Authors: Kathryn Lance
He had sent for help as soon as Leya’s contractions began, adding powdered color-root to turn his signal fire thick and red. As was customary for fathers, he was sent away from the area of the cabin until the outcome of the labor was known.
His wood stand was at a place equidistant between the cabin and the Garden. It was a cloudy summer day, not really hot, but so humid with an impending rainstorm that the least exertion left him sweating and feeling tired. He positioned a log on the chopping block, brought the axe up above and behind his head, then swung it,
thunk
. He did this again and again, the movements easy from long years of practice. Wood chips flew around him, stinging his bare chest and arms. Cut wood piled up around him, and his breathing grew heavy as his arms began to tremble with the effort. He did not dare to stop, afraid to lose the comforting sound of the axe blade biting into the wood.
After a time, his muscles stopped responding, and he was forced to rest for a moment. The sounds of the woods became deafening. He heard birds calling their territorial limits to one another; insects scuttling in the leaves; the warm breeze before the storm, pushing the branches of trees. He shivered as the wind took the sweat covering his skin. Sighing, he sat on a log and examined the axe minutely. He had made it himself from an old pre-Change axe blade, and a stout piece of hardwood he had carved himself, carefully fitting it to hold the metal, and binding the two pieces together with strong new-vine ropes. The ancient blade was as shiny as it must have been when it was new: he took care to keep it clean with fish-oil, and sharp on his whetstones. There were nicks and scores in the metal, but it was probably, he thought, in nearly as good condition as when it had been made, untold years ago. He ran his fingers over the blade and looked for signs of wear on the handle. This was the fourth handle he had made for the blade, carefully carving and polishing during long nights in the cabin while Leya read or worked on her projects from the Garden.
He stood, already feeling stiff, and began to gather the wood he had cut into bundles of seven to ten each, tying them carefully with new-vine, and placing them to the side of his work area, in a small shelter he had constructed. A squirrel suddenly clambered down from a tree behind him. He turned, startled, to see the little animal poised on its hind legs, its nose vibrating with its breath, every nerve in its body stretched as it tried to sense possible danger. It looked at him, its black eyes as shiny as the axe blade, then just as abruptly it ran up the tree and disappeared along a leafy limb.
Zach picked up the axe and began again to swing it, cutting the wood as if he could cut out everything else that was happening. Never had he worked so long and so hard. Soon there would be enough wood cut to last the Garden through the entire winter. And there was already more than enough for him and Leya. He became aware of another sound and realized that it was his own breath, rasping, wet, and too rapid. Still he did not stop, not even when the raindrops finally began to fall, washing away the dirt and sweat, then soaking him as a summer cloudburst developed. He could scarcely see what he was doing through the falling water, but still he swung the axe back and up, then down, splitting each precisely placed log as he did so, stopping only to move more wood into position.
“Zach!”
He turned, the axe half-raised, poised to split another log. Her head and shoulders covered with a dark shawl, the old woman stood looking at him. Her face was composed and without expression, and as soon as he saw it he knew the worst had happened. He turned back and finished splitting the log still on the block, and set the axe down; then, as an after-thought, he picked it up again, holding it below the top of the handle near the blade, and walked after the Mistress. They followed the trail side-by-side through the mud, neither saying a word, though once the old woman slipped on a wet rock and Zach took her elbow to steady her. In his other hand he still held the axe, gripping it so tightly that his short fingernails cut into his palm.
H
IS REVERIES WERE SO IMMEDIATE
that Zach felt again the hollow ache that the loss of Leya had created. It was so sharp and so like physical pain that the discomfort of his cold, damp cell seemed more a memory than a reality. No matter how he wished it, he could not stop his memories of Leya from ending in her death, just as he had been unable to prevent it in life.
