The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (22 page)

“If we all agree,” Orah said, “then why the Pact?”

“To seal our friendship.”

Orah and Nathaniel formed a circle with him around the
golden words. Each covered their heart, reached into the center and clasped
wrists as if they’d never let go.

“The hero is one who kindles a great light in the world, who
sets up blazing torches in the dark streets of life for men to see by.” ~
Felix
Adler

The temple tree loomed in the night, more than double the
height of the surrounding evergreens, silhouetted against the stars. Beyond its
unnatural height, its branches sprouted too evenly, and its boughs gleamed too
green. Clearly made by man, yet for fear of the vicars, no child of light had
questioned its purpose for a thousand years.

This made the sixth tree they’d encountered since emerging
from the wilderness. At each, Orah had located the metal plate at its base but left
it intact. Nathaniel and Thomas were itching to disable their first tree, but
she held them off. From the helpers, she’d learned the gray friars monitored communications
and would instantly detect a failure. If she disabled each tree in sequence, the
deacons would eventually find them. Better a random approach.

Seekers no more, they were now the hunted, and to survive
meant taking a devious approach. She’d devised the plan before leaving the keep:
carry light-weight, dehydrated food to avoid relying on others—better to be
self-sufficient; travel at night and rest in the forest by day—better to be
unseen; plot an erratic course using the maps they’d found—better to be
unpredictable.

Best of all, while researching the trees, she’d discovered a
device that let her listen to Temple communications. Once within range of the
first tower, the mechanism had crackled to life. Whatever words flew around,
she could hear.

The conversations dismayed her. That which had awed her in
Bradford impressed her no more. The chatter was cynical and bureaucratic, not
the discourse of holy men. But once the seekers posted their first message, the
words flying through the air would change, talking mostly about them. Until
then, she’d eavesdrop on the vicars when she could—better to know your enemy.

The plan was straightforward. She’d printed three hundred
copies of each message and divided the pages equally among them. The reason
remained unspoken, but all understood why—so the mission could go on as long as
any one of them survived.

She chose a region of several hundred villages, sufficient
to make the pattern hard to predict but dense enough to form a front against
the vicars. They’d meander rather than follow a straight line, never posting at
two towns in a row. Few felt love for the Temple, and the messages would be
burning tinder to dry wood. Sympathetic individuals would fan the brushfire,
and once the flames of rebellion had engulfed the region, the seekers would muster
the resources to protect the keep and teach others.

When they reached the temple tree, Orah removed her pack and
entered the woods. Nathaniel and Thomas lingered behind, exhausted from the
night’s travel, and she let them assume another idle inspection, biding her
time and building suspense.

“What’re you dawdling for?” she said at last. “This is the
one.”

Nathaniel eyes shone in the dark. “Do you mean—?”

“Come on, Nathaniel.” Thomas raced toward her. “You wanted a
revolution. Now’s the time.”

They located the plate at the base of the tree, fastened,
like the others, by screws at the corners.

Orah asked Thomas for his pocketknife, but he refused. “You
made the plans. I get to take off the plate.”

She relented.

Thomas knelt and probed in the dark
with his fingernails for the groove, then slotted his blade and twisted. The
well-maintained screws gave with little effort. As he eased the last one out,
she grasped the plate and yanked it free.

A black wire snaked up from the ground, exactly as the
helper had described. While she admired her find, Thomas grabbed the wire and
began sawing with his knife.

“Stop.” She thrust a forearm into his chest, and he fell
backward.

He rubbed the spot where she’d struck him and picked dried
leaves off his tunic. “What did you do that for?”

“I just saved your life, Thomas. You forgot that cutting the
wire can kill you.”

While he scrambled back as if the
wire might attack him, Orah rummaged through her pack and removed two items: the
listening device, and the cutting tool provided by the helpers. The latter
looked like scissors, but with a green coating on the handle. She turned on the
device and listened to the familiar crackling noise, broken by remarks from
faceless vicars. Then she picked up the tool.

Nathaniel grabbed her wrist. “I thought you said it can kill
you.”

