Read Red Leaves and the Living Token Online
Authors: Benjamin David Burrell
Red Leaves and the Living Token
ISBN 13: 978-0615618524
Text copyright © 2012 Benjamin David Burrell.
Cover Illustration copyright © 2012 Benjamin David Burrell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author.
Red Earth Press
www.benburrell.com
To my wife and my children,
You make everything worth while.
A
lone in his private study, the School Master leaned closer to a large, worn book laying open on his desk. His features, sunken with old age, echoed the handsomeness of his youth. The room around him was true to its purpose, a place for quiet, peaceful, study.
Books, neatly shelved by size and theme, spiraled up the walls, separated every few feet by the dark stained trim of a book case, all washed in the warm glow of a small oil lamp sitting on his reading desk.
He shifted position on the hard, unforgiving, bench. This wasn't his usual place to read; his sore body reminded him. But then, this wasn't his usual book. And he liked the idea that reading it required a bit of discomfort. Its large size and fragile condition prevented him from taking it to his soft chair across the room. He turned an ancient and heavily worn page.
It was the ‘Journal of the Reds’ after all. He should pay something for the privilege of reading it. Shouldn't he? He wasn't sure how many copies remained, but doubted it was more than a handful.
It was something he studied on occasion when he had the time. At this moment, however, he didn't have time. His schedule was already overflowing with meetings and lectures which he was entirely unprepared for as it was. And yet here he sat, reading something totally unrelated.
About a week ago, a feeling of dread had settled over him. It was as though he was suddenly aware of a critical responsibility regarding the Token that had gone unfulfilled. As though there was something in its purpose that he did not fully understand, and had thus left neglected. But the question of what or why now? He could not answer.
The feeling had brought his mind back to a question he had struggled to answer for many, many years. The question was central to his understanding of his duty towards the Token. And he felt a degree of shame at the void of knowledge regarding something so core to his own self identity. He was the keeper of the Token. He should not lack knowledge concerning it. Perhaps answering one question would help answer the other, he thought.
Once again, as the week rolled on, he'd found himself lost in the chaos of his administrative duties, so much so that he was surprised that his questions did not altogether slip his mind. Yet, there they sat at the top of his thoughts, a nagging reminder at the end of each day that there was something of profound importance that he did not understand. Something that, as the School Master, he should know. But he did not. So here he was digging into this journal, hoping somewhere in its pages he'd find the answer.
His ancient question concerned the Reds themselves. It'd been over a thousand years since the last page had been written in the journal. It'd been over a thousand years since any of the Reds had been seen. A thousand years! So much time, he could scarcely comprehend. He struggled putting the figure into context. More than ten of his own life times.
Of course, he knew why the pages had stopped. That wasn't the question. There had been a war, a horribly devastating war, that tore the world into three.
As a historian, he spent a considerable amount of time trying to understand such pivotal moments, where hours end up defining entire centuries.
Before, there was no distinction between them. They were brothers and sisters, united under one Crown. Physically there were differences, sure. But they did not define themselves by them. Not before.
The idea fascinated him, especially in light of the current political environment. Each of the three held the other two at fault historically for the inciting the division. There was probably a legitimate argument from each side; he supposed. As a historian, he tried looking at the past without his national Zoen bias. He tried, but some historical events, such as this war, that carried such personal significance, made that difficult if not completely impossible.
The war started with the murder of the last living Red. An act from which the world had not yet recovered. And that was at the heart of his question.
The Petra attacked first. Out of jealously, the Botann said. Out of revenge, the Zo argued. They came in the night without warning, a rumbling storm of rock tearing through the center of the city. They bore down on the Botann with a wrath the Botann had never experienced, easily overwhelming the handful of guards protecting the Red.
The Petra with their bodies hewn out of stone, rough cut and rugged, could inflict mortal harm by simply standing still, like a jagged stone wall, while others with softer bodies stampeded into them. They were virtually indestructible next to pale green limbs of the Botann or the soft fur covered Zo.
But this army hadn't simply stood still. They marched forward, filled with religiously fueled wrath that boiled them to the point of murder.
The Botann, grown from the earth, bodies of branches and leaves, did the only thing they could. They ran. Those who were cut off were forced to stand by helplessly and watch as the most sacred member of their society, their Red, was cut down, thrown to the earth and burned.
