Phoenix Without Ashes (6 page)

“No!” said Devon angrily and in frustration. His voice softened. “I think it was because we both were frightened.” He carefully traced the topography of her invisible face. “It can’t be sin just to touch each other.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what she meant, but replied, “No. I’m sorry.”

They lay silent until the quiet became uncomfortable for both of them. “Devon?”

“What.”

“Tomorrow. Will you come back to Cypress Corners?”

“Maybe.”

It was nearly dawn when Rachel smoothed her long dress, got up stiffly from the pine boughs, and started down the hillside.

FIVE

He was getting too old, Elder Jubal kept telling himself, to be running these errands for the Council. Too old, too slow, too tired. But then who among the Elders was not old? No one. Jubal answered his own question and continued picking his way up the steep hillside. Overhead the sun was framed precisely at noon.

If the Creator wishes me to die here of apoplexy,
Jubal thought,
then let it be His will.
He sighed morosely and stopped to gather his breath. Jubal tilted back the flat brim of his hat and scanned the slope ahead.
Where is the boy?

The hillside was matted with thick grass that had begun to yellow with the season. No one’s flock had grazed this slope for a cycle. Eventually they would, once the pasture below was depleted.

That was the plan,
thought Jubal. The flocks would graze, the hills would then be left undisturbed again, spring would return to the valley; another cycle would swing ‘round. Everything by order of the plan. Jubal smiled to himself.

Being somewhat more portly than most of the other Elders, he had begun to puff. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his forehead, then realized how close was the top of the hill. Jubal deliberately concentrated on placing one foot after the other until he reached the summit. Once there he paused, trembling with exertion.

“And was it a pleasant climb, Elder?”

Jubal raised his head and saw Devon lying beneath a pine. The young man was sprawled, his own head cradled comfortably by a hammock of laced fingers. For a moment Jubal wished a sudden, terrible fate upon that young man; those fine, strong young limbs withered and broken. For the barest moment. Then Jubal let charity sweep back through his soul.

“Young Devon, is that a suitable position of respect?”

Devon got to his feet and stretched lazily. “I am not Young Devon. Only Devon. Have you forgotten, Elder?”

“I had not forgotten,” said Jubal. “It is more than ten cycles since Old Devon perished and was joined with the Creator.”

“Twelve,” said Devon.

“Twelve, then. Have a care with thy tongue, boy.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Do not mock me,” said Jubal.

“No, sir.”

The old man felt a tendril of anger rising. He smothered it with a pious thought. “No matter,” he said. “I bring thee a summons from the Council of Elders.”

Devon awaited silently.

“It has been ordained,” continued Jubal, “that thee shall cease thy stay here in the hills and shall appear once more before the Council. The noon service has commenced. Elder Micah awaits thee at the Place of Worship.”

“Why am I summoned?” said Devon.

“That is a matter for Elder Micah to explain. It is merely thy duty to obey the summons.” With some irritation, Jubal felt the rub of new blisters on the leather-shod undersides of his feet. He added, “Were it my sole decision, I would allow thee to range these hills until recantation brought thee low.”

“I would like that,” Devon said.

“You might starve thyself, boy.”

Devon shook his head. “I have trapped rabbits.”

Jubal looked around the hilltop as though searching for remnants.

“Beyond the next hill,” said Devon. “Almost to the sky. I built a fire.”

Jubal looked disappointed. “This was to be a time of cleansing tribulation. It is instructive to suffer and endure, boy.”

“I did, Elder.”

“It was to be a time for meditation and reflection.”

“That also, I did, Elder.”

“And a time for repentance.”

Devon turned away from the old man and faced the valley. “Yes, Elder.”

“Recalcitrant whelp,” Jubal said under his breath. He started back down the path. “Come, Elder Micah waits prayers for us.” He heard no following footsteps. Jubal turned and saw Devon still at the tree, still facing the valley with that irritating, faraway glaze upon his eyes. “Devon!”

Devon’s reverie broke. “Yes, Elder?”

A peremptory command: “Come!”

The young man followed the old down toward Cypress Corners.

There were times when Granny Esther wished for less than wholly pious reasons that Young Garth were her son. Now, as she watched him labor over the garden shears on the anvil, was one of those times. There was much to appreciate about the young smith. It wasn’t just the unruly thatch of curly black hair, nor the candid dark eyes, she thought, though those were indeed attractive.

