There Comes A Prophet (9 page)

"What is?" the junior vicar said.

"The boy's background, his family, his profile. As I suspected." He turned to face the younger man. "I had him placed in the cell next to the old prisoner."

The younger man stared back, his lips spreading agreeably, but his eyes narrowed.

"But holiness, it failed the last time."

Yes. It had failed. But the idea was sound. He'd spent weeks the last time begging the council for approval, overlooking how they indulged him like a child. Let the old prisoner die, they said. The secret's just a legend. Finally to humor him, they conceded. Then, when his plan failed, they were unfazed. No matter, they said. The secret will die with him. Just a legend anyway. A myth.

But only he among his peers had immersed himself in the archives where he'd found snippets of proof. He believed it existed. He believed.

Should he try again? This time, he'd be on his own. An unauthorized attempt, discovered too soon, might damage his standing-support he'd need when the grand vicar was gone. Maybe they were right. Let the secret die with the old prisoner.

But it haunted his dreams. When he thought of it, his chest tightened and his breathing became short. Why did that ancient place pull at him so much? In the archives, hints of what lay there had tempted him, almost more than he could bear. What did he hope to find that would justify risking a lifetime of service? And if he found it at last, would he have the faith to resist its temptations and destroy it once and for all?

And why, at the very thought of its destruction, did he already mourn its loss?

Now, the light had granted a second chance. The boy from Little Pond had fallen into his grasp just as time was running out. And the boy was perfect.

The arch vicar waved his hand and the mystical glow vanished.

"The last time was different. Our man was not true of heart."

"But the old man's cynical, holiness, suspicious. He'll never-"

"I tell you it's different this time. The old man is failing and knows it. The boy is naive, but brave-a vessel waiting to be filled. The old man will trust him."

"What will you tell him, holiness?"

"That we want him to commit to the Temple, to lead the people of the Ponds in the light."

"But holiness, how do we know he'll believe us?"

"According to his friend... " The arch vicar consulted a slip of paper. "... Thomas... he fancies himself destined for greatness. We're offering an opportunity worthy of him." He turned and headed to the door, but stopped and reversed himself. "And if that doesn't work, he'll believe us anyway."

"But why, holiness?"

The arch vicar's pupils became black embers, but a wicked twinkle had begun to show. "Because he cares about the girl."

***

Nathaniel stood again on the mark at the center of the room and looked up at the vicars. It had only been a few hours.

"Nathaniel of Little Pond." The speaker proclaimed. "We have decided to grant your wish. The girl will be sent home."

Nathaniel's spirit soared. He'd done it-Orah would be set free. He was so elated he almost missed what came next. The vicar was still speaking. He quieted his thoughts and tried to concentrate. But as he listened, the words dragged him down as if he'd been cast into the cell beneath his feet.

"There's one condition. We find you to be a fine man, eager to learn of our ways. Rather than a teaching, we believe you might better serve the light by becoming an envoy of the Temple."

An envoy of the Temple? He couldn't mean... "I don't understand, holiness."

"Then let me be more specific. We're offering you the opportunity to be trained in the seminary and become a vicar."

"But... I'm just a boy from a small village."

"Not a boy, a man of age who has asked for a teaching. We offer you more-the chance to serve your people in addition to helping your friend. What do you say?"

"But, sir, I... ."

"We know it's a difficult decision. While serving the Temple is a great honor, it's also a lifelong commitment. Once you've chosen this path, you cannot step off it."

"But there must be another way."

"There is no other. If you agree, you'll be given a week to go home and settle your affairs before returning to Temple City. If not, the teaching of your friend will resume. You have two days to decide. In the meantime, you'll remain our guest." He leaned forward for emphasis. "Two days."

He rose to leave, but Nathaniel called him back. "I'll consider it, holiness. But only if my friend may join me while I decide."

The younger vicars snapped around in astonishment, but the arch vicar seemed amused.

"Very well, Nathaniel of Little Pond. While her teaching awaits, she'll be allowed to share meals with you. It may help you choose the right path."