“The helper promised the coating on this tool would protect
me.”

“Maybe I should do it instead.”

She smiled at him. “The last time you tried to save me, you
nearly became a vicar.”

Before he could protest, she snipped the wire. At once, the
crackling ceased.

***

No moon rose the next night, and thick clouds obliterated
the stars. Orah stood watch at the edge of a nameless town, waiting for the
last candle in a farmhouse window to be snuffed out. She’d insisted on going
herself, but her friends had objected.

Instead, Thomas had picked three stones from the side of the
road, all of similar shape, but one white like the Temple stone used to limit
family size. He placed them in his pocket and rattled them around. “The one who
gets the ‘only child’ stone goes first. Afterwards, we take turns.”

One by one, they selected. In the dim light, she had trouble
seeing who picked the white stone, but Nathaniel’s swagger made it clear.

She grimaced as she handed him the four messages. “You be
careful. Tread softly on those big feet and remember the one about the darkness
goes on the deacon’s post. Put the others where you see fit, but be quick.”

Then she rose on her toes and gave him a kiss.

“What’s that for?”

“For luck.”

He nodded and headed to town, but she worried luck was a
false companion. Even if it came in abundance, it would eventually run out.

***

The old farmer made a habit of going out for a morning
stroll. He’d trek the fifteen minutes to the village center, where he’d circle
the commons ten times before returning home for breakfast. By the time he
finished, his right hip throbbed, but the exercise kept him spry.

On this day, a bulletin glared at him from the post by the
common house. Notices never appeared before midday—the deacons who lived in
town slept late, and no one was in a rush to read Temple news. He’d always
stayed faithful to the light but refused to break stride for the vicar’s
nonsense.

At this hour, few people milled about. Like him, some
enjoyed their sunrise stroll, and other unfortunates, like the baker, had work
demanding an early start. Most ignored the bulletin, placing no import on its
early arrival.

As he circled around, he counted those who bypassed the
paper on the pole. He’d tallied up to six before the apprentice to the
furniture maker stopped to read.

Oddly, the boy lingered, not only reading the document, but
studying its every word. The farmer watched from a distance as the young man
pulled others over. All clustered around and stared at the bulletin. Soon, a
crowd had gathered. Despite the early hour, a lively exchange ensued.

On his ninth pass, the farmer stopped, curious to hear what they
said. Their heated words became clear.

“This one’s not from the Temple.”

“It must be. Where else does such lettering come from?”

The old farmer nudged his way through the crowd. His
eyesight had grown weak, and he needed to come near to read the words. The
others jostled him so much he almost gave up, but then a path cleared. He
turned to find a deacon hustling toward him, finishing dressing as he went. The
image of the adoring family basking in the rays of the sun lay wrinkled on his
half-buttoned tunic.

The deacon stared at the post while a second caught up. “What’s
wrong?”

The first deacon whispered to his friend, “Did you put this
up?”

“Not me. Maybe one of the others?”

“I thought bulletins were your job.”

“I said not me. What’s the problem? Seems like a proper one.”

The first deacon rubbed his jaw-line beard. “Dunno. Words
ain’t right.”

“Should we take it down?”

Despite the morning chill, sweat beaded on the first deacon’s
brow. “Dunno. Never seen anything like it. We should check with the vicar.”

The other agreed and the two ran off.

The old farmer chuckled to himself. He’d waited many years
to see deacons so flustered. When he turned back to the post, the pathway remained
open, so he stepped closer before the crowd filled in.

He nodded slowly at first, then faster. The paper had the
look of a Temple bulletin, but with one difference. For the first time in his
seventy-six years, he was reading an original thought.

***

The arch vicar scanned the faces around the table.
Conferences with the grand vicar were routine, scheduled every Monday morning,
and the broadcasts were uneventful to the point of boredom. Some of the vicars
scribbled on notepads as the old man droned on. Others brought books to read.

Today was different, not a Monday, and the grand vicar had called
this meeting in haste. Over the past few days, rumors had spread that the
Temple was under attack.

