Storm's Sanctuary

by Donald Brown

  6

  The incident occurred late one afternoon.

  The snow had stopped for a few hours, but gloomy clouds were predicting more downfall that evening. Storm could also smell the familiar scent of cordite in the air, a sign which usually preceded heavy snowfall and strong winds.

  The boys were standing in two lines outside, on a barren field that was perfect for such an exercise. Like always, Storm stood last in the second line, in order to attract as little attention to himself as possible.

  Storm was for the first time really excited about an exercise in Sanctuary. He had been building kites since he was a small boy and he had quite perfected the art of guiding them. His mother had encouraged him and he could still faintly remember, even now, how he had for the first time managed to get his kite up in the air.

  ***

  It had been a few years ago and it had been a much younger Storm. The weather had been warmer and a strong wind had picked up, when Storm tried to make his kite fly for the first time.

  The sudden jolt as it shot upright had exhilarated him and he had exclaimed with delight, “Mama, it’s working! It’s working!”

  His mother had laughed and whooped with joy as he was running around, trying to control his kite. Their joy had however, not lasted long. Suddenly they’d heard the sound of marching boots coming closer and closer. The two had fallen silent.

  “Quick, Storm, hide that and let’s go inside,” his mother had whispered urgently.

  He had been unwillingly to set his kite to one side and merely looked at his mother uncertainly.

  “Hadrian, help your brother!” Storm’s mother had urged and Hadrian had rushed out to escort Storm to safety.

  ***

  This was now his moment to shine and he looked forward to proving to the rest that he wasn’t as useless as they made him out to be.

  Mr. Walrus showed them how to build a simple kite and then provided them with all the materials to do so. The rest of the boys quickly managed to assemble theirs, but Storm was frowning while he struggled with the knots. He was used to doing it differently and thought Mr. Walrus was ham-fisting it. This drew the ire of Mr. Walrus. Without any warning, he limped over and struck Storm hard across his right hand with the menacing ruler. This made Storm yelp in pain and the rest of the boys snigger.

  “Not like that, Boy-150!” Mr. Walrus barked, exposing a set of crooked yellow teeth. He angrily showed Storm how to properly tie the rope to the frame and the sail, and this time Storm managed to get it right his way, although it still took him three times longer than the other boys.

  When Storm was at last finished with his kite, Mr. Walrus told them that they would soon get the opportunity to make their kites fly, they just had to wait for the gusting wind to calm down.

  There was a rule from the Guardian stating that the wind was a trick from the Outsiders and had to be avoided at all cost.

  On that day at the barren field, the wind was bristling quite a bit and Storm could feel his kite wanting to escape, but he held on to it tightly and waited obediently.

  After the wind had finally died down, Mr. Walrus instructed them to go ahead and fly the kites.

  The boys tossed their kites upwards, but the flying toys simply plopped back down to the ground like lead. Everyone picked up their kites again and repeated the exercise, but the kites only made their way back to the snowy surface again. The sludge created by their activity in the snow quickly began to damage the kites they had fashioned. The boys repeatedly threw the kites up in the air like robots and soon Mr. Walrus became frustrated.

  When the kites landed on the ground for the sixth or seventh time, he exploded. “It’s because we do not believe! We trust in the illusion rather than what is real!” He paused to catch his breath, then snarled, “and Boy-150, we are clearly not paying attention!” Storm had been brushing away the snow from his kite after each fall, while the rest of the boys had merely left theirs submerged in the melting snow.

  “Why we have not committed comunicide yet, we will never know,” Mr. Walrus continued in a dismissive tone, hobbling forward and bearing down on Storm. “We are too selfish to exist in this world,” he added and then bumped Storm with a hefty shoulder charge, making him fall to the ground with a loud thud. He slowly came upright again and found himself still facing Mr. Walrus, who seemed determined.

  “Hand over the kite,” Mr Walrus instructed.

  Storm shook his head and pulled the kite closer to his chest. His kite flying passion had been completely ruined and he was sad and miserable again.

