There Comes A Prophet (32 page)

"Nathaniel."

"Yes, Orah."

"I've been thinking about my father lately."

He waited, still counting her breaths.

"I can see his hands sometimes, his hands at the loom. He had delicate hands with slender fingers, not like a man's."

"Like yours." Nathaniel imagined she smiled.

"Like mine. When I forget what they look like, I only have to look down."

Nathaniel stared at dust patterns on the wall.

"Nathaniel."

"Yes."

"I'm having trouble remembering his face. I see him sometimes, telling stories at bedtime when I was little, but I can't recall him at will. I wish I could go to a viewing area with a topic called memories. I'd say, 'Show me pictures of my father,' and he'd appear on the screen."

"Those pictures have lasted a thousand years."

"And my father's been gone ten. I'm worried I'll forget him entirely."

Nathaniel traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes.

"In here, I may forget my father as well."

He tried to envision his father. Six months had passed since they'd been together. He shook his head to jog his memory, to summon his father's face. But only Orah's appeared.

"Move back," he said, "away from the peephole."

"Why?"

"I want to look at you."

He heard a shuffling sound and waited.

"I'm ready."

He peered through the hole and caught her grooming herself, licking her hands to rub dust from her face, dragging fingers through tangled hair. She had the same look as when he'd kissed her at festival-eyes sparkling in the candlelight, a blush to her cheeks. If the vicars took her away, what would he do?

He banished the thought from his mind. "Orah."

"Yes."

"Would you do it again?"

"I think so." She laughed. It sounded like waterfalls. "Ask me in twenty years."

"If I hadn't rushed to save you from the teaching, you'd have become wiser in the light. And then we'd have gone on with our lives in Little Pond."

"Come closer to the hole, Nathaniel."

He did.

She slapped the flat of her hand against the wall hard enough that dust flew. He could feel the vibration.

"Don't go having regrets. It was wonderful that you came for me. And I wouldn't have been wiser. I'd never give up what I know now. Think of it, Nathaniel-a million suns."

Nathaniel pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. "I'm glad I went too." He recalled stumbling through the streets of Temple City. "Besides, they'd have taken me next, and a summer teaching's worse."

No response from the next cell. No movement outside. The only sound was a candle flaring occasionally with a soft buzz. He looked once more through the hole. Orah was leaning on the edge of the table, staring at nothing. He knew the thought would anger her but had to say it.

"I should never have allowed you to come with me that morning at the Not Tree. Then I'd be alone here, and you'd be safe in Little Pond."

He went to look through the hole, but she was already striding toward him. For a moment, he was grateful a wall lay between.

"Don't ever think that way, Nathaniel. That would've been awful. You'd be gone and I wouldn't know where you were. Better to be near, connected by this cursed peephole, than to have that separation." Then she relented. "Besides, you'd never have found your way without me. You'd still be searching for mountains in Adamsville."

He nodded though he knew she couldn't see. He was beginning to understand.

"Remember what you said, about having no illusions and needing to make choices. We've made lots of choices, but we always chose what we believed in. So we should have no regrets. Is that how you feel?"

"I think so." Orah paused. He could hear her mind churn. "Like the old prisoner who lived in this cell. He made choices based on what he believed. Do you think he had regrets at the end?"

"No. But he always had hope. Maybe when we're old we'll find a way to tell our story like he did." The corners of his mouth struggled upward, and he forced a glance to the unseen heavens. "Or maybe our friend in Bradford will mount an expedition to rescue us." He shook his head. "There goes Nathaniel having illusions again."

"I don't know. But one thing's no illusion-being together. At least we have that."

Had there been no wall, he knew what she'd do next. He leaned his head to one side as if to feel the warmth of her hand.

"Orah."

"Yes."

"If none of this had happened, if we were free to go home and resume our lives, what would you have wished for most?"

"Do you think it's a good idea to dwell on thoughts like that?"

He considered a moment. "Our dreams may be all we have left."

