by Donald Brown
Storm suddenly felt terrible in the presence of Hadrian’s despair. He had been dreading his Initiation, but he didn’t know that his brother had been experiencing the same anguish on his behalf. “We are sorry, Hadrian,” he said in a small voice.
Hadrian looked away at the mention of his real name and then nodded, but considered Storm with a hint of disapproval. Hadrian had discovered a long time ago that it was a fruitless exercise to get Storm to call him by his Sanctuarian name, so he had finally relented.
Storm had a sense that Hadrian now regretted his outburst.
“Go say hello to Teacher-20, then we can go to get dinner,” Hadrian said, appearing unexpectedly tired.
While Hadrian busied himself with the cupboards, Storm walked over to the corner of the room, where the three beds were located. Teacher-20 occupied the last one and, as per usual, he was staring at the ceiling, his eyes vacant, as if no life existed inside of him.
Suffering from a mild case of Jacobites, Teacher-20 had already lost his voice and was now communicating with facial expressions and hand signals; something he was starting to do less and less frequently, however. He spent most of his days staring at the ceiling, thinking about whatever consumed the mind of a person who had Jacobites.
Teacher-20, as the name suggested, had been the teacher before Teacher-21, Mr. Walrus. Storm had fond recollections of him before he had succumbed to the Jacobites. He had also been Hadrian’s primary teacher, which explained why Hadrian was determined to care for him. Despite Hadrian’s strong need to enforce the rules of Sanctuary, he still had feelings for his former lecturer. Teacher-20 had been a cheerful, energetic leader, who had been very passionate about education before he had succumbed to his madness.
Storm and his brother now kept his condition quiet as some sort of an unspoken rule between them. If word got out that he had Jacobites, he would probably be killed. With the frequent disappearances and deaths in Sanctuary, Teacher-20’s absence had hardly been noticed and he had been promptly replaced by the more controlling Mr. Walrus. Storm and the other boys had just walked into the class room one day to find, to their shock, Mr. Walrus in Teacher-20’s place and he merely continued as if nothing had happened.
They also kept him safe to return a favour…
***
“You should be safe here,” Teacher-20 had said, opening the door for them at an undisclosed location, ushering Storm’s mother and a younger Storm and Hadrian inside.
“Just make sure you only leave for urgent business. No one is safe outside anymore,” Teacher-20 had continued.
Storm’s mother had turned and nodded to him, smiling sadly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can thank me by trying to stay alive! You are the last hope for many of us here.”
She had nodded and he’d closed the door behind her.
***
“Hi, Teacher-20!” Storm now called out, loudly, as if speaking to someone who was deaf.
The reason Storm had not invented a name for him yet, was because he was afraid to tempt fate. Seeing as Jacobites originated from selfishness, it would be wrong for him to individualize the teacher even further.
Teacher-20 slowly turned his head and looked at Storm in awe.
Storm was suddenly struck by how much older he had become. His face was terribly wrinkled and almost appeared rotten in places. This face stared at him for a moment and when those vacant eyes realized who they were staring at, Teacher-20’s mouth suddenly curled into a smile. Storm smiled back with uncertainty, which made the former teacher’s eyes well up with tears.
They beheld each other for what seemed like an eternity before he jerked his face back towards the ceiling and soon became lost in his own thoughts again. Storm continued to observe him, wondering what a person who had the Jacobites was going through. Perhaps they thought about what lay beyond the Mountain.
His pondering was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Both Hadrian and Storm clenched their jaws. In Sanctuary, a knock at the door could signal a host of things, many of them that were bad. It could be a Sanctuarian or Peacekeeper wanting to kill everyone for the greater good of Sanctuary, or it could be a Servant delivering a judgment.
Hadrian walked towards the door and eased it open. He relaxed when he saw a confused Sanctuarian, whom he knew quite well, standing in the doorway. “This isn’t our house, Miner-114,” he said, sighing. “Our house is two properties down the street.”
And that was the other reason why there could be a knock on the door, Storm remembered. Hadrian had only opened the door only a chink, so that the miner couldn’t see the sick teacher lying there.
“Oh, right, sorry!” Miner-114 wheezed.
Storm heard his footsteps receding and then Hadrian closed the door, shaking his head. “Are we ready to go?” he said to Storm, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes,” came the reply.
After giving Teacher-20 one last look, he walked out into the cold of Sanctuary with his brother, as the dinner bell sounded.
15
A week after her visit to Doctor Ron, Dorothy was standing in her kitchen, thinking about her disastrous marriage. Everything had gone south so tremendously fast.
George had moved into Tom’s house on a permanent basis, after the altercation in the Roasting Boar, without so much as a word. Tim was ten years his junior, but a friend nonetheless because he had also served in the war and he was a frequent drinking companion.
Dorothy, on the other hand, had confided in her best friend, Frieda.
“Why don’t you just get a divorce and get it over and done with, Dorothy?” Frieda would ask.
“Because I love him, Frieda!”
