front of the
commons. The familiar smell filled the air—fermented apples with cinnamon and
honey. Everyone claimed wassail was the best use of the harvest, but only those
of age were allowed to indulge.
Nathaniel shook free. “I haven’t said hello to Orah yet.”
“She can have some too.... Oh, I forgot. She’s not of age.”
Orah forced a scowl. “A couple more months and I won’t have
to take that from you anymore, thank the light.”
She smoothed her gray skirt so it flowed to her ankles, and
tugged her gray vest until it properly displayed her slender form. All would
change to black when she came of age. Once satisfied with her appearance, she
stepped halfway to Nathaniel and let him fill the space between them, only then
allowing her fingertips to brush his arm.
“I was hoping you’d make a smarter choice,” she said.
“And miss being with you and Thomas?”
“Better than taking the risk.”
Thomas shoved her aside. “Let’s get a cup now before the
kettle runs dry.”
Orah’s back stiffened. Though only two fingers taller than
Thomas, she could loom over him when she wanted.
“Leave him be, Thomas. He shouldn’t stay just because you
want wassail.”
“I’ve always come for the celebration,” Nathaniel said. “I
didn’t want to miss it now... just because I’ve come of age.”
Orah’s eyes shifted to him and lingered. She wanted him to
stay, but her practical side took over. “If you’re an adult, you need to act
it.”
“You both worry too much,” Thomas said loud enough to
attract the attention of Elder Robert and Elder John, who were playing checkers
at the far end of the porch. Thomas clasped his hands to his chest and pleaded.
“Come on, Nathaniel. I missed the music. Don’t make me miss the wassail.”
Before Nathaniel could respond, Orah blocked his way. “You
should consider before starting on wassail. It’s frowned on by the vicars.”
“So?” Thomas said. “They don’t like music either, but we
still play.”
“The vicars teach us to avoid frivolous foods like honey.
They’re trying to help us lead a better life. They don’t like the name either.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten. The name comes from one of the—” His
eyes bulged and his voice rose. “—old, forbidden languages.”
The two elders glanced toward them with that look of scorn
the old reserve for the young.
Orah waved to quiet him, but he sailed on. “Next they’ll ban
friends meeting in threes. Come on, Nathaniel, or are you so afraid of the
vicar?”
Orah grabbed both by the elbow and dragged them to the edge
of the shadows cast by the fire. There, she placed a hand on each of their
shoulders, drew them into a circle and lowered her voice. “It’s unwise to
openly mock the vicars, especially now.”
Nathaniel raised his chin and glared at her. “I’m not
afraid.”
“Me neither,” Thomas said. “I’d welcome the chance to go
with the vicar to Temple City, to see the tall spires and the officials
standing in line to greet me. I’ll bet they’ve never met my like before.”
“Well I’m quite sure of that,” Orah said, “but not for the
reasons going around in your big head.”
“Why so glum? Wouldn’t you like to visit Temple City? I’m
sure Nathaniel would.”
Her response sliced through the night air. “Nathaniel is not
going to Temple City.”
Nathaniel brushed the sleeve of her tunic in that way he had
when she became agitated. The firelight reflected off his features,
highlighting the stubborn eyes that refused to accept the world as it was.
“Tomorrow’s the blessing,” he said, “nothing more. Here’s my
deal. I’ll lay low and watch my words while the vicar’s here. After he’s gone
we can gather at the NOT tree to celebrate our own festival.”
The “NOT tree” was their name for a shelter deep in the
woods, built by Nathaniel’s father as a place to play their games when they
were little. They’d named it the NOT tree, using their initials—Nathaniel, Orah
and Thomas. With so many years gone by, she doubted his father remembered it,
but the NOT tree remained their special place.
She flicked a strand of hair from her cheek and brushed it
back. “A fine deal. We’ll meet there tomorrow after dusk.”
Thomas reached into his tunic and pulled out the wooden
flute he’d carved years before, and which he always carried with him. “And with
the vicar gone, I’ll be able to serenade my friends.”
When all three nodded in agreement, Orah lifted her face to
the sky with arms extended, palms outward as she’d been taught.
“Praise the light, giver of life. Let us end tomorrow
safely, together at the NOT tree.”
Just as she finished praying, the bell atop the commons
began to toll, ringing sixteen times, each clang echoing in the night air. All
music stopped, and parents took children by the hand. Cups of wassail were set
down, and faces turned toward the entrance of the square.
Thomas slipped the flute back into
his pocket.
The vicar strode through the east gate of the village with
all the pomp of temple clergy, bearing a pack on his back and the weight of
divine authority on his shoulders. He stopped near the fire and confronted the
villagers.
“Greetings,” he intoned, enunciating every letter. “Don’t
let me interrupt your festivities. The blessing is for tomorrow, not tonight.
Please, dear friends, continue your celebration.”
No one stirred.
The vicar approached a table, lifted one of the abandoned
cups to his nose, and closed his eyes. As he inhaled, he shook his head.
“Honey in your drink. We’ll speak more of this tomorrow, but
for now, my friends, enjoy your evening. Blessed be the light.”
The surrounding crowd muttered, “Blessed be the light.”
Orah touched hands with Nathaniel and backed away.
Though no one appeared to move,
within seconds the villagers had faded from the square.
***
Orah lingered behind the trunk of an oak tree, invisible in
its shadow. She needed to learn more, to understand the threat to her friends.
Nathaniel had always been a dreamer.
When they were children, she’d organize games in the woods,
elaborate adventures pitting the light against the darkness.