Thomas went limp. "I wish I'd never been taken for a teaching."
"But you were," Nathaniel said. "And that showed us what the vicars are."
Orah rested a hand on his arm. "I've only spent a little time in the teaching. I'll never understand what you've been through. But we both know what teachings are for-to create fear. Don't let that fear keep you from doing what's right."
Thomas felt buffeted from both sides, but his friends weren't finished.
"Think about the music," Nathaniel said. "Would you have the music be lost? Not only what was, but all that's yet to be composed?"
Thomas stared at his boot tops and answered in a whisper. "I'd save it if I could, but I wouldn't sacrifice my friends for it." He turned to Orah. "As you'd say, this isn't one of our games in the woods."
Orah reached behind and began tracing the letters in the plaque on the landing. Her fingers lingered over the phrase:
potential for greatness
.
"I understand, Thomas. Sometimes, I wish we'd never come here too. It would've been easier to stay in the dark."
The breeze whistling through the empty buildings stilled as if it had stopped to listen. The three sat in silence for several minutes before Thomas tried one last time.
"Can we really change anything? Or are we making a choice that'll make no difference but cost us our lives?"
He could see Orah struggling with the response. They were not back in school and there were no right answers.
"The plan can work, Thomas. I've researched it enough. But how much of a difference? I can't be sure. And it's true, we may end up suffering for it."
"Well, I think it has little chance. The three of us are as unlikely to overthrow the Temple as-"
"If there's any chance," Nathaniel said, "we need to take it or the damage caused by the Temple may never be reversed."
Feeding off Nathaniel's energy, Orah brightened. "Beware the stray thought. Why do you think the vicars preach that? Because what they call darkness is freedom. They feared its attraction and taught us as children to beware of it."
Thomas watched as they spoke, their faces beaming with zeal. Their minds would never be changed. He waited until Orah was finished, then posed the question he'd been saving all day, the only one that mattered.
"Tell me this. If I say no, will you leave me here? I know you've considered it, Orah, because you consider all possibilities. I know how much you both want this. But if I won't go along, will you abandon me?"
Orah's face sagged, etching lines that made her look older than her years.
"You're right, Thomas. I'd considered leaving you, but... I couldn't bring myself to do it. I believe in the cause, but won't do this without you. If you want to stay, we'll have to find another way."
As Orah spoke, Thomas squinted up at the sky. The warm breeze had broken up the chevron of clouds, no longer arrows pointing home but random puffs like the fleeting hopes of man. When she was finished, he tucked his legs under him and bounced up, stretching his arms over his head and forcing a yawn. Then, he went to the plaque in the stone and invited his friends to join him.
"Time for the Pact."
"Then you agree?" Orah said.
His face eased into a grin.
"You and Nathaniel. Always such dreamers. Nothing ever mattered that much to me. I'm not the one to change the world. But now we're in a situation with no good end. You're my friends, and if you want to try and start this revolution, I'll go along. I just had to know if you'd leave me."
"But if we're in agreement," Orah said, "why the Pact?"
"To seal our friendship," he replied.
Orah and Nathaniel joined him to form a circle around the golden words. Then they all covered their heart, reached into the center and clasped wrists as if they'd never let go.
HeroesThe Keep
"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
Fearsome Odds
The temple tree loomed on the horizon, twice the height of the surrounding evergreens and appearing taller as they approached. Beyond its unnatural height, the branches were too even, the green too intense. Clearly made by man. Yet no child of light had questioned it for a thousand years.
It made Orah ashamed.
This was the sixth tree they'd come upon since emerging from the wilderness. At each of the others, she'd located the metal plate but left it intact. Nathaniel and Thomas were itching to disable their first tree, but she held off. From the helpers, she'd learned there were those who monitored communications and would instantly detect a failure. If they disabled every tree they passed, deacons would eventually be waiting. A random approach was safer.
They were seekers no more. Now they were the hunted, and to survive meant to be devious. Orah had devised the plan before leaving the keep. Carry light-weight, dehydrated food to avoid relying on others-better to be isolated. 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 were sent around, she could hear.
It was sobering. What had awed her in Bradford impressed her no more. The chatter was cynical and bureaucratic, not the discourse of holy men. But once they posted the first message, the words flying through the air would be about them. And so she'd eavesdrop on the vicars when she could-better to know your enemy.
Though perilous, the plan was straightforward. She printed three hundred copies of each message and divided the pages among them. The reason was understood by all- so the mission could succeed even if just one of them could go on.
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 Temple. Instead of posting at every town, she planned to meander, sometimes skipping one, other times three before backtracking. The Temple was unpopular, and the messages would be burning tinder to dry wood. Sympathetic individuals would fan the brushfire. Once the region had been engulfed in flames, they'd have the resources to protect the keep and use it as a base to teach others.
When they reached the temple tree, Orah removed her pack and entered the woods. Nathaniel and Thomas stayed behind, exhausted from the night's travel. She let them think this was another inspection, biding her time and building suspense.
"What're you dawdling for?" she said at last. "This is the one."
Nathaniel responded first. "Do you mean-?"
