Phoenix Without Ashes (7 page)

Micah stabbed the center of the lectern with one forefinger. “Perhaps you may give heed to the Creator’s machine.” There was a low whir. From out of the lectern rose a miniature replica of the rectangular, metal ivy-climb outside. The Elder touched one of a row of keys on the top of the Creator’s machine. A panel slid aside; Micah spoke into the exposed grille: “Respond to my voice. I seek again the answer to the mating question of Young Rachel and Young Garth. Be there genetic relevance for consideration of Devon as mate to Young Rachel? Answer.”

The machine chuckled briefly to itself as though a small animal inside were rummaging through nutshells. After a moment it spoke; its voice was loud and flat. “Gene pool orders original mating selection without variance. New factor, coded: Devon, unsuitable. Balance maintained. Answerrrr...” The voice of the Creator distorted, dropped in pitch, slowed down. Micah tensed, staring down at the machine. “Answer: none.”

With triumphant finality, Micah punched a key on the top of the Creator’s machine and the device began to whir back down into the lectern. The lines in Micah’s lean face bunched hard. “Now, spiteful Devon, before this congregation, in the sight of the Creator and in the Creator’s words, thou hast been spurned. Wilt thou
now
relent? And join with thy betters in conjoining these two young people?”

Devon said nothing as he stared back at Micah and the lowering top of the Creator’s machine. He opened his mouth but no words emerged.

“Wilt
thou?” said Micah.

Devon turned his head toward Rachel.

She met his eyes; her gaze fell first.

He turned toward Garth.

The smith’s apprentice would not meet Devon’s eyes.

“Wilt thou, boy?” Micah repeated the words implacably, giving them edges like hammered metal.

Devon opened his mouth again, but words still would not come. Clenching his fists, he turned and bolted from the Place of Worship. Whispers ran through the congregation until Micah raised a paternal hand. “This boy has been possessed by a fine wickedness. From this moment forward, henceforth let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon, let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him. For us, humble in the name of the Creator, this Devon is a spitefulness, a contentiousness, a spot of rancor. Let him be, then, gone from our sight. Now: return to thy labors.”

The congregation rose, facing the circle design on the rear wall. Each man and woman and child linked thumb and forefinger over their hearts as a symbol of their piety. Even Garth. Even Rachel.

SEVEN

The forge of Old William the metalsmith was an open shed on the northern edge of the village. Old William seldom took up the iron hammer these days; the stiffness in his joints was too painful. He had turned the major responsibility for his craft over to his young apprentice. Old William had taught his charge well; there were seldom complaints from those who ordered tools from the new smith.

Devon waited in the half-concealment afforded by the shadows beneath a copse of elm. The rest of Cypress Corners’s commerce started up around him while, he awaited Garth’s return. Voices passed him on the other side of the row of trees: men returning to the fields. “Devon was never all that clever.”

“I know
I
would not wish to be cast into the darkness by Elder Micah.”

Mumbles of assent.

“I don’t know.... That Rachel’s quite a piece.”

“Hush, lest Aram hear you.”

“He returned to fetch the water skin.”

“Nonetheless, don’t defile his daughter with your tongue.”

Someone’s half-stifled laughter. “I know
I’d
like to...” The voices faded out of earshot. Devon lay back, his head resting on the hard pillow of an exposed root.

A few minutes later, Garth arrived at the forge. Devon continued to wait, watching as Garth resumed his work. His childhood friend was obviously distraught; Garth’s face was a mask of gloom. He clattered about the shed, futilely kicking a bucket of scrap nails across the room when the thing failed to get out of his way. Garth turned the gas jets of the forge up to full. With the tongs, he thrust a horseshoe into the roaring, orange flame.

If only he loved Rachel,
Devon thought briefly, and then wiped the thought away.
No, I do not wish that at all.
He realized how truly selfish he was. One more sin.

In the fire, the metal shoe began to glow a dull cherry red.

The color,
Devon remembered,
of the embers of the house.
Years later he had wondered at the cruelty of children toward one of their fellows who had been orphaned.
Perhaps they feared the same fate, and, fearing turned on the source of that alarm.