Over and over he remembered his few brief months with Leya, then the busy, comradely time when he had fought with the Principal and his men to take over the District, and, again, his weeks with Evvy, when, for the first time since Leya had died, he had felt the warmth of caring for another person’s needs. Day and night ceased to have distinctions, and he was sometimes surprised to open his eyes and find himself still in the Trader cell. Why, he asked himself at such times, had the Traders not simply put him to death? For what purpose could they be keeping him here?
He learned the answer only after he had been isolated and nearly starved for many months.
He had not been killed because Yosh wanted to save his soul.
Zach was sitting in his usual position, his back propped against the wall, lost in a summertime dream. Today he was riding through the forest with Evvy, then singing to her, as he once had to Leya, his fingers stroking the strings of his feathered lyre. Gradually he became aware of a noise, different from the sounds of vermin, or the pacing jailer, or the whimpers and scrabbling of his fellow prisoner.
It was the sound of a thick metal bar being withdrawn from the door. He blinked once, wondering if perhaps he were hallucinating, but then it was followed by another, and the solid thunk of a bar settling against the stop.
From the hall came the murmur of voices, one strangely familiar, and then the third bar was withdrawn. He looked at the door, dazed, not sure what was happening. The door swung open.
A man entered, but Zach could not make out his face, dark against the relatively bright light from the corridor.
The figure’s head swung around, looked directly at Zach, then spoke: “Brother Zach. Don’t you know me?”
Zach painfully shifted his body and squinted up at the man. A dim memory came back: “Yosh?”
And then Yosh was on his hands and knees before Zach, peering into his face with alarm. He put his hand to Zach’s cheek. “Why, you’re sick,” he said. Angrily, he turned to the jailer beside him. “How did his happen?”
“He ain’t been eating, sir,” said the jailer.
“This is disgraceful! I ordered you to keep him well! Send for some good food – meat if you can find any. We mustn’t allow this man to die.”
Zach continued to look at Yosh. He had a dim sense that he should be angry, but all he felt was a fuzzy gratitude. That – and simple curiosity.
“Why didn’t you have me killed?” he asked.
“Kill you? How could you think of such a thing? In another world you and I could have been friends – brothers. I want to teach you, Zach. To show you the way. I’m sorry this is the only place I can keep you safe – but I will see that conditions improve for you immediately. I’ve been away and I had no idea things had reached such a state. I never intended for you to suffer.”
Once again he barked out orders, sounding strangely like the Principal. “Bring fresh straw,” he called. “That’s important to a man like our guest. And have someone clean out this filth—” Zach had long since stopped being fastidious in his use of the chamber pot.
The straw came almost immediately, and Yosh helped Zach to stand, then supported him while the cell was swept out. Looking through the open door, Zach knew he should try to escape, but his legs would scarcely hold him, and besides, it no longer seemed to matter.
For the next several days Yosh came every afternoon, bringing with him fresh fruit and vegetables. He gave Zach a warm cloak to replace the filthy, threadbare rag Zach had been covering himself with. Every day Yosh sat with Zach for an hour or two, encouraging him to eat and to drink a green herbal tea that Jonna had prepared to help him regain his strength. The brew tasted flowery, and when Zach drank it he felt warm, and safe, and grateful.
Once Yosh set up his chessmen, but when Zach tried to focus his eyes on them, they swam into multiple images. As he had at the Trader camp, Yosh talked about his own life and asked Zach about his. Scarcely aware of what he was saying, Zach told Yosh about his boyhood in the Garden and his marriage to Leya. He described how, after her death, he had cremated her and the dead child in their cabin, much as Yosh’s father had created his own pyre. He went on to tell of his decision to join the Principal and fight for a world where women would no longer die of the sickness. Yosh listened, warm and sympathetic, never mentioning science or his own beliefs.
Zach continued to talk every day, reliving his years of fighting for the Principal, and his work for him since, overseeing the details of running the District. Yosh seemed especially interested in the customs of life in the Capital, and Zach told him all he could remember. He felt happy and comforted when Yosh was with him, and talked as long as he had strength, to keep him there.
One day, perhaps a week after Yosh had first appeared, Zach’s head suddenly cleared. He awoke feeling almost himself.