The box on the table hummed while the grand vicar stated the
facts. Blasphemous notices had appeared in twelve towns, possibly more, the
messages printed to look like Temple bulletins. Somehow, the perpetrators had
gained access to sacred technology. They’d even figured out how to disrupt
communications. In response, he’d mobilized all assets, dispatching repair
crews to the damaged towers and ordering the gray friars to localize the
heretical activity. As yet, no pattern had emerged.

The arch vicar trembled at the threat to his Temple but also
recognized an opportunity. He’d made the decision to release the young people,
and their disappearance had left a black mark on his record. Now, the chance for
redemption.

A hand shot up at the end of the table. The young monsignor
always managed to have a question.

No time for politics.
The
arch vicar nodded and pressed the button.

“Holiness, how have the people reacted to these messages?”

A long pause. Had they disrupted the main communication line
as well? When the voice returned, the grand vicar’s answer chilled.

“The people have begun to pass this heresy on to their
neighbors and question Temple authority. We must stop these enemies of the
light. I’ve authorized the use of rapid transportation and other means at our
disposal, clandestine or otherwise. All clergy have a responsibility to end
this desecration before the darkness spreads.”

Blood rushed to the arch vicar’s cheeks. He’d believed in
his plan for Nathaniel and his friends, but they’d turned out to be more
resourceful than expected. The feisty old prisoner who had died that summer
became placid after Nathaniel’s departure, a sure sign he’d passed on the
secret. The deacons had tracked them for weeks—everything going according to the
plan... until suddenly they’d disappeared.

The arch vicar had guided his life with a dual purpose: to
prevent the darkness from returning, and to rise up the hierarchy and one day
become grand vicar. Now the two might converge. He’d atone for his mistake. The
three had made clever use of stolen technology, but no one could master the
secrets in so short a time. He’d spent years acquiring such knowledge.

Time to wield that knowledge against them.

***

The Vicar of Bradford bounded down the steps to meet his
morning class, a favorite group of children between six and eight. Any of them
might someday have replaced him as keeper, but that need had passed. The
Seekers had come, and from the news burning up the network, they’d found the
keep.

He ruffled a few heads before signaling them to follow. As
he strode up the first step, one of them tugged at his robe.

“What is it, Richard?”

Richard regarded him with huge brown eyes from under a mop
of untamed hair. He crooked his tiny finger and beckoned the vicar to bend low
so he could whisper in his ear.

The child grasped his cheeks to make sure he stayed close
and told him the story. That morning, when he went outside to fetch water for
his mother, a pretty lady had appeared from behind a tree. She gave him a paper
bag and made him swear to do two things: tell no one, and give the bag to the
vicar of Bradford the instant he saw him. She promised he’d be rewarded with a
sweet.

The vicar accepted the package from the child, unfolded the tightly-rolled
top and checked inside. As he suspected, four scrolls nestled within, each with
a surface like glass. A note lay next to them.

He waved the children to proceed to their class, all except
the little messenger. When they were gone, he grasped the note from the bag and
read the three handwritten words:
Just in case.

He glanced to the horizon and then beamed at the expectant
face of the boy, who with the blessing of the light might someday become
anything he desired. But as vicar and keeper, he had one final task. He reached
into his tunic pocket, pulled out a fistful of sweets, and dropped them into
the cupped hands of the child.

Nathaniel roused before his friends in a clearing deep in
the woods.
How odd to nod off beneath a dazzling sun and wake as the darkness
falls.
He stretched his long arms overhead in a yawn. After days of dashing
from place to place, at least he’d slept well.

He glanced about, trying to get his bearings. The day
before, they’d traveled south and posted in a village at midnight, before
racing off to the east. Last night, they’d switched to the west and avoided
towns altogether. With so many twists and turns, hurries and delays, no wonder
they’d dodged the deacons.

Orah had been brilliant.

He turned to watch her sleep. Her spirited heart beat calmly
now, leaving her at rest. As a strand of hair fell softly across her cheek, a
cruel vision crept into his mind—Orah wasting away in a teaching cell. Had she
agreed to this venture for him?