Nathaniel stammered. What more could he say? But the audience had ended. The arch vicar dismissed him with a flip of his hand and the deacons returned him to his cell.

The Keeper

A scrape at the peephole intruded on Nathaniel's thoughts. His neighbor's presence annoyed him, and he had no desire to talk.

"Leave me alone."

"I'm sorry you came back," the old man said. "I hoped you'd tell them what they wanted and go home."

Though it was intended kindly, Nathaniel waved him off. He heard the old man shuffle to the hole to look, then put the slate back into place and hobble away.

Nathaniel slumped on the bed, fist buried in his cheek. He'd rushed from here to there, convinced he'd do anything to help Orah. But what had he accomplished? He'd been dealt an impossible choice-commit to the Temple or send Orah back to the darkness. Either would haunt him the rest of his days.

He had nothing to eat since arriving at Temple City. Food was farthest from his mind, but his stomach knew better. Just as it started to growl, the door unlocked and a young deacon brought in a tray. The meal was simple-brown bread, apples and goat cheese-but Nathaniel was relieved to see it was enough for two. Moments later, Orah was ushered into the room.

She was coated with dust from head to toe, but her spirit seemed intact.

"Nathaniel of Little Pond," she said. "And here I expected to have lunch with the grand vicar."

He gestured at the tray. "I thought I'd arrange a picnic for us."

The two took measure of each other. Seeing her there made his choice all the more burdensome. He couldn't help but imagine her in the same state as Thomas at festival. No words seemed appropriate, and every attempt caught in his throat.

Orah seemed to sense his mood. "Why are you here, Nathaniel? Have they taken us both for a teaching?"

She'd see through any attempt at evasion, but he tried anyway.

"I came to rescue you. I offered to replace you in the teaching, but they turned me down. I don't know what will happen next."

Orah sat on the cot with the tray between them and weighed her response. Her gaze wandered to the cell door, to the food and finally back to him. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly, then reached across and brushed his cheek with her fingertips.

"I should be angry with you. You should never have risked yourself for me like some fool hero." Then her features eased into a smile. "But thank you."

He looked at her and grimaced. "Believe me, Orah. I'm no hero."

He was ashamed to continue. As always, she read his thoughts and knew there was more. But whether out of pity or hunger, she refrained from pressing for now. Instead, she grabbed the loaf and broke it in half.

"We should eat. We don't know when we'll get another chance."

He took the bread from her, thankful for the food but more grateful for the reprieve. They ate in silence, showing little appetite but managing to clear the tray.

Once finished, he still couldn't tell her about the offer. But with no idea how soon the deacons would return, she couldn't wait any longer.

"What aren't you telling me? If they turned you down, why was I released?"

Before he could answer, the familiar grating came from across the room.

Orah startled. "What was that?"

"Nothing. A new friend, the prisoner in the next room. He's been there so long he misses companionship."

But then, another, more ominous sound came from the walkway outside. The deacons returning.

"Quickly, Nathaniel, before they come. What is it?"

He dreaded the moment but had to tell. The words seemed dragged from his lips. The choice-her teaching or his commitment to the Temple. Her eyes went wide and, for one of the rare times since he'd known her, she was at a loss for words.

He tried to settle her down. "I made my offer and they've made theirs. I have two days to decide. They agreed to suspend your teaching in the meantime and let us share meals. I thought seeing you would be better, but now my misery's complete. I'm no hero, but I won't let you go to the same fate that befell Thomas and my father and your father. I couldn't live with that."

She stood, rising to her toes so she appeared taller than she was. Her voice became a hiss.

"You will not do this, Nathaniel. I forbid it. I'm not frail. I'll survive the teaching better than any of them, you'll see." Her face reddened to match her hair and she was breathing hard. "As far as living with it, if you make this choice and become one of them, you won't live with it long, because I'll kill you. The Temple and their darkness be damned."

He pressed two fingers to her lips, but he'd never been able to calm her when her blood was up. She twisted away and kept on.