Neither was it solely the fine musculature sweat-gleaming in the heat of the forge. (Garth had often volunteered to help her toil in her vegetable garden—a kindness the aging woman acknowledged with plates of Garth’s favorite carrot cake.) No, Garth possessed a combination of intangible qualities she could codify only as some essence of
son-ness:
honesty, strength, a seemingly inflexible sense of duty. Not, she reflected with some sadness, like her own son; or, the Creator forefend, like
his
son, Young Esau.

“They’re done, Granny Esther.” Garth examined the rivet critically, clacked the blades together several times, and then handed the shears to the woman.

“Such a fine job. I thank thee, boy.” She placed the shears in her reticule. “Will you accompany me now to the noon service? Elder Micah would have all in the congregation attend this day.”

“I suppose I must.” Garth spoke without enthusiasm. “You sound reluctant,” said the old woman. “Is it because of Rachel?”

“And Devon too,” said Garth. “He must obey the Elder’s summons and stand before the Council’s judgment today.”

“I’m sure they will be lenient. The Creator’s mercy is infinite.”

Garth splashed water on himself from a bucket, then toweled his arms dry. “They will not permit Rachel and Devon to marry.”

“Of course not. The Creator has decreed otherwise.” Garth slapped his arm viciously with the towel. “The Creator has decreed that Rachel and I wed. It is not her wish.”

“Is it yours?” said Granny Esther gently.

He looked anguished. “No.”

“The Creator’s ways aren’t always apparent.”

“I feel pain for both Rachel and Devon. They are my friends.”

She laid a comforting hand on his thick wrist. “Trust in the wisdom of the Council.” She gave him a look he found enigmatic. “Do whatever you must do to act justly.”

They departed for the Place of Worship.

SIX

Midday prayer services had begun by the time Jubal and Devon had crossed the bleaching fields of downed alfalfa and entered the town. They alone trod the dusty street toward the center of Cypress Corners. As they neared the circle of trees surrounding the Place of Worship, Jubal said, “Hold.” The two men stopped.

Devon heard the sound of light laughter from behind a metal ivy-climb—traditionally called a “communicator booth”—across the narrow street. Jubal stalked over to the dull-gray pillar and Devon followed.

Aha! said the Elder. Devon peered around Jubal’s shoulder to see who had been confronted. It was a young boy, perhaps eight or nine. He was clad like his male Elders in a white collarless shirt of rough homespun material and black cotton overalls that came up in bib fashion with straps over the shoulders. He was barefoot and was rolling a shining metal stave hoop with a metal rod.

“Young Jacob!” said Jubal.

The small boy looked sheepish.

“Dost thou know what hour it be?”

Young Jacob thought for a moment. “Aye, sir. Twelve-hundred hours, sir.”

“Nearly thirteen-hundred hours,” corrected Jubal. “Second worship hour, lad. Long since time you were at your prayers. No time for idleness and wicked laughter.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the boy. He stared contritely down at the street. As his head dropped, Devon was sure he saw Young Jacob wink. Elder Jubal grunted a perfunctory acceptance of the apology.

“Then be about it, lad; hie thee to thy place of kneeling and rid thyself of impure, wicked thoughts lest the Elders mete out severity.”

Head still hanging respectfully, Young Jacob dropped his hoop and stave beside the ivy-climb and scampered through the ring of cypress toward the steps leading up to the Place of Worship.

Jubal watched, shaking his head at the frivolity of the young. “I’ll never understand those to whom piety doesn’t come early,” he said, reverting momentarily from the stiff, formal speech usually affected by the Elders. “It makes things so...” He hesitated. “So
inexact.”

“You were once young,” said Devon.

“I think not.” His face set in dour lines. Jubal led Devon up the wide, plank steps. From between the cypress doors they could hear a voice.

“Hush,” said Jubal. “Elder Micah’s sermon...” Devon recognized the voice; words as hard and cold as the mica schist he had found half-buried in the hills.