"Very well," she said. "Then here's my list. I'd like to win a race at festival as an adult; to have you win someday, so I could place a wreath on your head and embarrass you in front of the whole village; to weave enough cloth one year to let my mother have some rest; to go with you to explore the mountain pass and discover the great ocean... "

Her voice trailed off. When nothing else was forthcoming, he assumed it was his turn.

"My list is short. If none of this had happened-no teachings, no vicars, no seekers, no keep-I'd have been content to spend the rest of my life with you."

When she failed to answer, he peaked through the hole in the wall. She was seated sideways on the chair, one arm draped over the back, facing the common wall. The dim light of a candle flickered off her moist cheeks.

***

Three weeks had passed since Thomas was assigned to the kitchen. As another tedious day neared its end, he hobbled down the hall to the storeroom, dragging a sack of flour. His gait was lame, favoring his left side and his head followed, tilting as if it was too heavy for his neck. His eyes wandered aimlessly.

Which allowed him to see everything without being detected-a perfect ruse. Only his friends would have seen through it.

Orah would be proud. He'd become a student of the dining routine, observing every detail, gathering information.

The kitchen provided meals for several hundred people and was always bustling with activity. Work began before sunrise when the baker arrived to fire up the ovens. Cooking for dinner started immediately after lunch. And following the evening meal, preparation for breakfast the next morning. Everyone raced about trying to finish as soon as possible, to save a few minutes for their families before bedtime. This was the most chaotic time of day, ideal for avoiding notice.

He'd won the trust of Charles, the head cook, a round, hairless man with a thick neck and three chins who liked to order people about using the familiar form of their name followed by the word
boy-
Willie-boy or Johnnie-boy. In turn, the cook was known behind his back as Charlie-boy.

Thomas played the simpleton so well the cook took to calling him poor-boy.

"Poor-boy, fetch me a sack of beets. Poor-boy, a crate of salted pork."

Thomas bowed, yes-holinessed and shuffled off. And because he wasn't right in the head, he could get away with foolish questions. But always embedded was a question whose answer he needed to know.

"Holiness, why is the pork salted? Why are the beets stored in sacks and not crates? Why are the walnuts in cans?" And slipped in between, "How does the food get to the vicars?"

He learned the clergymen were served first, then the deacons. Next came the kitchen staff. Whatever food was left over went to the guards below and, last of all, to the prisoners.

"But how does the food get below?"

Food was sent from the kitchen using a moveable frame, hoisted up or down with a system of pulleys. The largest of these was in the kitchen, behind the brick ovens, in a place left vacant except while meals were being served. It delivered food upward to Temple officials, and then downward to prison guards. A second, smaller one was set into the back wall of the storeroom. No one would tell him where that one went.

Everyone knew he'd been sent by the arch vicar and watched him closely. When not working, he was locked away in a small room. But people relaxed around the simpleminded. Increasingly, gaps in his oversight were showing.

It was after dinner, and the exhausted staff were scurrying about to finish their work. All around him, cooks, scullions and others of Charlie-boy's underlings hustled through the steaming air, rattling pans in soapy water, dragging crates of smoked meat, peeling potatoes for the next morning. In the dimly lit alcove before the ovens, a washerwoman swished about on the stone floor with a mop.

He'd been sent to fetch flour for tomorrow's baking. The storeroom was his domain. With only one door, he was allowed to enter unsupervised. With so many sacks and kegs, no one bothered to keep track of how long he stayed inside. He located the opening in the back wall of the storeroom, about half the height of a man, but wider. On closer inspection, he saw it was the entrance to a shaft downward. The frame lay in place, shelves empty, its work done for the day. He dare not disrupt it for long for fear it would be found missing if someone came in. But he fingered the thick rope-rough hemp and well made. Good for a firm grip.

He inhaled through his nose and blew out a long stream of air.
Well, Thomas, it's time.
You always thought your friends were braver than you. Time to be brave as well.

