*
Abram Miller slapped the reigns once more, harder that time, urging the two Hackney ponies to go faster. Clop clop clop. He knew that the twin steeds were close to exhaustion, but the need for speed was urgent. However, Abram fully understood, no matter how hard or how many times he lashed the muscular animals, a horse drawn wagon could only go so fast. It lacked the swiftness of a car or truck. But driving such a creation as a motorized vehicle would break the illusion, the trickery his people have worked so many years to maintain. Everything would then crumble and existence would end, disappearing with a whimper instead of a big bang, as many so called scholars claim how the universe began.
Boy, were they wrong, Abram thought to himself.
It would not fade with the blink of a eye but the opening of one.
A loud vehicle passed Abram‘s wagon, its driver glaring at the Amish man from the corner of their eyesight. All the gentleman took time to notice was the simple, home stitched clothing and long grown, gray beard. Even though the so-called “modern men and women” lived barely a stone’s throw from Amish Country, Pennsylvania, near to the border of Ohio, they would never learn to understand and respect the culture, and the people. They would only view the twin ponies and black buggy as an annoyance, seeing Abram Miller, along with every other Amish man, as a sad soul that had fallen behind the natural flow of civilization.
And that was what the people of Abram’s sect were counting on; the ignorance of blind onlookers, their minds fogged with preconceived notions and prejudices. If they only knew how important Abram was, how crucial his role in everything has been for many, many years. If they only understood that he was not just another farmer in overalls and black work boots. He was not even Amish, not really, no matter how much his appearance and actions fit the part. He worked the land, as did the others in his little community. But that was nothing but an illusion, trickery. He was one of a few that hid the secret, hid it in plain sight, under the nose of those modern men and women that snub him.
Let them snub, the bearded man decided. They would never handle the responsibility that sat on his and his family’s shoulders.
From atop the command seat of the buggy, he watched the breathing of the twin ponies, which had become smoky puffs of frustrated air in the chilly evening. He felt sorry for his favorite pullers, but the animals were strong and would survive the race. If not, nothing would survive. Nothing at all.
Abram regrettably whipped the reins hard another time and held on tight to his straw hat as the wagon jerked forward. The sun of the day was lessening on his neck and he knew that dusk would soon turn everything into night.
It was getting late.
He had been making the run, whenever it was needed of him, ever since he had become a man and he never remembered things being so difficult. Back in the early days, as his Pa used to explain to him, they never had to go far for what they needed. But the world was changing, becoming bigger and smaller at the same time. The simple herbs and plants, ones that they were able to grow in their fields, among their other crops, had slowly quit working, forcing the family to seek other avenues of getting what they needed. It was becoming harder and harder, an Abram had to travel further and further.
One day, Abram feared, the awakening might begin again, finding my family out of any useable options. We might eventually run dry of all possibilities, those used becoming obsolete, like the twigs and berries of the old days. What would they do then? What? What did my family use a thousand years ago? He knew the answer and tried to picture it. What would we resort to using a thousand years to come? Was there another thousand years to come?
Leaving the paved and painted road of the civilized world, Abram Miller abruptly turned his carriage onto a beaten and broken path, one that had been around since the days of Lincoln and civil unrest. The dirt passage was often ignored and overlooked by the drivers of the main road, because they saw it, whenever they took time to see it, as nothing but a worn route out and across a seemingly endless stretch of fields. But that was the whole idea. In their minds, the only thing that laid down the path was just more Amish farms and…boredom.
Abram and his wagon continued to shoot like a slow moving bullet for another two miles before the houses of his community rose from the darkening horizon. He could vaguely make out the structures in the dimming daylight. He was happy to be home, or at least close to it. He knew the other family members were waiting. He had been gone for nearly a day, which had been unexpected. Unforeseen circumstances, he would explain.
Little Rest.
It was an Amish community that wasn’t actually. It was something else, something hidden beneath the disguise of simple and plain. But at the same time it was everything. Everything.
It was the home of the Keepers.
**
Miriam Miller couldn’t leave the doorway and continued to stare into the bedroom, looking over the abandoned handmade wooden crib. The blue quilt remained draped over the side, even though it no longer had a body to warm. She had made the blanket the same light blue as her son’s eyes had been. The lonely mother remembered how her tiny son’s pink flesh had looked against the blue of the blanket. Samuel’s skin had been nearly as soft as the piece of gentle cloth. But his body, from skin to bone, had been flawed somehow, flawed in a way that Miriam still didn’t understand. And the flaw had caused the little boy to die, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the same crib she that was watching over.
When Samuel had died, a piece of the woman had disappeared with him, leaving nothing to fill the void. It didn’t make any sense. There hadn’t been any explanation or cause, or so it had seemed. One normal day the little boy was breathing, but that night his breathing simply stopped, never to begin again. Why? No one could provide an explanation. They merely explained it away as being a waking dream, before placing her son’s body in the field with the other tragedies. It was nothing to over think or to question. Her son had been another dream made awake, an illusion faded from being, like millions and millions before him, as they all would become one day.