The Petra killed the last Red not because it was Botann; the Reds were unique creatures unto themselves, not Petra, Botann, or Zo. Nor did the Petra kill it because it belonged to the Botann. The Reds considered themselves to belong to all three people or rather that all three belonged to them.
No, the Petra killed the last Red because the Botann lay claim to it as if it were their own. They walled it off and hoarded it, allowing only Botann access to it. The Petra killed the last Red because the Botann used it to claim superiority, saying that it was a sign of their Divine privilege.
The Petra killed the last Red because their own, the Red whom they had laid their own claim too, had died, leaving them at a disadvantage. They killed the last Red because the Zoen Red had grown ill over the years and it too had died, leaving only the one.
One that fueled the arrogance of the Botann.
Before their Red passed away, it was the Zo, with their hunched over furry animal like bodies, who claimed a position of prominence over the other two. They, just as animals of the world, were the highest form of life, higher than the plants, higher than dirt and stone. The Red they claimed as their own echoed the same prominence over the other two Reds. It was animal in form while the second most closely resembled a large tree and the last, stone and soil.
They revered all three of the Reds. But like their brothers, they had chosen their favorite.
The school master understood all this. He'd studied it in extreme detail, year after year. What he could not understand, the question that burned unforgivably in his mind was this: Why after a thousand years had the Reds not come back?
They had died before, many times, in fact. For one reason or another, the world would become inhospitable for them, and they would perish as a result. But in every instance, given enough time, fifty, a hundred years maybe, the Reds came back, every time, except this.
A thousand years was long enough to wait. It was clear; this time was different!
If he could find the answer to that question, he thought, he might understand the dread that had come over him. He might understand what duty, with regard to the Token, that he had left unfulfilled.
Click! A metallic noise reverberating through the book filled room brought the School Master out of his thoughts. He lifted his long nose up from his book.
A heavy wooden door creaked behind him as it turned slowly on its rusty hinges. Footsteps clanked into the room.
"Yes, yes, what is it?" He shouted glaring over his shoulder towards the open door. Students, for some reason or another, had lost their respect for his private hours. This would have to be corrected.
Not hearing a response, he spun around. As soon as his eye caught sight of the intruder, he felt his heart stop. His body froze in horror. His jaw refused to open, choking off a cry for help.
In that moment, he realized that he had thoroughly misinterpreted the dread he had felt regarding the Token. It had nothing to do with the ancient disappearance of the Reds. It was a warning. A warning he had not headed.
-
Nemic sat at a rustic wooden table, his green cheek in his broad, leafy hand, his elbow propped up, and his face buried in a book. His light green skin was gnarled and twisted like a piece of drift wood. His hands were like mittens, two broad leaves forming a wide scoop and another to act as a thumb. Long stalks grew up from his back, sprouting a halo of decorative leaves behind his head.
"Petchu, Petchu!" Frezen, playing on the floor behind Nemic, imitated the sound of a gun with his mouth as he aimed a toy animal up at an older boy face.
"Stop it." Bedic, the older boy, scolded as he snatched the toy from Frezen's hand. "I'm trying to read." He turned back to his book resting open on a small child sized table.
SLAM! The thick wood door to the room burst open spilling the elderly School Master in his flowing yellow and brown robes into the room. Blood dripped from saturated pools collecting in his robes. Open wounds wept from his neck and face. As he stumbled further into the room, he held up two objects in his arms; a large book, and a small metal chest with a key hole.
"Master!" Nemic jumped up and rushed to his side, supporting him. "What happened?" He pulled at the heavy book and chest, trying to ease his burden, then turned to the older boy. "Bedic, get some water."
The School Master grabbed Nemic by the arm, looking him in the eye. "Nemic, stop fussing and listen to me. Someone is coming!"
Nemic glanced back at the door, alarmed.
"I have to ask you to do something for me, and we don't have much time," He continued.
"Of course," Nemic answered.
The School Master stumbled over to the table where Nemic had set the book and chest. He looked up at Nemic but didn't speak.
"Tell me!" Nemic demanded.
The school master shook his head and looked away. "I never wanted to put this on you. I'm so sorry. I should've prepared you at the least."