Six of them had cornered Devon in a glade beside the small lake called Temperance. Not yet ten cycles old, he had looked warily from one to another of the older boys. He said, “What do you want?”

Young Goodman laughed nastily and said, “Just your garments, Devon.”

Devon looked puzzled.

Esau, a thin, cross-eyed child, said, “The Elders have directed us to clean Master Silas’s school and we need your clothing for rags.”

“I don’t understand,” said Devon. “Why—”

Without warning, Goodman struck him in the face.

Though surprised, Devon struck back automatically, hitting Goodman in the throat. All the other boys save Esau rushed into the fray.

“Bastard!” cried Esau from the sideline. “In naked shame we’ll send you to the women.”

Goodman had grappled with Devon. Breath ratcheted from the older boy’s mouth. He echoed Esau, “Bastard.”

Superior size and age finally prevailed: four of the boys held Devon’s limbs to the ground. Goodman and Esau stood back from the spreadeagled figure. Goodman still found it difficult to breathe, much less speak. “Beg for—” The words garbled as he choked. “—fatherless—”

Esau roughly jerked loose Devon’s belt and pulled his overalls down around his knees. Devon struggled but his captors held fast. “You’re the bastards,” he said. Goodman drew his foot back to kick. Then he was knocked sprawling.

“Garth!” Esau cried. Even at the age of ten cycles, Young Garth was fearless. Large for his age, he knocked the boys aside as though they were wheat going down before the scythe. After they got up, they joined Esau and fled.

Without allies, Goodman had no stomach to fight further. He took a tentative step toward Garth; then, thinking better of it, he wordlessly turned and ran away. Garth helped Devon to his feet.

“I thank you,” said Devon, “but why did you help? This wasn’t your fight.”

“Six of them,” said Garth. “It was not right.” He looked embarrassed.

Devon gingerly touched his own nose, checking for blood. “They called me a bastard.” He looked belligerently at Garth. “I had a father and a mother.”

“Yes,” said Garth. “I know. I liked them.”

The two boys silently walked along the shore of the lake Temperance. Then Garth said, “I’m on my way to prayers.” Devon said nothing. “Will you walk with me to the town?”

After that afternoon they remained friends.

And now, is this right?
said Devon silently. He stood up and walked toward the shed.

His back to the wide doorway, Garth turned the glowing horseshoe over in the flame. He pulled it from the jet, examined it critically, then set it on the anvil. With his other hand he picked up the three-kilo iron hammer.

Devon paused in the shadow of the entrance, listening to the clang of metal against metal, seeing the orange sparks fan out with each blow. He was struck by the power and rhythm of the smith; it was a steady, reassuring song.

Clang!

Devon stepped through the doorway. At the sound of hard sod-boot heels on the threshold, Garth looked around.

Clang!

The rhythm faltered only slightly. Garth turned back to the anvil. Again the hammer swung in its arc.

Clang!

“Garth.”

Clang!
There was no response.

Devon said, “I’m sorry. I had to do it.”

Clang!
Garth looked up. With a flash of annoyance. Still he said nothing and returned to hammering with even greater vehemence.

Devon moved around the anvil where Garth could not avoid seeing him. “Try to understand. It doesn’t have to be the way the Elders say it is. If you loved Rachel, or she loved you, I would never have spoken.”

Clang!

“Garth...”

Garth stopped. He stood with red-hot shoe in tongs in one hand and hammer in the other. For a moment, Devon thought Garth would hurl one or both at him. Then Garth turned and quenched the shoe in the water bucket. He watched Devon through the steam.

Devon said, “Will you at least listen—”

Garth interrupted him. He turned his eyes toward the wall and spoke. “I have been humiliated in the eyes of my fellows. My family, and especially my father, have lost stature. I have been badly used.” He reached across the bench and picked up the bow portion of a steel crossbow. Holding it against the light from the doorway, he squinted along the bow’s length, searching for imperfection. An expert marksman, he lavished no greater love on any of the other tools he had crafted.

“Garth, we’ve known each other all our lives. We’ve been friends.”

With the tongs, Garth began heating one end of the bow.