It was their lord’s will, she had been fervently told. Nothing more than another cross to match the others that littered the stretch of earth.
But it was more than that, Miriam thought. Samuel had been more than just another fantasy laid to bed. More than just a dream. He had been real. And he was gone. Gone. And no one could give me a real answer. Why?
Lord’s will? That wasn’t true, she eventually realized. There was someone that could give her answers, but that person, if he could be called a person, could never be spoken to. That person would never speak a word to Miriam, or anyone else. He would never be held accountable for the pain. And Miriam was raised to understand and live with the fact, as many, many others before her, and as many, many others will after her.
That was the curse of the Keepers. Blind faith in the dream of dreams.
She swore lowly in Dutch before forcing herself away from the crib, away from the tomb of her son.
Her two story house was dark, even though a little light remained outside. Miriam used the burning tip of a candle to guide her way downstairs to the ground floor, where her husband waited in the kitchen. Dusk, the blurry area between day and night, the moment between work and sleep, had become the only time where she was able to see the man she still loved. They had become ghosts to each other ever since Samuel had died, living but not living, barely away of the other’s existence, except in rare passing.
She halted behind him and watched him as he stared silently out the window. Miriam could tell by Isaac’s tightened shoulders and straight-up stance that he was growing worried. And
he was waiting, as all the other Keepers were, for the return of Abram, which was nearly a day overdue. If the oldest of their community did not return that night, everything would disappear, as Samuel had, or so she had been born and bred to believe faithfully.
She was unsure how far blind faith went for her, anymore. Blind faith had seemingly gone away right beside of her son. She no longer found herself in a state of mind where blind faith was plausible or acceptable. As far as she could tell, she was in that place all alone.
In the glass of the window, Miriam could see herself and her flickering candle reflecting. She knew that her husband was aware of her presence, as well. Yet, he startled when she hugged him from behind. “Will he ever return?” Isaac asked. His voice hollow. “I fear that he had run away, dooming us all to his whim.”
“Abram is our Prime Elder,” Miriam replied, “and he knows what would happen if he were to not return.” Her voice was hollow, also, but for reasons different to Isaac. “He would never do such a thing. He would never. He will never leave Little Rest with the responsibility of his unplanned retreat.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get it,” her husband responded. “Maybe Dr. Raymond changed his mind, this time. He has been difficult in the past. I hope not. Where else could he get it? Who else would help? What if something else has happened? What if…”
“Hush,” Miriam whispered, tightening the grip of her arms on the man’s waist. “Abram has been a Keeper for a very long time and he knows how to deal with…the awakening. I’m sure he will home before the night is through.”
“But things are getting harder,” Isaac mumbled. “What if it becomes impossible? What if nothing works? Not even…the medicine. What if he wakes? What then?”
Faking courage, masking her own disillusion, Miriam Miller tried to console her husband’s fears, even though she had other types of fear, along with frustrations in her own mind. No one needed to know what she was thinking. They would know in time. “Everything will be fine, my love, as it had been since the first days and nights,” she assured him. “The world will spin on. And existence will remain intact and clearly defined. At least for a while longer.”
“I hope that you are right,” he replied.
“I am.” Her voice was strong and sure. “The Sleeper will remain in slumber. His rousing will cease.” As the words escaped her tongue, Miriam heard the clacking of shoed hooves on a dirt road. Abram had returned. He had brought back the medicine.
Damn it, she cursed in her mind. Damn that old man. But her opportunity had not fully been taken away, she knew. There was another way.
***
The beaten and broken path of dirt changed from a straight shot to a large oval, with houses and buildings lining it. Each structure had been built from the ground up, hammered and nailed by the hands of the Keepers, nearly a century before. Behind the homes and buildings was farmland and grazing land, good for growing crops or feeding livestock, everything that a so-called Amish community would need to live by the land and by the morals of their God.
At what point did an illusion began reality? Abram often considered. The dream? The mask of Amish life? At what point did the line blur from fantasy to reality?
The elder didn’t take the road to any specific house, instead he aimed for the structure at the center of the dirt oval. The Church of the Sleeper. The church was a large building made of brick and stone, a far cry from the wood and nails that made up the old houses. But the church was the most important place in Little Rest, the true center of not just the community by the entire world.
Once he halted his wagon at the church, Abram tied his horses to a wooden fence, allowing the tired creatures to rest. The animals had earned the man’s respect and compassion. And he knew that they loved him in return. It was a beautiful thing. Something that would never falter.
Abram then rushed to the back of the buggy, knowing that the other Keepers would immediately be aware of his return. They had to have heard his arrival. In a quiet place like Little Rest, the sound of an arriving wagon echoed through the night. They would soon be pouring from their homes.
After opening the back door of the wagon, he began to wait. And he didn’t have to wait long. The voice of his niece, Miriam, rose up from behind the old man. “I’m so glad to see you, Uncle.” Her voice was strangely calm. “We were growing worried that you had lost your way back.” In one of her hands, she held a doused candle. Little light of the day still remained to illuminate their goings on.
