by Donald Brown
The newlyweds continued to greet everyone and once all the guests had congratulated them, George said, “Looks like that is it, darling.” He held out his right arm. “Shall we go inside and enjoy the feast we paid for?”
“Let’s do that,” Dorothy smiled, hooking her arm into his.
4
Many rituals were being performed in Sanctuary every year: weddings, funerals, executions, and the most important one – Initiation.
Storm’s Initiation ceremony was to be held the next week and just at the thought of it, he experienced something that felt like a cold stone sliding down his dry throat and into his incredibly empty stomach.
The ceremony entailed a review by a panel called the Council of Sanctuary. Mr. Walrus was one of them and, supervised by the Guardian, they gave judgments on each of the boys, declaring which line of service they were to follow. Sanctuary was divided into two classes and each particular service had its own ranking, with the Guardian and the Servant being at the top of the echelon.
Storm had been dreading the Initiation ever since Mr. Walrus had mentioned it and explained the details to them. What Storm feared the most was what happened to those who weren’t found fit for a useful service during the Initiation. Mr. Walrus had told them that those who were regarded as unfit were “terminated” and, as he’d uttered the word, he had grinned at Storm, his mouth almost drooling with pleasure. Storm was sure his heart had stopped for a few seconds in that moment. The looming prospect of his own death never escaped his mind and the boys, together with Mr. Walrus, stoked this fear. They all hoped that the fear would force him to change his logical and calculated nature.
Storm’s different way of approaching ideas and situations had landed him in trouble on numerous occasions.
In one such instance, the boys had to take up a common service practiced in Sanctuary, to better equip them for when they would eventually join their brothers. Storm was assigned to the mining quarter for the day. While working, he quickly realized that there was a more efficient method of collecting and distributing the ore. Foolishly, he decided to voice this potential improvement.
One of the miners lifted his head from his work. “What are we saying? That we’re not good enough for this work?”
Another head popped up next to him. “Or that this service does not benefit Sanctuary?”
This was followed by yet another face. “Or has it got to do with the fact that we are white?”
The last accusation was particularly derogatory. With Storm being caramel-skinned, he was clearly being called out for acting like an Outsider.
“Er…” Storm stood there, completely at a loss for words.
Fortunately, the foreman then arrived on the scene.
“Why are we not working?!” he barked, drawing a whip from behind his back and lashing out at them.
Unfortunately, one of the reasons why the foreman was indeed the foreman, was because he was partially blind. The whip missed everyone and made contact with the only lantern in the cave, causing it to crash to the ground and plunge them all into darkness, with curses and groans coming from the adult miners.
On another occasion, Storm was assigned to help the sculptor with his rendition of the Guardian. There he had voiced his reservations about the portrayal of one of the statues.
“What are we trying to do Sculptor-7?” Storm asked, gazing at his superior, who was busy adding the finishing touches to the statue.
“We are creating the Guardian…” He stopped and peered at Storm in annoyance. “But we should know this!” he added, waving his tools in angst.
“Yes, we know,” Storm replied cautiously, squinting against the bright glare coming from the snow-covered surface around the statue. “What we meant was,” and Storm fumbled for words here, “how… how are we trying to… to portray this Guardian.”
The Sculptor stopped his work once again and turned around to look at Storm as if he was seeing him for the first time. “Well, this is the Guardian, so extreme happiness would suffice,” he said in a sarcastic tone of voice.
“Extremely happy,” Storm mused, beholding the way the Guardian appeared thus far.
“Yes, extremely happy,” the sculptor echoed, resuming his work, slightly flustered.
“And what does that look like?” Storm asked, obviously not trusting the representation, or rather misrepresentation, before him. He involuntary thought about the words of Mr. Walrus during that first lecture: Unhappiness is happiness.
“Well… the way it looks like right now!” the Sculptor exclaimed, continuing to feverishly chip away at the sculpture. “We think too much,” he added absently.
Storm nodded to himself, slightly ashamed, and decided to drop it. He admitted to the sculptor that the Guardian was indeed happy, which cheered the sculptor up somewhat. But Storm had never been satisfied with that answer and it was important to him. If he was indeed happy, he would know he was doing everything right, but how could he know if he was doing something right if he was confused as to the appearance of real happiness? Mr. Walrus had told them that it was the opposite of what they thought, but instinctively Storm just knew that was not true. Perhaps Mr. Walrus was just wrong on this, which was a very bad thought.
The reason why he suspected there were things wrong (and so many outright lies) in Sanctuary was because he knew his mother had been very happy, especially when she’d held him when he was still a toddler. He had known the meaning of joy at that early age already. The smile that had brought a glow to his mother’s face was evidence of her happiness. She had always sung the same song to him before he’d gone to bed:
Hush to sleep my little one,
Today we just had so much fun,
Happiness will keep us true,
Mama bear will always love you,
Hush to sleep my little child,
May you never grow too wild,
Happiness is a pot of gold,
Make sure you find it when you’re old.
The song was from a book called “The Honey Bear’s Happiness” and Storm remembered it so vividly, he could see the pictures of the friendly bear mother and her soft cub in his mind’s eye.