But Thomas was racing toward her. "Come on, Nathaniel. You wanted a revolution. Now's the time."
They quickly discovered the plate at the base of the tree, which, like the others, was attached by screws at the corners.
Orah asked Thomas for his pocketknife, but he refused.
"You made the plans. At least let me take off the plate."
She relented. Thomas knelt on the ground and probed with his fingernails for the groove, then slotted his blade and twisted. The screws gave with little effort. As he eased the last one out, Orah grasped the plate and yanked it loose.
Exactly as the helper had described, a black wire snaked up from the ground. While she was admiring her find, Thomas grabbed the wire and began sawing with his knife.
"Stop." She thrust a forearm into his chest, and he fell backward.
"What did you that for?" he said as he picked dried leaves off his tunic.
"I just saved your life, Thomas. You were so excited you forgot that cutting the wire could kill you."
While Thomas stared open-mouthed, she rummaged through her pack and removed two items-the listening device and the 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 cutting tool.
As she reached for the wire, Nathaniel grabbed her wrist. "I thought it can kill you."
"The helper said the coating on this tool will protect me."
"Maybe I should do it just in case."
She smiled at him. "The last time you tried to protect me, you almost became a vicar."
Before he could protest, she snipped the wire. Immediately, the crackling noise ceased.
***
The next night was moonless, and clouds had obliterated the stars. Orah watched at the edge of a nameless town, waiting for the last candle in a farmhouse to be snuffed out. She'd insisted on going herself, but her friends had objected. Instead, Thomas picked three stones from the side of the road, all of equal size, but one white like the Temple stone used to limit family size. He placed them in his pocket and shook it.
"The one who gets the 'only child' stone goes. After that, we take turns."
One by one, they selected. In the dim light, she had trouble seeing who'd picked the white stone, but it soon became clear it was Nathaniel. She grimaced as she handed him the four messages.
"You be careful, Nathaniel. Tread softly on those big feet. And remember, the one about the darkness goes on the Temple 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 knew 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 walk. He'd hike the fifteen minutes to the village center, where he'd circle the common ten times before returning home for breakfast. When he finished, his right hip was sore, but the exercise kept him active so he stayed with it.
On this day, he was surprised to see a Temple bulletin nailed to the post by the common house. Notices never appeared before midday-the deacons who lived in town were lazy and slept late. And there was never a rush to read Temple news. While he was faithful to the light, he wasn't about to break stride for more Temple nonsense.
At this hour, few people were about. Some like himself enjoyed their sunrise stroll, and other unfortunates, like the baker, had work that demanded an early start. Most ignored the bulletin, placing no import on its arrival.
As he strolled round the common, he counted those who bypassed the paper on the pole. He was up to six before the young man who apprenticed to the furniture maker stopped to read.
Oddly, the man stayed, not only reading the document, but seemingly 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. For so early in the morning, they were unusually animated.
On his ninth pass, the farmer came to a stop at the post, curious to make out what was being said. The heated conversation became clear.
"It's not from the Temple."
"But it must be. Where else does such lettering come from?"
The old farmer began to nudge his way through the crowd. His eyesight was weak, and he'd need to be nearer to read the words. He was so jostled he was ready to give up, when a path suddenly cleared. He turned to see 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 deacon caught up to him.
"What is it?"
The first deacon whispered to his friend, "Did you put this up?"
"Not me. Maybe one of the others?"
"I thought it was your job."
"I said not me. What's the problem? Looks like a proper bulletin."
The first deacon rubbed his jaw line beard. "Dunno. Words ain't right."
"Should we take it down?"
Despite the morning chill, sweat began to show on the first deacon's brow.
"Dunno. Never seen anything like it. Maybe we should check with the vicar?"
The other nodded 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 vacated by the deacons was open. He stepped to the message before the crowd could close.
As he read, he nodded slowly to himself, then faster. It 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.
There on the post in bold lettering was written:
The Truth about the Darkness
.
***
The arch vicar scanned the faces around the table. Communication with the grand vicar was routine, scheduled every Monday morning. The broadcasts were uneventful to the point of boredom. Some of the vicars would scribble on notepads as the old man droned on. Others would bring a book and read.
Today was different. It was not a Monday, and this conference had been arranged in haste. A rumor was spreading that the Temple was under attack.
The box on the table hummed while the grand vicar stated the facts. As the arch vicar listened, his grip tightened on the arms of his chair. Blasphemous notices had been put up in twelve towns, possibly more. The messages were printed to look like Temple bulletins. Somehow, the perpetrators had gained access to technology. They'd even figured out how to disrupt communications. In response, all resources were being mobilized. Repair crews had been dispatched to the damaged towers. The gray friars were working round the clock to localize the heretical activity. But as yet no pattern had emerged.
The arch vicar trembled at the threat but also saw opportunity. The decision to release the young people had been his, and their disappearance had left a mark on his record. Now, he could be the savior.
A hand shot up at the end of the table. The young monsignor always managed to have a question. The arch vicar hesitated, but this was no time for politics. He nodded and pressed the button.