Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  Through the crowd came the man of the hour, thanking everyone. Lucian Augustus Seagrave snaked to the podium and spun on his heels, the revolting smile on his face and those eyes like needles piecing into everyone as if they’d weaved them together in a bunting of slaves: decorations celebrating their master’s ego. He waved his hands around, conducting the crowd in flamboyant gestures: they were the hive and he was the mind.

  As the host held the crowd’s attention, Alfred clicked the device in his hand and held it in place. He rotated it again as Lucian began to rant about the environment and how it was everyone’s job to protect it. The bomb rotated in his palm and he switched hands. Nothing else remained in Alfred’s world now, between Lucian and the bomb were faces, they appeared empty.

  Alfred hadn’t moved, grounded like a pillar of pain, he held the bomb in a vice-like grip. An age slipped by as Lucian thanked his team, the King, God and the holy Mother. Why couldn’t he throw it? Next to Alfred that family from the train; their little boy, not interested in what his mother and father were watching, noticed Alfred and the brass object. The boy smiled at him and his mother snapped him away, and told him off for looking at strangers.

  Life had been hard for Alfred, too hard of late. He found himself lowering his arm, thinking about the crowd, remembering the farm, his brother and another boy, laughing at him. The boy was laughing on Beatrice’s farm. He was watching him ride her horse backwards, Nicholas was there and he laughed too.

  A tear pearled, gained weight and ran down Alfred’s face. ‘Baxter,’ he said, ‘my son, what have I done?’ He remembered his eyes, those green Nightingale eyes, how they always tracked him, filled with hope and quickly flooded in disappointment.

  Lucian on the platform laughed, and counted down from ten.

  Alfred tore himself away from that mind and its memories. He took aim, pulled back his arm and threw the bomb at the platform.

  VI

  Across from the crowd, Baxter tucked his peacemaker in his belt. A guard let him pass as he watched the stage. Barely seeing it, he placed on his new goggles and hoisted himself up onto a nearby ledge giving a good view of the platform. There he saw Lucian with his arms out wider than his grin.

  Suddenly the air turned stale, removed instantly in a kind of cold midnight that lasted less than a shallow city breath. A crackle in the goggles, then noise so loud it burst his eardrums. A force shot out from the stage, heat, fire, an explosion.

  Baxter fell to the ground, hit his head. He stood up, shocked, dazed, and he yanked at his goggles. The stage was full of smoke, flames and bluster. A bright red arrow from inside the goggles clicked and cracked across his field of vision, and it pointed over the stage. He rewound the trajectory, an object from the left. Baxter grabbed his peacemaker.

  Amongst the smoke and confusion, he ran to where his goggles guided. People cried, screamed, lashed outward in fits of rage brought on by the pain of shrapnel. Many hurried over one another, panicked. Baxter spotted a figure in a brown cloak making their way from the position in a hurry, alone. Baxter ran after him.

  ‘Hey!’ Baxter cried, ‘hey you!’ The man gained ground and ignored his pursuer’s plea. Baxter aimed the peacemaker at the man’s back, remembered the wolf, remembered his uncle’s words, his father’s disappointment, and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet shot out of Baxter’s barrel. It ripped through the smoke, past all the open crying mouths of the confused, the injured and found the back of its target.

  A jolting bolt of sheer pain sliced at speed into Alfred. He was flung forward off his feet from the impact as a bullet made easy work through the cavities of his chest.

  Baxter ran at him, his gun still raised, ready to fire again. A man jumped out in front of him. ‘Baxter? Baxter! What have you done?’

  ‘Uncle Nicholas?’ Baxter said, confused.

  Another man grabbed Nicholas by the waist.

  ‘We need to leave right now, Nicholas. Leave the boy, leave him!’

  Nicholas recognised his old friend’s face. ‘Hans?’

  Hans Goldberg hauled Nicholas away, leaving Baxter to stare at the body of the assassin. A group of guards rushed over and ordered Baxter’s weapon from him. He reached out for the cloak, tried to grip it, to wrench back and reveal the bomber’s identity. ‘Brotherhood scum!’ Baxter spat on the cloak as he was ripped away by two of Seagrave’s guards, back to the safety of the compound.

  VII

  Alfred’s mind raced with the name, Baxter. He’d heard his son’s voice, his brother, soot was in the air, but it grew smaller as everything tightened around him. First his clothes, then his skin, lungs, heart; he saw his blood escaping, filling a black pool beneath him. A hole had opened, someone there waiting in the dark.

  Then he heard her, the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, ‘Alfred,

  I’m here and I’ve missed you.’

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘This will be your boarding.’ The Cleric ushered Jeremiah into the squalid dormitory, the final stop on an otherwise painful journey. The airship which brought him to the Holy Order must have been the oldest in the Royal fleet. His quarter’s gas lamps flashed for the first few hours of his journey until finally failing, subjecting him to the harsh temperatures of the French skyways. Men cared little for your title once out of the confines of your sovereignty. The crew made it clear, ignoring the Prince’s request for more blankets.