“Won’t you please try to understand?”

Garth said to the wall, “I would rather talk to my friend than to this wall.”

“I am here.”

“If someone were here to hear me now,” Garth continued inexorably, “I would say that the past is done, and what the Elders have decreed
is
what is
now.
I would say that none of this makes me happy, but I am Old Garth’s son and I will not suffer him to lose status because of me. I will do what I am told.”

Devon said, “Do you know what Elder Micah will have done to me?”

Garth looked obdurately from wall to bow.

“I am to die.”

Shocked, the smith looked directly at Devon. “No—even Elder Micah would not be so harsh.”

“‘Let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon,’” Devon quoted. “‘Let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him.’”

“He will relent—”

“You know better, Garth. Micah would have me exiled forever to the hills. I cannot spend the rest of my life foraging for rabbits or stealing from the fields. That was a sentence of death.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Believe,” said Devon.

A hardness slipped down lover Garth’s features. He said,
“I will do what I am told.”

Devon stood for a moment longer, looking at Garth; then, very sadly, he turned to go. He paused at the door. Garth hammered lightly on the crossbow. “I understand, Garth. And I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t in the middle of this.”

He exited and heard the hiss of steam as the bow was plunged into the bucket.

EIGHT

For perverse purposes he could not later fathom, Devon wandered the remainder of the afternoon through the streets of Cypress Corners. He deliberately intruded into citizens’ spheres of attention, trying to stir reactions. He was seldom rewarded.

In Old Martin’s market, he discovered elderly, widowed, near-sighted Old Esther purchasing a cut of beef. The bell jangled as Devon opened the door and walked in. Old Martin glanced up, glowered, then, stony-faced, returned his attention to his customer. Devon came up to the counter. “Hello, Granny Esther,” he said.

The old woman turned around and peered up into his face. “Oh, hello, Devon. My goodness, I—oops,” she said, suddenly remembering her duty. She was distantly related to Devon, a several-times-removed aunt.

Old Martin said irritatedly, “It’s a fine bit of steak, Granny Esther. Cut right from the rib of the animal. Look at the marbling.”

Devon reached over and started to pick up the steak; Martin snatched it back. “Better look close, Granny,” Devon said. “The marbling isn’t so visible.”

Ignoring him, Martin said, “Good red meat.”

“Old meat,” said Devon. “Old Martin’s always kept a bottle of red dye behind the counter. Everybody knows.” He started to reach over the counter, and Martin grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you remember?” Devon said to him. “Only you and Granny Esther are here.” Martin’s fingers slowly loosened.

Granny Esther held the meat a few inches from her eyes, meticulously examining it. “Hmm, you know, Martin, I don’t believe this is as fresh as it could be.”

“Of course it’s fresh,” said the shopkeeper. “Who says it isn’t?”

“Well... no one. But just the same,” said Granny Esther, “I think that tonight I’ll fix me a vegetable stew.” She smiled a fragile smile and turned away from the counter. Martin slapped the steak back into the case as though it were a dead fish.

At the door, Granny Esther looked at Devon with a wise, sidelong expression. “Don’t worry, child,” she whispered. “I’ve long known Micah. He’s a hard man, but he’ll show mercy.”

Devon tried to smile at her.
But what must I do to earn that mercy?
he thought.

“You must pray,” said the old woman. She smiled up at him as he held the door open. Old Esther shuffled out into the street.

Old Martin continued standing with iron control behind the counter as Devon took a cracker from the barrel by the door before leaving.

A sharp pain sprouted suddenly between his shoulder blades. Devon sprawled forward in the dust. “Aye, brother Esau,” said a grating voice. “I could have sworn I just ran into something.”

“It could not be,” said a second voice. “There is nothing at all.”

Devon raised himself with his forearms and looked around. Two young men stood above him, grinning as they ostentatiously looked past.

“Aye,” said the first man. “Agreed. There is nothing whatever.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand.

“Young Esau,” said Devon. “Young Goodman.” They were both about his age; both stoutly built and wearing the same type of shirt, overalls, and boots that he did. He remembered them for being two of the attackers from whom Garth had rescued him so many cycles before.