The preceding days and months now seemed as unreal to him as a nightmare. He realized that he had been very close to madness, though he could not be certain how much of his confusion had come from his mind and how much from physical illness, or the potion that Jonna had prepared.
He also knew that he must not allow it to happen again. He was afraid that he had told Yosh far too much about the Garden, the Capital, and the Principal. He could not even remember what he had said, his recollection of their conversations blurring in his mind with his waking dreams of the previous months. He realized now that he must force himself to plan toward the only possible focus his future could take: escape.
He stood, shakily, and was appalled at how weak he had become. If the walls of his cell should suddenly dissolve in the next minute, giving him a clear path to freedom, he would not be able to walk more than a few steps before falling to the ground.
His first task, then, and the most important, was to begin to rebuild his body as well as he could in the confines of the cell. He walked the four paces from one end of the tiny room to the other, turned, and walked back. After repeating the short walk only twice, he had to sit down, his knees shaking and his breathing painful. But he knew from past experience that his condition would quickly improve, and soon he would be able to trot in place and to perform the arm and back-strengthening exercises he and the Principal had practiced when they were boys.
It was a start, but an important one.
That afternoon, Zach had another visitor.
There was a thumping at the door and the jailer’s voice came through the peephole. “You have a visitor, prisoner.”
Zach stood back, expecting the thick bars to slide open, but instead a high-pitched voice called out, “Over here.”
Astonished, Zach turned and looked toward the window. Filling it was the earnest, blemish-pocked face of a boy of fifteen or so.
“I’m Brother Billy,” the boy said, smiling. “Brother Yosh has sent me to instruct you.”
A
ND SO BEGAN
Z
ACH
’
S RELIGIOUS
training. Billy never entered the cell but sat at the window, or in bad weather stood in the hall by the peephole, and spoke with Zach for hours each day. Since the Traders did not believe in books or in writing, all instruction and response were oral.
Zach at first tolerated these sessions, then began in some ways to look forward to them as a break in the monotony. He spent the rest of his time pacing in the cell, trotting in place, raising and lowering his body with his arms. He had no idea how he would escape, but intended to be ready when the time came.
In the meantime, his mind was occupied with the lessons in Trader theology. Billy made it clear that Zach was considered a kind of test case. If the instruction was able to reach one of the Principal’s men, then anyone could be converted.
The lessons consisted for the most part of chants, to be learned by heart. Some of these simply retold the stories in the Bible from the Trader point of view, reflecting their belief that science and technology had been given to mankind by Satan. Rather than being an escape from the flood, Noah’s Ark was seen as a cause of it; likewise, the story of Job’s suffering was seen as a warning of the Change to come. In addition to the chanted stories, there were a number of Trader songs. These were, again, based on verses in the Bible and set to ancient folk and product melodies.
Billy explained earnestly that Zach must practice the songs and chants until he could perform them automatically and perfectly. It did not matter whether he believed the words or not; once he knew them by heart they would enter his consciousness and he would move closer to the truth. Zach enjoyed the opportunity to sing again and practiced the songs with enthusiasm.
The first time he let his voice soar during a lesson Billy’s eyes widened. “If you weren’t a scientist you could be a bishop,” the boy said with awe. “Your voice is godly.”
Zach was pleased and curious. “Your bishops are chosen from those who have the best singing voices?”
“Most of them,” said Billy. “It’s important that all the words and notes be right. That way the flock can follow. It is not an easy thing – the talent must be there, and the will. That is why we have so few bishops thus far. Brother Yosh intends to begin training children as soon as they are old enough to hold a note.”
Zach was no longer listening. For the first time he began to see a way to escape. From that day forward he began to practice the chants and songs as seriously as he worked on his body, singing as he paced off the miles in his cell.
Billy’s enthusiasm grew daily. Not knowing about the long hours of practice, he believed that Zach was able to get the songs perfectly right the first time he heard them.