The more they posted, the more likely they’d be caught. The
chatter on the listening device now filled the air with their exploits. Every
vicar and deacon in the world was searching for them. The race had begun—would
the people rise up before the seekers of truth were silenced?

Nathaniel brushed the hair from her face.

She stirred and rolled toward him. Her eyelids fluttered and
opened. She met his gaze, and her lips parted. “What are you staring at,
Nathaniel?”

Once he’d have turned away embarrassed, but now he refused
to flinch. “At you, my best friend. I’m staring at you.”

***

The arch vicar stomped into the priory. The project was
taking too long. He prowled the rows of brothers, pausing to glance over their
shoulders as they stared at the screens. On each screen glowed a map of a
region. On each map blinked a cluster of dots. A brother in the center found a
match and punched a few keys. Another dot vanished.

The prior paced in the last row, hands folded in the small
of his back. He stiffened when he noticed the arch vicar.

“Holiness, the brothers need sleep. They’ll make mistakes if
they’re too tired, and we’ll have to start over.”

The arch vicar glared at the rows of gray friars.
Too
coddled over the centuries
. Alone among the clerical class, they
embellished their dress with preening accessories, the crimson sash and red
skull cap. Now their skull caps lay next to their screens, and sweat glistened
on their tonsures.

Wizards of temple magic
. He’d learned more in the
archives than any of them, and his youthful obsession was about to bear fruit.
Not even the priors knew the systems as well as he. Not a one of them could
devise this plan.

He counted on the young people’s resourcefulness. Every
communication device on the network displayed as a white dot on the dark screen.
If they carried an unsanctioned device as he suspected, it would show as well.
He ordered the brothers to check each dot against the records. When they’d
exhausted the list, these so-called seekers of truth would stand out like a beacon
in the night.

A brother on his right extinguished another dot, but too
many still remained.

He whirled around to the prior. “No sleep for anyone. No
sleep until only the unsanctioned device remains. Then you may sleep as much as
you wish, and my work will begin.”

***

Thomas forced his eyes to stay open, terrified the
nightmares would return. His dreams of the darkness lingered but they’d evolved
since leaving the keep. At first, his mind conjured up caves and fast wagons,
flying at incredible speeds, but recently the images had changed. The wagons
became hunters, and he was their prey.

He dug his nails into his palms to stay awake, but as the
sun grew warmer and the air softened, he drifted off.

When the dream began, he struggled to name the fear, but a sense
of expectancy raged. Then the wagons came at night with eyes of fire. He tried
to flee, running away until a chasm loomed ahead. With nowhere to turn, he
skidded to a stop. In no time, the largest of the beasts set upon him, and a
door like the mouth of a snake opened and swallowed him whole.

Inside the belly of the beast, the darkness returned.

***

The middle of the night. Orah led them on a path with tree
trunks encroaching on either side, too narrow for fast wagons. She’d become
more cautious as the days progressed, always moving, never stopping on roads.
They posted in fewer towns, more widely dispersed. They ran, they slept, they
hid.

Why didn’t the people rise up? What was taking them so long?
She prayed they’d rise up soon, because she’d grown tired of risking the lives
of her friends.

When the whining came, it sounded like an animal in pain. As
it became louder, she sensed their approach, and then she smelled them, a pungent
stench that burned her nostrils. In the distance, she saw lights through the
trees. Ten, twelve, more each second, moving faster than the three of them
could run.

Fast wagons. The vicars had come.

“Run deeper into the woods.”

Nathaniel and Thomas hesitated only briefly. They’d learned
to trust her and obeyed, but this time her judgment had failed.

She steadied her mind, trying to think as she ran. “Split
up. Go in different directions.”

When they were three steps ahead and fading into the dark,
she slowed to remove her pack. Still moving at a jog, she groped for the
device, and then stopped to make sure she’d grabbed the right one. Six weeks to
the blessing—too far away—but she had no choice. She took a deep breath and
flipped the lever. The red light glowed. She scanned the trees and picked one
with a crook in its branches. Stretching on tiptoes, she nestled the device in
its cradle and then sped off to her fate.