“No, you’re wrong. You love the old George. The new George is depressed and mean and a drunk. Look at what he did to you in that tavern. He has you in a prison of misery and a butterfly shouldn’t be caged.” By now, everybody in Zion had heard about the incident in the Roasting Boar.
“I know, but maybe he will change back. I just need to give him some time.” While saying this, Dorothy’s brain would question her logic, but her heart still believed in miracles.
Because Dan would possibly interfere when she visited Frieda, most of their conversations took place in Dorothy’s kitchen. Today, she was alone, though, since Frieda was out in the countryside, collecting flowers for the school’s spring day celebrations.
She suddenly felt a sharp pain in her abdomen, shooting all the way down to her inner thighs.
The baby must be close, Dorothy thought, getting up to study the calendar on the wall. Doctor Ron had given her a five-day window in which he projected the child was bound to arrive. She wanted to see how much time she still had left before the day would come.
There was a lump in her throat when she touched the calendar and noticed what day it was.
Oh my God…
There, on the square with today’s date on the calendar, was a big red heart she had drawn with a coloring pencil while George was still at war.
Today was the day of their anniversary. Not their wedding anniversary – although it happened to fall on the same date (through careful planning) – but their ANNIVERSARY. The first time they had met at the Willows!
Up to today, they hadn’t missed a single year. Now that their marriage was in disarray, Dorothy didn’t know what to do.
Should I go there? she wondered, glancing at the old clock in the front room. It was 11:15 a.m. Their agreement was to meet at noon every year on the day of their anniversary.
What if I make a fool out of myself?
But, then again, everybody in Zion had already seen her beaten up face last night, so how much more shame could be forthcoming? The only thing worse was going to be a public divorce; something Dorothy didn’t want at all. Although she was afraid of the new George, somewhere deep in her heart there was still a burning hope that the Old George would come back. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about hurting her the previous night. Perhaps this was
the turning point.
What if I don’t go and George goes? What if he wants to make up and I’m not there?
This settled it for Dorothy. She ran to the bedroom, where she dressed in a hurry, choosing the blouse and skirt George had bought her for the previous year’s anniversary. She then washed her face and tied her hair in a ponytail before heading out into the sunshine.
***
Upon reaching the Willow Trees, she once again took a second to admire the beautiful place they had made sacred. Butterflies were weaving in and out between the trees with the chirping of the birds. A cool wind was blowing through the low reeds, causing them to move in rhythm, almost as if they were dancing. Then Dorothy gasped when she realized she might have made the right choice.
There, in the cool of the shadows, sat George.
He was dressed in his full military uniform, pristine like a general. Gone were the dirty fingernails and the untidy beard and the slouched posture. He was sitting with his shoulders square and upright, with neatly combed hair and a renewed energy in his eyes – clasping something in his hand.
The old George! Dorothy thought. Could it be?
He looked up as she approached. “Hello, Dorothy.”
His voice sounded different, more content. That encouraged her. She wanted to hug him, but something felt out of place about the entire encounter. She strolled closer and that was when she realized that he was holding a jar in his hand. Dorothy smiled, something she felt she hadn’t done in a long time.
“Catching butterflies again, George? You know they shouldn’t be caged.”
He returned the smile. “At least I know the difference between a moth and a butterfly now…. No, I have learnt my lesson.” He held up the jar for her to see. “It is not a butterfly, but a cocoon.”
She watched, fascinated, as he opened the lid and tilted it towards her. It seemed disgusting, she had never liked the silky touch or look of the transformation.
“I found it a few days ago. It should be ready to hatch.”
Sure enough, there came pressure from the inside and soon, the cocoon slowly unravelled, revealing a beautiful final creation. It stood there for a moment, perched on George’s lap, before lifting off to join the other butterflies hovering near them.
“I guess that shows its never too late to transform,” George stated.
She slowly nodded as she beheld the butterflies dancing above her.
Then he turned to her. “Dorothy I have been terrible towards you.”
The frank admission caught her completely unawares and brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, George…” she whispered and rushed towards him but he stood up, accidentally sending the jar crashing to the ground.
“Oh, no!” Dorothy stopped to exclaim, but George brushed it off.
“It doesn’t matter now… Hear me out.”
Her eyes travelled from the broken shards to an object lying close by.
It was the pistol.
Why is that there?
Her eyes returned to George, who seemed to have not noticed what she had seen.
“I swore here that I will always protect you, but I have neglected that ever since I’ve returned from the war.”
She shook her head slightly, yet she knew he was speaking the truth.
“What I want to say is that I am sorry, truly and utterly sorry,” he added, taking a deep breath. “I am a failure and a total excuse for a man.”
“No, you’re not!” Dorothy exclaimed, rushing forward to grasp his hands.
“The war has changed me for the worse,” he continued, “I don’t know if I’m equipped well enough to be a husband anymore, let alone a father. I am… I am useless.”
His voice began to break slightly.
“No, you’re not,” Dorothy repeated forcefully. “You only went through a bit of a rough patch, that’s all. Look at you now!”
In the distance, she could hear a fox calling for a companion.
How could this be happening in such a beautiful scene?