  Tears were welling up in his eyes when Mr Walrus said, “Then we shall punish you.” He lifted his boot into the air and kicked Storm firmly in his ribs.

  The rest of the boys took the lead from Mr. Walrus and started punching and kicking Storm, venting their own frustrations on him as well. Storm desperately tried to protect himself by fending with his arms and using the kite’s frame as a shield, but Mr. Walrus had no mercy. “Accept the punishment, Boy-150!” he called out. “If we want to live here, then we must accept the punishment handed down by the community!”

  But Storm had had enough. He kicked back until he had some space to move in, then rolled away and scampered to his feet ten yards further. He stood with his hands on his knees – the kite still clutched in his left fist – panting and bleeding from his nose. The other boys and Mr. Walrus watched him warily. His sudden burst of courage had taken them by surprise.

  Just then, the wind began to pick up again and Storm felt the kite leaving his hand.

  It rose up and soared for a moment and he instantly forgot about the beating he’d just received. He felt a strange elation as his creation managed to fly and he started jogging around, watching the kite dance around in the air. The boys watched in astonishment. Storm had defied them and that first made them uneasy, but then they slowly grew livid.

  Storm tore his eyes from the happy sight in the air and noticed the anger of the boys and Mr. Walrus in front of him. He gulped.

  “Boy-150 must have had help from the Outsiders,” Mr. Walrus grunted, stroking his moustache with two banana fingers.

  The boys nodded in agreement and as if per silent signal, as if a brief spell had been broken, charged forward to knock Storm over. Before closing his eyes as his vision blurred, Storm gave one sad final glance at the kite, flying away on the back of the wind.

  It took him almost a week to recover from the incident and when he returned to class, his confidence was severely damaged. All the intimidation only made him crawl further into his shell. He gradually became terrified of speaking out at all in public and found it difficult to look people in the eyes while having conversations with them, as if he was plagued by perpetual sin.

  7

  A week after his wedding day, George was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the photograph Mr. Meyers had taken at the feast. Dorothy was still sleeping in their cozy bedroom. She seemed to be sleeping a lot lately.

  George ran his finger over the glossy photo, toughing the face of his lovely bride; his butterfly. This made his memories swim all the way back to when he and Dorothy had first met, all those years ago.

  ***

  It was a crisp morning on Liberty Day, a public holiday in Zion, and a barely teenage George was in between the Willows, collecting butterflies for a biology school project. It was a cool shaded area next to Lake Zion. A collection of lush green Willow trees, forming a semicircle on the shore of the lake, hid it from the city’s hustle and bustle. A flock of birds merrily sang along in the treetops, as George criss-crossed about, trying to corner a butterfly. It was then that he had suddenly run into Dorothy.

  She had appeared out of nowhere and stared at him suspiciously.

  “What are you doing with that jar?”

  “Who are you?” George had countered.

  “I’m new in Zion,” she’d informed him. “We moved in yesterday.” Then she’d taken a seat on the grass, cross-legged, and pointed at the jam jar Ge
orge was holding in his hands. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing with that jar.”

  “Oh,” George had replied, “I’m catching some butterflies.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t cage butterflies!” she had exclaimed crossly.

  George had brushed the comment off and plonked down beside her on the spongy surface of the grass. “I’ve caught one already, take a look.”

  Curiosity had gotten the better of her and she had taken the jar he’d handed out to her. Then she’d inspected the contents of the jar with an inquisitive glare and started to chuckle. “This isn’t a butterfly, it’s a moth!”

  He’d looked down at the white creature inside the jar and shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the difference? They’re all just flying insects.”

  That had brought about a wide smile from Dorothy. As he’d gazed at her more intently and recognized her fine features, he realized that perhaps there was a big difference between a moth and a butterfly.

  When she hadn’t said anything further, after a comfortable moment of silence, he’d made his move. “You know,” he’d said in a voice dripping with honey, “perhaps you have been the butterfly I have been trying to catch.”