“One hundred kilometers across be the world of Cypress Corners,” said the voice of Elder Micah. “One hundred kilometers be all the plot of land given us by the Creator. To work and nourish and on which to find our salvation. ‘Twould be simple for thee to fall into the wicked thought that there be
more
to the good life, the life given to the service of the Creator, than these one hundred kilometers; that there be thought ne’er thought, deed ne’er done, that thou might rise above thy fellows with certain deed and certain thought...”

Again with a gesture for silence, Jubal led Devon between the slab-sided doors of the Place of Worship. The interior was barnlike in its spaciousness and simplicity of arrangement. A center aisle led to the front. On either side the congregation, all in black, sat in the hard metal pews. A few heads turned to look as Jubal and Devon advanced down the aisle. Like a whip-crack, Elder Micah’s voice brought them back to eyes-forward.

“...and that the will of the Elders may be summarily flouted. Be there aught amongst ye who feel so?”

At the front of the Place of Worship was a low platform. Elder Micah stood behind a metal lectern. On the bare wall behind him there was only a burnished metal circle; for the Elders, the symbol of Belief.

Jubal conducted Devon to the aisle seat of the front row. Throughout the room there was a barely audible rustle of whispers. Tall, gaunt, forbidding, Micah leaned forward across the lectern and fixed his gaze on Devon. He repeated,

“Be there aught amongst ye who feel so?”

Quick replies from the congregation; loud but reverent: “Nay!”

“Nay, Elder Micah!”

“Nay, nay!”

Like a herd of horses being led to the barley trough,
thought Devon. He nearly laughed. In the dim light from the slit windows, Micah’s eyes seemed almost to burn.

“And what say you, Devon? Be your humbleness merely worn like shirt or shoe? Dost thou harbor secret spite ‘gainst thy Elders?”

Devon knew he was expected to dip his head in humility; yet he did not. He stared directly into Micah’s eyes. “Not spite, Elder Micah, but there are questions I would ask you.”

Micah smiled slightly, but completely without humor. “Even in thy speech thou art troubling. Thou callest thy Elder ‘you’ with all familiarity. Thy stay in the hills hast done nought to cleanse thee!”

It took all the resolve he had generated in the hills to reply. Devon said quietly, firmly: “If it’s love of Rachel you want to ‘cleanse’ from me, a hundred cycles in the hills would not serve.”

Micah raised his gaze from Devon to the congregation and they responded—murmurs, then louder and angrier cries, shouts:

“Impiety!”

“He answers back!”

“He should be driven out!”

Another grim smile. Obviously pleased with the response, Micah raised his hands for quiet. The Elder looked back down at Devon. “Set this thought forefront in thy demeanor, Devon: thy parents be long dead, thy station be of the lowest, thy prospects slim, thy manner bitter as water drawn from the pollution pool. Thy genetic rating unsuitable. Thou art maintained in Cypress Corners as ward of the Elders. Young Rachel...”

He looked above Devon again, and to the right. Devon turned his head slightly. Rachel sat there in the next pew behind. She sat with her younger sister, the two of them between Aram and Old Rachel. Hands folded, eyes downcast, Rachel did not react.

Micah continued harshly, “... Young Rachel is promised since birth to Young Garth...”

Young Garth sat between his mother and father in the pew behind Rachel and her family. The same age as Devon, Garth was half a head taller. He was a broad and solid man; deeply tanned from the fields, but also callused and muscular from the hammer, forge, and anvil of the metalsmith to whom he was apprenticed. Garth and Devon had been friends almost as long as each could remember. Now Devon caught Garth’s eye and Garth looked away.

“...promised by the word of the Creator’s machine,” Micah’s voice droned on. “Dost thee
still
question the decision of the Creator?”

Devon looked from Garth to Rachel and then back to Micah. He said angrily, “I
still
question! I still ask why the sky is metal and the ground is not. I still ask where waste goes when we put it down the trap. I still ask why Young Rachel must wed a man she doesn’t love!”

Again Micah’s gaze rose to the congregation. Again, led by the other Elders, they responded like a well-trained pack of dogs with cries of “Blasphemy!” and “Shame!” And again Micah quieted them with a wave of his hand.

“When first thee came to thy Elders with this blasphemy,” said the Elder, “thy anguish was met with kindness. Thou wert given leave to go to the hills to cleanse thyself. But thee hath returned to our prayer time still surfeited with recrimination and wickedness. See this, ungrateful child.”