He raised the shelf and slipped underneath. Once in the shaft, he clutched the rope between the insteps of his boots and pulled the shelf back into place. Then hand over hand, he lowered himself down.

At the bottom, there was barely enough light to see. The air was stale and the walls were etched with decay. Heavy wooden doors lined the far side of the corridor, each locked with a metal bolt, securing them from the outside.

His heart sank.

He spent his days in a bright room surrounded by people, but his friends were locked in these cells. A peek through a slat, a slip of a bolt and they'd be free. But what then? Too many unanswered questions, too many obstacles to freedom. Even Orah would struggle to stitch together such a plan.

He stared at the doors and shook his head. Helping them was impossible. If he was caught, his punishment would be worse than theirs, a useless sacrifice. All he'd discovered was a trifle, not a plan. It would take many more trifles to make Orah proud.

He listened. The voices of his friends? Too muffled to say for sure.

Afraid to stay longer, he vaulted back into the shaft and shimmied up the rope.

***

- A month had passed since Nathaniel had seen Orah with no wall between them. Now, four deacons blocked his view and kept them apart. He peered past them to get a better look as she walked ahead. She seemed thinner, her olive skin more pale. He suspected he looked no better.

- They were led through a maze of dimly lit corridors until he lost all sense of direction. Finally, they arrived at a great door forming the end of a hall. Nathaniel suppressed a gasp. On the wall beside it was a box with sixteen buttons, all in the shape of stars. The lead deacon knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened and the figure of the arch vicar filled its frame. He waved the deacons off and bid Nathaniel and Orah enter. He was alone.

They were ushered into a painfully familiar room. A soft glow rose around them, with no visible source. The furnishings were unlike anything they'd seen in Temple City, only metal tables and straight-backed chairs. The plain white walls were broken every few paces with the rectangular windows they'd come to know as screens.

Nathaniel did his best to hide his reaction. "What place is this? Temple magic?"

"Well played, Nathaniel," the arch vicar said, "but we know better. You've been to the keep."

Nathaniel gritted his teeth as if pressing harder would prevent him from replying. The older man responded with a look of his own, a glare of condemnation that appeared to have been used so often, it had grown into his flesh and bones.

"No need to answer. But tell me, what made you so enamored of the keep? Why were you so impressed by these people who valued progress over human souls? And what did you discover that inspired you to throw your lives away?"

Nathaniel checked with Orah. She licked her cracked lips and nodded. Stay with what he knows.

"You have our messages," Nathaniel said. "They say what we found."

The arch vicar went behind a desk. On it, arranged neatly in a row, lay the four messages.

"Yes, of course. The truth about everything. I forgot. You are the seekers of Truth."

He came back around and stood before them, so close they could feel his breath.

Orah rocked on her toes and stood tall, refusing to be intimidated.

"You know what's written on them is true."

The arch vicar softened. This close, Nathaniel could see a sadness in his eyes.

"My child, when you've lived longer-that is, if you'd been allowed to grow old in the outside world-you'd understand there's no such thing as absolute truth. I've studied the darkness my whole life. I'm sure you learned in the keep how much harm was done in the name of good."

"The same could be said of the Temple."

"I suppose. Which only proves that truth is elusive. We all act based on what we believe. I understand what you've done, but I believe you are wrong. I can tell you one thing for certain-in the age of the keep, you wouldn't have been treated this well."

He returned to the desk and seated himself. Philosophical discussion had ended. Back to Temple business.

"Tell me how to get to the keep. I can never allow you to leave, but if you tell me, I'll let you share the noontime meal every day."

Nathaniel was prepared for choices, but not this. He glanced at Orah. She brushed away a curl that had lengthened in the months of flight and discovery, upheaval and captivity, then breathed the words before he could stop her.

"What do you need to know?"

"Only a hint, my child. We already know you headed east from Riverbend, looking for mountainous terrain and a path north along the river. But we've searched and have found nothing. Help us take the next step." His voice became soothing. "Is that so much of a compromise compared to what I offer in return? Why miss the opportunity to be together?"