by Donald Brown
This type of praying Storm regularly did, attempting in vain for the Guardian to remove his selfishness and to rid him of his demons.
After the Spiritual Leader had finished his short speech, they sang the Guardian’s prayer:
Oh Guardian, protect us from danger,
help us to rid our selfish side.
Cure us and make it so,
that the Guardian is the one into which to confide.
After that came the purge.
Some of the boys stepped forward for the Spiritual Leader to cast out any negative influences that the Outsiders might have rubbed off on them.
They made turns to confess their ills, while the rest of the group gathered around the boy in the center, where he was standing on a marble platform the size of two coffins. The Spiritual Leader murmured his incantations while the boys joined him in prayer (although they did not really know what they were doing), their teeth chattering from the cold weather.
As soon as a negative spirit began to manifest itself, the boy who was “possessed with the disease” would fall down onto his knees on the platform and then his body would involuntarily start to jerk around in violent convulsions. Whereupon the Spiritual Leader would identify the spirit by naming it aloud and then, in the name of the Guardian, cast it out of the boy’s body. After the exorcism, the boy would collapse in exhaustion and the rest of the group would applaud the successful removal of the evil spirit.
With this cleansing ritual in mind, Storm had decided to approach the Spiritual Leader for some advice after that day’s session. Up until then, he had been afraid to step forward, uncomfortable of what was going to be revealed about his character.
But his courage seemed to increase after the purge had been completed on some of his counterparts. “Oh, Spiritual One,” he said quietly, once the other boys had left the sanctum, “do we perhaps have a moment to give us some advice?”
“Of course, son,” the Spiritual Leader answered. He sat down on one of the pews and patted the seat next to him. “Please sit. Tell us what is on the boy’s mind.”
Storm took a seat and started talking, frowning all the way through his tale.
The Spiritual Leader listened to his story while keeping eye contact with him the whole time, his comforting smile never fading. Storm poured out everything to the Leader and afterwards he was even more depressed than he had been when he’d woken up that morning.
“Hmmm,” the Spiritual Leader said, finally looking away by fixing his gaze on the polished floor beneath their feet. “You know Boy-150,” he started, lifting his head once more to behold Storm, “the Guardian was once very much like you.”
Storm was taken by surprise. Firstly, because he couldn’t believe that the Guardian might resemble him in any way, shape or form and secondly, because the Spiritual Leader had used the word “you”, which was forbidden in Sanctuary when not used in prayer.
The Spiritual Leader winked at him as if it was their secret. “Oh yes,” he continued, rubbing the bald spot on top of his head, “he was once as confused as you are now. Conflicted, tormented and exhausted. He did not want to go on with his life anymore. That was until he saw the suffering in all those around him and took it upon himself to save us all. By his light we were reborn. That is why he is our example as to how we can save ourselves.”
Sitting there with a confused expression on his face, Storm was still wondering why the Spiritual Leader had used the forbidden word “you”.
As if reading his mind, the Spiritual Leader then said, “I spoke of you, Boy-150, for you still believe that they are your problems, but they shouldn’t be. You should share your issues with us and only then will we be able to save you. Abandon your individual problems and make them everyone’s problems.”
Storm was starting to understand. He nodded his head slightly and replied, “Thanks Spiritual Leader. That clarifies things.”
“Do not worry Boy-150,” the Spiritual Leader added, patting Storm on the back. “We may be riddled with inner struggles, but that happens to many of us. Even we have to sometimes contend with them. Now, although it might seem like our suffering is much more intense than that of the others, it does not mean that it is not solvable. My advice to us would be to accept that we are a great sinner, that we openly commit acts of selfishness, and then pray feverishly as well as pledge ourselves wholly in order to become a selfless servant. We were born in sin but, through the Guardian, we may be redeemed. Abandon the “I” and adopt the “We”, not only in speech but in thinking as well. Our courage and wisdom will help the Guardian to relieve us of our pains. However, for this to be successful, we must take part in a public prayer so that the negative spirits can be cast out!”
This left Storm convinced. He had always been wary to take part in the purge, scared that he might suddenly turn into an Outsider, but now the Spiritual Leader had given him hope that all his problems could be fixed in this way.
***
When Storm approached the holy white surface of the marble purge-platform the following day, the other boys watched him apprehensively, probably thinking that an Outsider was going to reveal himself in Storm’s soul.
They formed a circle around Storm, with the Spiritual Leader standing right across from him. Storm was quite nervous at this point. It was eerily quiet inside the mighty sanctum. All the windows and doors were closed, adding to the solemnity of the event.
“Boy-150, has come to us for release,” the Spiritual Leader began. “Now, admit to us sins, so that the Guardian may free you.”
Storm then proceeded to tediously list all of his selfish actions and thoughts. He was very comprehensive and the other boys grew more astonished with each sentence but, deep down, Storm knew that he couldn’t be the only person who had thought what he’d thought, or done what he’d done. At least he was being honest.