  Dorothy had opened her mouth to say something in return, but she had nothing that could match his wit. Besides, she was too flattered to speak. She could actually feel her face burning at that moment. He’d continued: “I think I shall call you my butterfly from now on.”

  In mock ceremony, he’d placed the jar on her head and she’d beamed in response.

  ***

  A month later they found themselves in Arithmetic class. Their teacher back then was a somewhat plump woman in her forties, by the name of Miss Flaunders.

  She was busy scribbling a number of equations on the blackboard, when George kicked Dorothy’s chair. He always made sure he sat behind her in class; he could stare at her shiny blonde ponytail for hours. “Hey,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “hold out your hand.”

  Without turning around, Dorothy eased her right arm back, palm facing upwards and opened her slender fingers. George leaned forward and stuffed a neatly folded note into her hand, giving her fingers a sneaky squeeze in the process. Dorothy closed her hand around the note, then turned her head slightly backwards and mouthed, Thanks.

  “What’s going on over there?” Miss Flaunders suddenly said. She had turned to face the class and was now standing with her hands on her hips, chalk dust covering a large portion of her too-tight flower print dress.

  George was dumbfounded at being caught and Dorothy also looked taken back. Her cheeks were burning.

  “They were doing nothing, Miss,” a young Frieda interjected, sitting next to Dorothy. “They were just exchanging notes on the work.”

  Miss Flaunders frowned at this. She didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t seem bothered to pursue the matter further either.

  She opted to sit down behind her desk and say, “All right, behave yourselves now. I have written down the three equations on the board. Let’s see who can solve them.”

  Dorothy mouthed a quick thank you to Frieda. The future father Dennis, who had watched the entire episode, opened his mouth to speak. He was already tall at that point and was seated in front of the two girls. Frieda, who knew that he was about to reveal the truth, gave him a kick from behind. This made him whelp and drew a concerned glance from Miss Flaunders. He threw a look of anger at Frieda, whilst rubbing his ankle, but it seemed like he had given up exposing the truth.

  George pretended to work on a solution while watching Dorothy – who was unfolding his note – from the corner of his eye. The note he had written, read the following:

  Meet me at the Willows after class.

  Dorothy was about to pass him a note of her own, when the new girl, Bertha, a shabby creature with wild hair and a sharp nose said, “I think I’ve got it, Miss.” Nobody really liked Bertha’s enchantress-like appearance and George and Dorothy in particular always made fun of her, calling her names related to the occult and sorcery. Just the previous day, George had hidden a rotten egg in Bertha’s bookcase and she had been sent home by the school’s headmaster to get rid of the stench.

  After Miss Flaunders had inspected Bertha’s proposed solution – which had one right answer and two wrongs – she looked up and noticed how Dorothy extended her hand backwards and passed her note to George.

  “What the devil is going on here?!” she exclaimed impatiently. She gave four quick steps, nearly tripping over Ronny’s bookcase, and gave him a bewildered look, before yanking the piece of paper from a stunned George’s hand. “Good grief, Ronny,” she said, “I don’t know how you are going to become a doctor one day. Your belongings are always scattered around like a toddler’s toys!”

  Then she returned her attention to Dorothy and George. “Let’s see what our love birds have for us today.” She unfolded the note and began to read: “I will meet you there, George, but I’ll be fifteen minutes late. I just have to swing by the piano teacher’s house to pick up my music sheets. Love and kisses, Dorothy.”

  The rest of the class broke down in giggles as Miss Flaunders gave the two a disappointed look. Dorothy seemed on the verge of tears, which George noticed in fury. He rounded on Miss Flaunders.

  “That was private!” George snapped.

  Miss Flaunders was at first taken back, but then collected herself.

  “Shush, boy,” she replied coldly. “This is my class, and I am entitled to know what’s going on behind my back.” She dropped the note onto Dorothy’s desk and waved a finger. “Love and kisses? You two better watch out, Dorothy. It seems like this relationship is getting a little heated.”