“I almost had, young Miriam,” Abram clarified. “Troubles. More and more troubles, dar child. But that does not matter. I am here now.”
“Indeed…you are,” she agreed. Pushing past the elder, Miriam put herself at the back door of the old man’s wagon. “Let me help you.”
The inside of the buggy was empty except for a single wicker basket. After adjusting her modest brown dress, Miriam reached in and took hold of the basket’s handle and pulled it free of the carriage. The basket was light and she had no trouble carrying it with a single arm.
“Be careful,” Abram pleaded. “Good to see you, Isaac, my boy,” he said to the stocky man that was standing a few feet away.
Isaac nodded.
Beyond the heads of her uncle and husband, Miriam could see the other Keepers rushing out to greet them. She had to talk and move swiftly. “We should get this inside. We can meet the others in The Chamber. We shouldn’t waste any more time. The awakening is quickening. We must act now.”
Abram felt the tension and urgency as much as the rest of the community and he complied with his niece’s request. The other Keepers would surely understand and follow suit with his lead. They would be at his heels in no time at all. Following behind of Miriam, Isaac and the elder quickly entered into the Church of the Sleeper.
****
The Church of the Sleeper was a holy dwelling built entirely around a single room, the Chamber, which could be found at the dead center of the structure. It was a circular space. And while the walls and the halls of the church contained elaborate painting and statues, some dating to the voyage of Columbus, the Chamber was less auspicious, containing only a bed. There was no need for any decorations or other forms of furniture in the room.
Relighting her white candle, Miriam urgently navigated the way through the church, with her uncle and husband on her heels. She allowed them to remain a couple steps behind, like dogs on a leash.
Arriving at the middle of the church, Samuel’s mother dashed into the Chamber and unexpectedly slammed the door behind her, cutting off Abram and Isaac. Their alarmed cries were instantaneous. She leaned back against the heavy oak door and immediately heard their frantic footfalls. They hadn’t expected it. Of course. How could they have? Their faith in her was as blind as their faith in the slumbering lord.
The sanctity of the Chamber was the sole concern of the Keepers, which were nothing more than mortal men and women burdened with the most important secret unknown to mankind. The Keepers were people of love, like those of the actual Amish population. Even though, up until that moment, no one had chosen to question or to act against their lord, the people of the blind faith couldn’t deny the possibility of a threat, either from outside or from within their own community. That possibility brought on the locks, the large metal bolts that Miriam Miller used to keep her uncle and husband from entering the room. As she slid them into place, she heard the two men call out.
How could I be the first to act? She wondered. How could I be the first to have doubt creep inside of my mind like a worm?
Samuel, she knew.
Maybe she hadn’t been the first to doubt. How could she have been? But she most surely was the first that she knew to act on the doubts.
“What are doing, Miriam!?” Abram exclaimed from the other side of the locked door.
“What is going on!?” Isaac shouted.
Both
of the men began to bang rapidly on the door. But Miriam chose to ignore the racket and focus on the bed and the man that was lying on it. The Sleeper. The hidden and unknown God of all existence. Whose dream was their reality, and the world and everything in it were figments of that dream, destined to end whenever the dreamer awakes. Or so she had blindly believed…up and until that moment. But that all had changed with the death of her son. She was no longer a blind Keeper, but a mother who had lost her child.
*****
The Sleeper appeared to be a simple man, pale skinned, thinly structured, wearing dark black pajamas, which further brought out the white of his skin. If met in a casual situation, the man might seem homely, far from extraordinary. That was the joke of it all…the joke on everyone. But Miriam no longer had blind faith, blind faith in the Sleeper.
She glared at the being, the being that resembled a man in his thirties. But Miriam Miller knew that the age of the Sleeper was not relevant to the age of the world, because the age of the world was only relevant to expanse of the Sleeper’s dream. The Sleeper did indeed grow older, even if Miriam herself had never witnessed it. He aged very slowly compared to those in his dream. Empire after empire had climbed and collapsed during what might have been a few minutes in the life the Sleeper. It was hard to fathom, even for those chosen to be the Keepers. But they did their duties, day in and out, since the beginning of the dream.
What if the Sleeper were to die? Was he mortal and capable of dying? If not, what use would there be for Keepers? But she already knew that answer. They were to keep him from waking, to keep the dream, their world, from ending.
She imagined the early Keepers, the picture that had been painted for her from birth. The Keepers was always a small group of people. Long ago, they had traveled on sailing boats across the ocean to the Americas, the Sleeper hidden among their cargo. They tended to him and his slumber without any doubt.
Was the Sleeper aware? Was he aware of what his dream had become? Did it begin as a dream of love and life, only to become a nightmare of war and death?
How could they be so ignorant? Did they know…anything…for real? Or were they acting on knowledge that had been passed down from generation to generation? Second and third hand idea molded and formed into fact and faith? What it was all false or fake? Delusion? A trick that had been cemented by time and not reality?
Little Rest(A Short Story) Page 1