Throughout Storm’s life, he’d wanted the happiness of the bears in the story, yet he could never feel or see the same thing in his fellow Sanctuarians. This had left him with no other conclusion:
There was something terribly wrong within Sanctuary.
Of all the people he had ever known growing up, his mother or “Mama bear” as he would affectionately call her, had been the most like him, Storm had figured out. He had a few vague memories of her smile and he’d pieced together bits of her personality from the little information his indisposed brother, Hadrian, had divulged. Hadrian had admitted that their mother, similar to Storm, had been naturally curious and unyielding, but with considerable more warmth. This last part had been added as an afterthought, leaving the obvious implication that Storm lacked some tenderness. When Storm had continued to probe into their past, his brother had become angry and irritated.
“Stop thinking!” Hadrian had shouted, a line that was frequently used against Storm in Sanctuary. He was definitely not Mr. Walrus’s best student.
Mr. Walrus focused on a variety of topics and the concepts of thoughts and feelings were dealt with in a subject called Inward Assimilation. Here, they were taught to have the same feelings and emotions as one another and this is also where Mr. Walrus had delivered his lecture on how to become a good servant.
Then they had Outward Assimilation, where Mr. Walrus taught them how to act in concert with each other. The boys already wore similar white robes – which was supposed to express their innocence before adulthood – with the marking of a Sanctuarian on it; a big S. They were shown how to create the same facial expressions, which they had to practice by holding a smile or a frown in place for extended periods at a time. Everything from how they stood in line, to the way they walked, and how they picked up their bags, had to be identical, thereby erasi
ng any outward differences they might have had previously.
Storm could recall one such class, where they all had to stand in the snow for hours, in a predetermined formation. Mr. Walrus had evoked a comical appearance by striding back and forth in front of them, his ever-present ruler clutched in his hands. With his long legs, it had almost appeared as if he was leaping, doing some strange acrobatic stunt. He would stop in front of Storm and eye him up and down, searching for any sign of contention. When he was satisfied, something that did not happen frequently, he would march on, attempting to find another student who failed to impress him. One or more of the boys always ended up with a whack on the head with the ruler.
Mr. Walrus also gave the boys lectures in the subject Community History. It focused mainly on a long list of what the boys should forget and they were almost never taught anything new. It was during one of these Community History classes, when young Storm dared to ask a question that had been intriguing him for some time.
He raised his hand and Mr. Walrus stopped short in one of his monologues, too surprised to even be annoyed or flustered by Storm’s insolence.
“Yes, Boy-150?” He pursed his lips and closed his eyes as if willing himself to be transported to another location.
“Teacher-21, we know that the Guardian is the happiest Sanctuarian,” Storm began.
“Happiest in the world,” Mr. Walrus grumbled, his moustache quivering.
“Happiest Sanctuarian in the world,” Storm corrected himself. Drops of perspiration were rolling down the nape of his neck at that point and he was wondering why he had done this to himself. “What we wanted to know is this,” he continued, “are the statues then supposed to depict the Guardian as happy?” His voice became more tentative with each word and once he had finished the sentence, he reckoned he was once again pushing his luck a little bit too far.
The boys in the class rolled their eyes and watched Mr. Walrus eagerly, comprehending what they were about to witness. Mr. Walrus grappled with the question for a moment, before succumbing to his true feelings. “Of course the Guardian is depicted to be happy!” he cried out in a high-pitched voice, to a surge of giggling fits from the other students. He told them to be quiet and then focussed his attention back on Storm. “What else could the Guardian be depicted as?”
“N-nothing, s-sir,” Storm stammered. “We are s-sorry, s-sir.” He didn’t dare say to another word.
The angry Mr. Walrus exhaled deeply and then continued his lecture at a brisk pace, as if that would deter any further interruptions by silly questions.
Mr. Walrus had struggled frequently with Storm, originally believing that the boy was being intentionally uncompromising and thinking that if he continued pressing him, he would achieve results. This was too little avail, though, and Mr. Walrus had eventually decided that Storm was doomed to fail; that there was no more hope in a future for him.
His resolve was further demonstrated when Storm found himself lagging behind the rest of the boys, when the bell rang to signal the end of class.
One of the rules was that before the bell sounded the boys had to file outside the door in neat rows, remaining dutifully quiet, ready for the next class. But Storm had been daydreaming and had failed to watch the clock above the blackboard. He came to his senses at last, when he noticed the ugly stares the other boys gave him as they were heading for the door.
Storm only started stuffing his books and stationary into his tattered bag as the student in front was easing the door open.
Then the bell rang and the captain of the group directed the boys away. Once they were around the corner of the building, the only sound that could now be heard in the cold and damp classroom was Storm’s nervous packing, which attracted the attention of Mr. Walrus, of course.
He peered up from behind his table and saw Storm scurrying towards the door. Just before he could escape, Walrus called after him: “We won’t survive, Boy-150! Why don’t we consider ending it for ourself?”