  “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” shy Dan mumbled from the back of the class.

  That made everybody laugh out loud and diffused the situation in an instant. Miss Flaunders said nothing further and went back to her desk until a hand went up. It was that of Milton Meyers, the number one student in class.

  “Yes, Mr. Meyers?” Miss Flaunders said, raising her brow. She called all the kids only by their first names but somehow Milton had earned the title of “mister”. Even his friends were starting to call him Mr. Meyers by now.

  “I think I’ve solved it,” Milton replied.

  Nobody had to wait for the teacher to inspect his work. They knew he had nailed all three solutions.

  ***

  Two hours later, George and Dorothy got together at the Willows, in a cool shaded area next to Lake Zion. Dorothy had exchanged her school uniform for a light summer dress and her hair was now hanging loosely over her shoulders, making her look older. George was still in his school clothes but still handsome as ever to Dorothy.

  It was quite high from the ledge into the water and George always teased Dorothy, by hovering at first near it.

  “George!” she would exclaim, “I told you not to go near that.”

  “Don’t worry,” he would laugh. “It will take something more than just falling into that lake to kill me!”

  “Don’t joke about that!” She would fold her arms, annoyed.

  He would then drop his act and walk casually over towards her, kissing her gently on the lips, which made her relax.

  “Wow, I can’t believe it’s been a month already,” she whispered, unfolding her arms. “It feels like I’ve met you only yesterday.”

  George hugged her and replied, “A month and two days. That’s why I wanted to meet you here. This is getting serious and that means you have to introduce me to your parents.”

  She looked down at her feet. “George… I have been meaning to tell you… I don’t have any parents; I live at the church.”

  She thought he would recoil, but he gently guided her head upwards again with his hand. She met his blue eyes and then he said, “Don’t worry, I will protect you.”

  She nodded at this, but he took her hand and he continued more forcefully. “I will always look after you.”

  Her eyes welled with tears a
nd they embraced. At that exact instant, the brilliant rays of sunlight had momentarily broken through the rustling Willow leaves and produced a warm, golden halo over their heads.

  8

  On another bitterly cold day in Sanctuary, Storm was on his way to the sanctum – while icy sleet was blowing into his mouth and nose – to attend a Spiritual Counceling session. Spiritual Counceling wasn’t an official school subject, but it was required of the boys to attend these sessions on a regular basis.

  When he entered the sacred sanctum, Storm waited patiently on the rows of wooden pews for the Spiritual Leader to arrive, surrounded by the other boys from his class.

  The bald Spiritual Leader quietly made his appearance a little while later. Another member of the powerful Sanctuary Council, his jade green eyes made contact with each boy and he smiled at them as if it was his life’s mission to encourage them to become better Sanctuarians. As always, his hands were clasped behind his back and his movements very meticulous and graceful. Storm had always liked the Spiritual Leader, who was by far the friendliest person towards him in Sanctuary. The Spiritual Leader knew about Storm’s struggle and was trying to help him. Coupled to that, the man had a warm and pleasant personality, making him seem all the more like a saint.

  Upon slowly passing the boys, the Spiritual Leader’s eyes met with Storm’s for a little while longer than with the rest and he placed a caring hand on Storm’s shoulder, just to add another layer of spiritual connection between the two of them.

  Once he had reached the podium in front, he said, “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is life.”

  “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is life,” the boys echoed, rising to their feet and saluting with arms in the air, palms facing the sanctum’s domed ceiling.

  “We must try our best,” the Spiritual Leader then whispered, “to become like the Guardian.” This was his trademark; he always spoke in a soft whisper, as if confiding in friends. “The Guardian is our example, is our way,” he continued. “Pray to the Guardian if we feel that we are struggling with our selfish attitude. Ask him for forgiveness each day and do not forget to pray while facing the temple, so that The Guardian may be able to receive and answer our prayers. Thus we will prevent Zion.”