The Spiritual Leader nodded when he had finished. “Oh blessed Guardian,” he said, “help young Boy-150 here to break free from the selfishness. Allow Boy-150 instead to be a vessel of selflessness and freed from the spirit of the Outsider’s curse. Free Boy-150, oh Lord.” During this prayer, he glanced at a book in his right hand from time to time for help in his incantations.
Storm tried not to glimpse what was in the book, seeing as he was not allowed to. Only the citizens in the upper class of Sanctuary were allowed to read. Storm could feel no visible effect on him, but the Spiritual Leader began to nod to himself in triumph. “Ah… We see you, leader of the Outsiders!” he exclaimed, to the shocked mutterings of the other boys, confirming their sinister suspicions.
The Spiritual Leader continued his praying anew, every now and then thumping Storm lightly on the head with the back of his left hand, like he was trying to physically remove the evil spirit from the body.
Finally, when Storm’s knees did not budge, the Spiritual Leader stopped, clearly disappointed that his words had not had any visible effect on Storm. The other boys were dismissed, some muttering dark words, leaving Storm alone with the Spiritual Leader, whose usual smile was now gone. He was watching Storm with concern.
Once the others had left the sanctum, the Spiritual Leader sat down on a pew in the front row and beckoned Storm to do the same. “Do we believe we can be saved by the power of the Guardian, Boy-150?” he asked, clearly troubled.
“Yes, we did,” Storm said instantly. “No, we do!”
The Spiritual Leader looked away for a moment and then whispered, “Well it seems we just have to try harder, Boy-150. It appears that our faith is just not strong enough, that our commitment to selflessness is wavering.” He smiled sadly, which felt worse to Storm than the heckling he always received from Mr. Walrus and the other boys. Of all the people in Sanctuary, he actually wanted to impress the Spiritual Leader the most, to reward him for believing in him and for the care he was providing. Storm frowned, but the Spiritual Leader continued: “We will be praying for Boy-150 daily and we have to remember: this is also a sign that the Guardian is testing us. Suff
ering is the best way of testing our faith.”
Storm nodded his head, still frowning.
“The rest of the boys have accepted this,” the Spiritual Leader said, waving his hand in the direction of the entrance, “but we still need to.”
Storm took all of this in with a hint of desperation. He had actually fervently believed that the Spiritual Leader might save him, but it now seemed that he had to commit himself more wholly to the ways of Sanctuary. There were those who took their beliefs too seriously, at least in Storm’s mind, that was. But now he began to wonder if this was not perhaps the route to go.
Is it the extreme I have to aspire to, to get something done or to land on the right path? Like that man who broke into the factory and murdered all those people?
The sanctum had the backing of the upper echelons of Sanctuary, carrying out attacks on fellow Sanctuarians who appeared to be on the wrong path. On one such occasion, a man had broken into a factory where he believed the workers were not selfless enough and had screamed, “There is no God but the Guardian and the Spiritual Leader is his prophet!”
The man had then proceeded to hack everyone in the factor to death with an axe and they had been largely powerless to defend themselves, owing to the fact that they’d carried no weapons.
The few Peacekeepers outside the factory had ignored the attack and the Spiritual Leader had been unremorseful in his response, stating: “We have a serious problem with fellow Sanctuarians not able to be selfless enough for us to win the final war and enter paradise. In the end, we can only do this together, or not at all. That is the only way we will prevent Zion.”
***
Whilst Storm was in the midst of these thoughts, he caught sight of one of the Peacekeepers behind Mr. Walrus.
For if you have forgotten, Storm was still standing at the statue on the day of the cleaning, while the boys around him were shoveling snow.
His mind had taken him on a wild historic journey that had left him forgetting where he was…
9
Dorothy was absently staring through the window of the classroom, noticing the slow trickling of water drops on the transparent surface of the glass. It was raining outside, an unfamiliar phenomenon that had been more and more present in Zion ever since the day the messenger had arrived.
News had reached them, not too long after their wedding day, that a war had broken out and that Zion had to take part in it. The vile Horde, a host of terrifying nomad warriors had descended upon their area, which had prompted the old alliances to be restored. With the messenger also came a sudden change in the weather for the worst. Rain began to fall and resilient winds started blowing in from the west.
When the sheriff had announced his calling for volunteers Dorothy was devastated. She had known that her husband would want to take part in the war, just like all the other young men from Zion and, sure enough, he soon enlisted.
He’d broken the news to her at the Willows, a place they had decided to visit each year as a sort of anniversary.
“Why did you do it, George?” Dorothy had asked him, somewhat flabbergasted even though she’d expected it. They were sitting next to each other, around a picnic table on an overcast but mild summer afternoon.
“I have to fight in this war, Dorothy,” he’d answered with his hands on his chest, as if to say he didn’t have a choice. “It is for Zion and for peace in our sphere. It is my duty.”
“And look at this,” he’d added excitedly, pulling out a small pistol that was still gleaming. “Mr. Meyers gave it to me! I will have no trouble fulfilling my responsibilities with this.”
Dorothy had eyed it warily. She hated guns like she hated all kinds of violence. Dorothy didn’t respond and her eyes had travelled towards the lake.
He has to know, she’d silently told herself.