Comunicide was one of the noblest acts to commit in Sanctuary, since it directly resulted in more food and other resources for the remaining people. To end your life for the betterment of the community was an act of heroism, but the casual remark by Mr Walrus still sent a chill down Storm’s spine as he halted outside the door.
I’m not taking my own life, he silently told himself. I can make this work… Besides, I’m too scared. Who has the guts to kill themselves? Certainly not me.
At least this isn’t Zion.
Other classes focused also on how to fight, with and without weapons, which left Storm with many purple bruises from where Mr. Walrus and some of the boys had beaten him.
In one lesson, they were showed how to build a kite, for the purpose of sending signals during a time of war and, once again, to teach conformity.
It was an experience that Storm would never forget…
5
George and Dorothy’s wedding feast soon became one of Zion’s most memorable celebrations. There was no shortage of food and confectionaries, and wine in abundance. A group of musicians was playing folk music and everyone was enjoying themselves thoroughly. Mr. Meyers was dancing about, waltzing with his overly shy wife. The witch was once again having fun with all the kids. Tom was drinking himself into a stupor in a corner of the large marquee tent. The doctor was smiling pleasantly, sitting on his chair observing everything, and Frieda was admonishing her husband because of his poor dancing skills.
“No Dan… like this!” she kept on saying in an irritable tone, leaving Dan flustered and self-conscious.
Father Dennis seemed surly as usual, not really making conversation with anybody. At a stage, he made his way over to George and Dorothy, who were laughing themselves silly at a joke one of the guests had just told them. George noticed the expression on the preacher’s face and stopped giggling to give a loud sigh. This drew the attention of Dorothy, who’s smile also dropped when Father Dennis reached their table. With his seemingly grumpy attitude, it felt like he was going to announce something dramatic.
“Why is she here?” he hissed.
It was clear as to whom he was speaking about. Not too far behind him, the Bertha was finishing a story and the kids were roaring with laughter.
“Relax, Father,” George said, waving a dismissive hand. He was slurring a little, feeling the effect of the strong wine.
The preacher did not take this well. Without saying another word, he resolved to stand at the entrance and close his eyes, almost as if he was praying silently for salvation.
Almost like on cue, Bertha then stood up and made her way over towards the couple. Something about her focus or the determination in her eyes drew the attention of everyone around her. George and Dorothy only had a chance to exchange a look of mild bewilderment before she acted. With a burst of speed, Bertha whipped open a black vial and tossed its contents into their faces. The music and sound in the rest of the tent died out in a second, which left a horrified audience watching the scene in silence. George and Dorothy were spluttering from the touch and smell of the liquid and Bertha watched them coldly, her eyes filled with fury.
“I curse you,” she stated, to the gasps of those surrounding her. “Your union will only provide you happiness for a short time, but that happiness will dissipate in small ripples and finally be wrenched from you with a splash. Twice this will happen, before all that will be left is a vacuum and then…” Bertha added forcefully, pointing at Dorothy, who sat more upright with a fright, “…you will give birth to a Storm that will ravage this town and ultimately prove the end of you.” She spat out the last word and with that, made her way out of the tent. Everyone formed a stampede to get out of her way.
Bertha, or the witch as she was now officially known, wasn’t seen again in Zion for many moons.
This left behind a startled ceremony, everyone jabbering about what they had just witnessed. Then the preacher marched forth from the entrance.
“Don’t listen to the ramblings of this heathen,�
� he said loudly. “Everyone! Go back to enjoying the entertainment! The Lord Almighty has blessed this marriage and the demonic visions of a witch will not hinder it.”
This seemed to comfort most. The music and conversation slowly picked up again and Father Dennis made his way over towards the couple.
“I told you, you should not have invited her,” he snarled under his breath, handing them a piece of cloth to dry themselves with and stalking away. This they did and Dorothy silently contemplated the reading, her thoughts running wild.
I will give birth to a storm? That doesn’t sound right. Is she just angry or can this actually be a real curse?
She looked at George, who revealed his concern at first but then he smiled, took her both her hands in his and shook his head, indicating to her that she should not worry.
With time (and the consumption of alcohol) the party eventually returned to its merry state, as most of the guests slowly began to cast aside the curse of a witch as that of a mad woman.
“Let’s take a photo!” Mr. Meyers suddenly roared from the front of the tent, waving an expensive camera around.
Everyone indicated their enthusiasm and headed towards him. Tom had to drag the reluctant preacher into the shot. The picture was taken and with the blast of the flash it seemed to capture Zion at its happiest. Frozen in time, everyone was beaming and even the preacher managed to look joyful at that moment; perhaps, just for once, he felt included in the society.
“How could it all have gone so wrong?” people would later ask.
Some would say it was the witch’s curse. Others would say it was just darn bad luck or a cascade of wrong choices. Then there are those who would whisper in darkened corners that there were far more evil things at work here. But, needless to say, most would agree that was where the story should have ended. Up until that point it would have been a happy story.
But, stories don’t always have happy endings, do they?
Unbeknownst to the people of Zion, a storm was barrelling in from across the horizon. A storm that was carrying an unexpected message that would change the course of Zion forever.