"The darkness. A tale they made up to control us. Why don't they leave us alone?"

"Hush, Orah. Think of where you are. Don't make things worse for both of us."

The sound of metal on metal quieted them, the bolt sliding open. Two deacons entered and motioned Orah to come with them. As she crossed the threshold, she glared back at him.

"Think hard, Nathaniel. I hope you come to your senses by our next meal."

Then she was led off, a deacon at each arm. The sound of the door slamming was followed by the most deafening silence Nathaniel had ever heard.

***

The silence didn't last long. The old prisoner gave him enough time to collapse on the cot.

"A strong woman, yes?"

Nathaniel kept still, staring at nothing. But this time, companionship was preferable to quiet.

"Yes. A strong woman."

"The teaching won't destroy that one. No, no."

Nathaniel turned and spoke to the hole, his voice rising. "I will not have it. Do you hear me? I will not."

He could picture the old man chewing over his words before saying them aloud.

"But to become a vicar? You know what they are."

"Right now I don't know anything. And neither do you."

"You'd be surprised."

"How could you know? You've been locked in that cell for twenty years."

"What better way to know what they are?"

The old man let the thought sink in, backing off and returning to the peephole.

"She was right. They lie about the darkness. The darkness wasn't like that."

His voice had become less scattered. Nathaniel sat up and listened for more. When more failed to come, he slid to the edge of the cot and whispered.

"How do you know?"

He heard muttering from the other side and moved closer to the wall. The man seemed to be having an argument with himself.

"It's time to tell, Samuel. He may be the keepers' last hope."

Nathaniel put his mouth to the hole. "Who's Samuel?"

He peered through the opening and saw the old man standing erect with the look of someone who'd made a decision.

"I am Samuel," he said. "Yes, there's still a man here after all these years, a man with a name. And you're Nathaniel? I heard her call you that."

"Yes, I'm Nathaniel."

"Pleased to meet you. You want to hear how I know? Because the Temple has failed to destroy the past. Everywhere you look, bits remain. Haven't you seen it in your village, things the Temple hasn't ordained?"

Nathaniel thought of wassail and festival, of Orah's name from a forbidden language. He nodded, then, realizing the man couldn't see, said "Yes."

"The darkness is nothing more than our past," Samuel said, "but they only show us the worst of it."

Nathaniel had to ask. "Have you had a teaching?"

Samuel let out a laugh. "A teaching's a trifle compared to what I've been through. I know what they show in teachings-and yes, it's evil and true. But I also know what they don't show, the good they've erased. Like a foolish parent, to save us from wickedness, they've given us a world of limits and not a world of possibilities. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I don't know. Nothing's as it seems." He was beginning to feel dizzy. "I have a lot to think about."

The old prisoner moved so close Nathaniel could smell his breath.

"Yes, Nathaniel. And so do I."

Nathaniel checked through the peephole and saw Samuel sitting on the chair staring at his hands. He began to return to his cot, but stopped and went back.

"Samuel, one last thing. What's a keeper?"

Samuel glanced up. "A story for another time, my boy. For another time."

***

Time passed swiftly but cruelly. At breakfast the next day, Orah begged and then threatened for Nathaniel to reject the offer, but he refused to send her back to the teaching. Her parting stung more with each meal. As the cell door closed after the second lunch, he was filled with dread.

Samuel watched everything through the peephole but said nothing. At last he spoke.

"It's another time, Nathaniel."

"What did you say?"

"Come close so I can whisper and you can hear every word. I'll tell you about the keepers."

Nathaniel was curious about the keepers since hearing the term the day before. But what should he make of his fellow prisoner? Who knew what fantasies he'd concocted over the past twenty years? He approached the wall skeptically.

"I'm here."

"There once was an age of wonder," the old man began, "a time of magic and strife. When the Temple came to power, they preferred order to wonder. The darkness they screamed from their pulpits, a time of chaos and death. The glories of the past must be erased, forgotten forever. But the wizards of that age hoped to preserve their treasures for the future. So they hid them in a place called the keep."