The whine became a roar. She glanced over her shoulder and
spotted wagons unlike any she’d seen in the keep, smaller and narrower, with
two wheels and a rider balancing on top. These could follow wherever they went.

The pursuers split up as well, swinging wide to form a circle
around them. The glow of their lights pointed at her and her friends. They’d
become the hub of a wheel whose spokes were beams of yellow made foul by smoke
and dust—she could taste it on her tongue. The roar swelled so she had to
resist covering her ears, and the lights inched forward, tightening the trap.

She whirled to the crack of a branch, and caught Nathaniel
dashing toward her. By the light of the machines, she noted his clenched fists
as he advanced on a rider.

She grabbed his arm, arching her back to add weight. He spun
on her, easing off only when he recognized her. She shook her head until his
arms went limp and fell to his sides.

The riders herded them to the road. Minutes later, a larger
wagon rolled to a stop, its lights glaring in the darkness. Front doors swung
wide. Several deacons emerged, each taller and broader than Nathaniel. One of
them opened the rear door, and out stepped the arch vicar.

He came within two paces of Orah, a smaller man than she
recalled, and thrust his face into hers. She held her ground, matching the
clergyman’s stare. No high bench between them now.

He signaled for one of the deacons to fetch her pack, and
skimmed the papers inside. A sneer of delight came over his grim features.

“Orah of Little Pond, whose name means light. Will you still
claim you’ve done nothing wrong? The darkness is a disease with no cure. You
are sick with it and have tried to infect others.”

Next he found the wire-cutter and a diagram of the temple
trees. He fondled the tool, opened and closed it, and studied the diagram.
Finally, he grasped the listening device and waved it before her eyes. “You
tried too much, when you knew too little. Your arrogance gave you away.”

He locked eyes, waiting for a reaction.

He’d get none. She’d frustrate this leader before whom
others cowered, armed with the knowledge they’d found in the keep. No posturing
by this frail old man could change that.

He pulled out her log. “What have we here? An unsanctioned
book?”

Orah grabbed at it, but he snatched it away.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Some scribbles with meaning only
to me.”

He fanned through the pages. “Then perhaps I might find it
engaging.”

He handed her log to a deacon and turned to Nathaniel.

“And so, Nathaniel, you lied to me, never intending to keep
your vow.”

Nathaniel tightened his jaw and stayed silent.

The arch vicar dug into Nathaniel’s bag and withdrew the
stack of messages. He leered at Orah and flipped the pages for show. Another
ritual: read, humiliate, repeat.

He turned one last time.

Thomas collapsed to his knees. “Holiness, thank the light
you’ve rescued me. They forced me to come with them, threatening to tell lies to
the vicars if I didn’t go. They didn’t trust me anymore and were afraid to
leave me behind. Me, their childhood friend.”

A stab of despair struck Orah. She looked away, down to the
ground, up to the trees, anywhere but to Thomas.

“Holiness, please, I know the darkness. I know it in my
heart. Don’t lock me away again. No second teaching. I know the darkness—”

The arch vicar waved him to silence and signaled for his
pack. He found Thomas’s knife. “From this object might grow a weapon if the darkness
returns as you wish.”

Thomas shook his head. His whole body shuddered.

Orah tried to forgive. This was no
longer Thomas. Thomas had fled, replaced by fear.

The arch vicar found Thomas’s flute. “Music corrupts the soul,
and so the darkness has corrupted you.”

He stepped inches from Thomas’s face and held out the flute.
His thick hands slid to the ends of the instrument and squeezed. The blood
drained from his knuckles, and he snapped it in two with a crack.

Thomas fell face-down on the ground, his sobs the only
sound.

The arch vicar signaled to the deacons. “Keep this one
separate from the others. As for these two....” He turned to Orah and
Nathaniel. “Bring them to Temple City, where they’ll remain our guests for a
very long time.”

As the deacons led her and her friends off, Orah cast a
glance to the east. Far off, deep in the woods, a pinprick of red glowed among
the branches—a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

Then it vanished, snuffed out by the night.