“But, George, I am carrying your baby,” she’d blurted out. She had hoped to save the news for a more joyful moment, but the upcoming war had forced her hand and she simply had to reveal the truth before her husband was leaving for the front line.
This statement had left George completely agape for a moment. “Are you serious?” he’d asked, and stared at her with a transfixed look upon his face.
She’d given a small nod, while her eyes were brimming with tears.
He’d put the gun down and, unable to contain his pride and utter happiness, George had stood up to hug her tightly, completely forgetting about the war in that special moment. After he’d eventually managed to release his wife from his commanding hug, he had remarked, “You truly are a butterfly, aren’t you? You just bring happiness wherever you go.”
He’d caressed her chin tenderly, while she’d beamed back, her dimples making an appearance.
Dorothy had then asked, “What shall we call her, dear?”
“Her?” he’d replied, startled. “How do you know that?” The rain had slowly begun to fall again, but in their happiness they largely ignored it and seconds later the fresh smell of moss was coming from the grass around them.
“I just know,” she’d told him, beaming.
Her face was still close to George’s and he’d pecked her on her cheek. “Well, if you’re sure it is going to be a girl,” he’d said while rubbing his chin, “Let us call her Yara, after my mother.”
“George…” she’d said dismissively and pushed him away. “Not after your mother…”
“But Yara means little butterfly, Dorothy! It’s perfect!”
She had considered this for a moment and then a slow smile spread on her face. “I don’t think I can stand two Yaras.”
“You know you are talking about your mother as well?” he had joked, chuckling. Then he’d started to tickle her tummy in playfulness.
“Stop it!” she’d yelled, but succumbed to laughter a few moments later. Soon they were on top of each other, the worries about the looming war and any unpleasant weather forgotten.
***
That had been seven months ago.
A ceasefire had been agreed upon and now Dorothy was waiting anxiously for her husband, who was (hopefully, in her mind) heading home with the other troops.
“Ms. Kuttle?” one of the boys in the rows in front of her asked.
This brought her attention back and she smiled at the class once more.
“Today I will be reading to you from the Honey Bear’s Happiness!” she exclaimed, taking a book from her table and opening it. Dorothy beamed at her excited class before proceeding.
The Honey Bear’s Happiness, by Whu Zhu.
Once upon a time there were a swarm of bees, two bears and a butterfly living in the same little cottage. Each of these three groups had their own honey pot and it was everything to them. It was their happiness.
The bees quickly made do with their honey and sought to steal another pot, so that they could continue with their happiness. With the butterfly out of reach and on a perch, they approached the two bears…”
One of the girls shook her head in disgust and two boys at the back went, “Zzzz”. They laughed at their own foolishness.
The mama bear and her cub seemed happy with their honey and this made the bees envious! They stormed the two and wrenched the pot from their hands, leaving behind an unhappy mother and her child…
Dorothy jumped in surprise when Zion’s city bell suddenly sounded from outside and she heard voices shouting outside. It was the sign that the soldiers had entered the gates.
She abandoned all pretence and slapped the book shut. With the students following her, she made her way outside into the main road, the same one where she had walked from the church after they had been pronounced man and wife, a year earlier.
Please let my husband still be alive, Lord, she silently prayed, while her heart was hammering against her ribcage. She had heard almost nothing from him since the war had begun, as messages had been prohibited to protect their secrecy.
There was already a sea of faces lining the north end of the road, all of them eager to see their husb
ands, fathers and brothers return from the war. The rain had stopped for a while, but it was still partly cloudy and a cool breeze was blowing through the city’s streets. Dorothy edged her way to the front of the crowd, so that she could have a prime view of the city gates. She was now round as a ball with child and she made sure not to bump into too many other people, protecting her unborn baby with her arms wrapped around her tummy.
When she’d reached the front, she noticed Mr. Meyers and took another four steps until she stood next to him. They had become close during the time of the war, especially after Mrs. Meyers’s sudden and untimely death.
“What a sorry state,” Mr. Meyers said, the usual optimism in his voice absent.
Although Dorothy said nothing, she completely agreed. She had expected a prim and proper army, gleaming and smiling in victory, marching back to the sound of drums. The reality, however, couldn’t be further from what she had imagined.
The troops were slowly moping back into Zion, their scars and ragged clothing creating a miserable sight. As they kept on filing through the city gates in repentant rows – looking almost like prisoners being led to the gallows – their shoulders were hanging and their tired feet were crunching on the gravel road. Their eyes were downcast from the shame and the horrors that they had seen on the battlefield.
Doctor Ron steadied those who were in the most urgent need of medical attention and then accompanied them to his house one by one. Father Dennis recited a prayer for the well-being of the soldiers and their families, adding to the sombre atmosphere. The sheriff, who had escaped the war owing to his duty to the citizens of Zion, stood in front of the city hall and watched the exhausted returning warriors, his face unreadable. Frieda and her husband also stood nearby, taking it all in in sorrow. Her husband had largely escaped the draft, due to his age and overall physique.
Dorothy finally saw George and, walking up the road as fast as she could, she weaved through the other soldiers until she reached him with a heavy sigh of relief. She fought back tears as she reached his side.