“I have not only done wrong towards you, Dorothy,” George admitted, peering into her eyes. “In the war I have seen things and done things I shouldn’t have. Not only that, I have done wrong on our family. I have placed myself in great debt…”
So her fears were real.
“I had to move out of the house, because I was terrified I would hit you again! I am an alcoholic. I have made deals with unsavoury people, Dorothy! Real unsavoury people…”
Dorothy absorbed this all in worry for a moment, before gently grabbing both of George’s shoulders. “Listen, George! Whatever you have done, we can get through this. We will find ways to pay back the debt. We will get protection. We will get help for your drinking problem. You and I… together… can do this!”
George nodded slowly and smiled slightly, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “I have figured out a way to solve this, Dorothy, don’t worry. A way for me to still protect you. After all, like you have said, a butterfly shouldn’t be caged. It should be my responsibility.”
He reached forward to hug her and she returned the hug in full. It was a powerful hold and in that moment they completely shared their love to each other and Dorothy could feel the absolute power of his sorrow.
“I am so sorry, my butterfly…” he whispered into her ear. He disengaged and it broke her heart to see that his eyes were red and full of tears.
What happened next could only be described as the most gruesome moment in Dorothy’s life.
In a swift action, he grabbed the pistol from the ground and pointed it at his right temple. His eyes were glazed and determined.
Dorothy only had time to exclaim, “George?!”
And then he pulled the trigger.
A deafening sound thundered in her ears. She watched in horror as the bullet shattered the right side of her husband’s skull, ripped through his brain matter and tore through his left ear, blood spraying into the air like a whale spurting water.
The shot sent all nearby animals, including the butterflies, flying or running for cover.
Dorothy rushed forward, almost as if catching him would save him, but she was too late and the force of the blast had already sent him over the edge.
He fell backwards into the lake with a massive splash and then the clear liquid around him instantly turned crimson red.
Dorothy screamed at the top of her lungs in horror.
Then she collapsed to her knees and lost consciousness.
16
Storm and Hadrian walked over to the outdoor assembly point, while thousands of other Sanctuarians also appeared from their homes or trundled from their various jobs, all in different states of misery. Some were limping, some could hardly walk and a few barely seemed alive. They steadily formed a row of lines, resembling a rectangular shape stretching from the assembly point all the way to beyond the last of the houses. They were all shivering and thus stood as close as they could to each other for some added warmth.
At least it isn’t as bad as what happened to Zion, Storm comforted himself.
A large amount of Peacekeepers swiftly surrounded them, their red cloaks whipping in the wind, while they watched the Sanctuarians warily. Hadrian wasn’t wearing his cloak; it was his day off and he was just another member of the public for this dinner.
Nobody spoke, which was fairly normal. The only sounds were the occasional hacking cough and the rustling of the wind, as they waited for the helpers to arrive with the food. Most of them just faced front or stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact with others. Storm watched as one of the Sanctuarians suddenly collapsed and the one behind him simply used his boot to shove him out of the way and take his place.
This event was interrupted by a red cloak who appeared before Storm and handed him a scroll. When Storm opened it, he read the words in dismay: The Hunger is an illusion.
He was still considering this “lie”, when one of the dazed men in front of him, upon receiving his scroll, promptly stuffed it into his mouth. He
did so without first looking at it and began chewing on it with a grin on his face. Then his expression quickly turned to guilt when the Peacekeeper shot him a look of disapproval. When the Peacekeeper had moved on, the man kept on chewing on the scroll and then swallowed it in a sudden gulp. He shook his head slightly, not unlike Storm, and resumed to stare at the ground while shuffling his feet.
At long last, the soft sounds of boots marching on snow announced the arrival of the helpers, who were usually young Sanctuarians carrying the pots of food and buckets of water. At this point Storm couldn’t help but notice everything that was done inefficiently by the helpers and how it could be improved.
He saw one of the helpers stumbling – which he knew was going to happen – thereby sending a mixture of goat stew splashing onto the snow. If they had arrived sooner, Storm reckoned, they wouldn’t have had to move so fast, thus diminishing the chance of spilling valuable food on the ground.
His stomach made a loud growl, a sound which brought his attention back to reality and he abruptly realized that he was actually really hungry. He reminded himself that (according to Mr. Walrus) the hunger was a good feeling, although this did nothing to lessen his belly ache.
The helpers carried the pots to a long, shabby metal table, then placed it down and stepped aside, forming a line behind the pots, and waited obediently. Most members of the Council were in attendance and soon the Servant Vladimir arrived on the scene, with the crazy fanfare provided by Coco the drummer. Coco was once again beating on the drums in a frenzy, getting lost in the moment. Vladimir motioned several times for him to stop, but it seemed like Coco wasn’t very good at reading sign language. In the end, Vladimir slapped Coco on the head with his walking stick, bringing an abrupt end to the rhythmic jingles.
After moving on from his moment of indignation, Vladimir conferred with one of the senior Red Cloak’s. They shared a laugh between them, while the Sanctuarians stood there and watched patiently.