  ‘The night’s fast will break at six tomorrow morning,’ the cleric said, stepping inside Jeremiah’s new chamber. ‘Vulgate study at eight and dinner at five. Your evenings are reserved for prayer and the day’s contemplation. Routine inspections will be carried out throughout the week an hour before lights out. A slice of bread can be obtained late evening from the night cleric, he’s found in the fourth chamber. Go there at eight o’clock and don’t expect to earn your cut unless you have the scripture etched into your soul. The slightest mistake, and no bread for the week. A water pump can be accessed in the courtyard; you’ve familiarised yourself with the protocol?’

  Jeremiah tried to stop shivering. Rain crashed to the ground outside like a storm of comets. ‘Yes, your Holiness, I am to wait under cover of the archway if another is using it. Once they’ve finished, I can approach.’ It was the first words Jeremiah had spoken in days; his voice left his dry mouth crusted with time.

  ‘Very good.’ The cleric tightened the knot of his robe. ‘You’ll find writing materials and ink in your desk’s drawer. Letters to your family can be written only after sunset. You’re permitted to one letter a week, maximum of ten pages. If you’re sent letters, these will be delivered to you every Saturday. You may write to one address of your choice, and one letter will be delivered to you. If others are sent, they shall be stacked up in our post room in piles of four. If this pile is exceeded, the letters shall be burnt. Understood?’

  Jeremiah struggled with the notion. He was being punished, that much was clear. ‘I understand, your Holiness.’

  A stack of books sat on the single wooden table next to the bed. ‘Start reading those tonight. You’ll be questioned on the first chapters in each on Monday.’

  ‘When will I meet the others?’

  ‘You will meet them in the morrow when you break your fast. Talking and conversing is strictly forbidden during sunrise and meal times.’

  He remembered his uncle’s advice. Telling him to be proud of it, typically the cleric conditioning doesn’t start until you’re fourteen, it was an honour to be starting before his pubescent years. ‘Is there a place where I can go this evening to introduce myself to my peers?’

  The cleric’s face flushed red on one side. Jeremiah could hear, between the slamming of rain on stone, the grinding of teeth. ‘You have no peers here, your Highness. You won’t be “socialising” during conditioning. You will read, pray and learn.’

  Jeremiah dipped his head, seeking forgiveness. ‘I understand, please pardon my unsolicited request.’

  ‘Very well. You will learn to fi
nd your solace in the saviour, he is your only companion.’ The cleric left, shutting the door.

  Jeremiah waited for the sound of a bolt to slide into a lock, sealing his penal residence. He waited, nothing, though its absence didn’t stop him from feeling trapped.

  II

  As the cleric’s footsteps vanished into a hollow distance, between layers of stone a bell rang out the hour. His window was a slit. He stood on his chair and took a peek. An empty courtyard, clinical in its perfection, housed a pile of hay bales, an empty cart and the water pump. A stooped man swept one of the corners, his features illumined under a candle-lit lamp. He wore a long robe like the ones they handed Jeremiah when departing the airship.

  Along the oblong walls of the building, matching slits flickered with candle lights. A few contained shadows motioning around in hesitant paces, busy with their evenings. In the closest slit, a pair of eyes blinked around the courtyard as though waiting for someone. They had blonde hair hanging down either side, the candle reflected off them like two bright moons offering nocturnal creatures guidance. The eyes spotted Jeremiah and lit up. Unsure what to do, he hesitated to jump from the chair. Taking one last look, a hand poked out, waved, then quickly retracted.

  As he packed away his belongings, the wave offered a degree of comfort, knowing other children were in the same position, had they come for punishment? Each of the drawers had swollen in the wood, and he forced them open. A few had been plagued with woodworm and he wondered how many children’s robes had filled them. He touched the stone wall behind the desk, it was cold.

  Another room, adjacent and separated by an arch, housed a yellowed porcelain sink and toilet hole. He peered down it, immediately regretting the decision. The books on the main rooms table held all the brainwashing classics. The Vulgate sat at its rightful place. He opened it and flicked through the verses. Translating the words to Common would take years, the realisation was a city Sootrail cloud motioning over a dull landscape. Those years started were all he had. He closed it and locked the hatch on the desk. The pencil needed sharpening, and the paper felt soggy. It was a good job he wasn’t going anywhere soon. He weighed his options against the rumbling coming from his stomach and tried the door, preparing his memory palace to map his way to the fourth chamber.

  The night cleric, a duty holy man, issued all the children a nightly feast of bread and milk if they were capable of reciting a perfect line of scripture from the Vulgate. Jeremiah entered, bowed and joined the queue of children wearing the matching red and white robes. One of them, smaller than the rest, broke ranks and batted for Jeremiah’s attention. The young girl from the slit in the courtyard wall waved a snapping hand, it spayed her blonde hair into the air, and quickly returned in line. The other children didn’t so much as react, as though they expected her behaviour or feared it.

  III

  Ahead, the queue contained twelve hungry stomachs. Jeremiah’s growled like a Moorland wolf as he went over the words in his mind. Ahead, each of the children recited their chosen verses in Latin, the holy language. A few got bread, but a lot got ignored. He was ready to impress the Cleric, deliver the scripture in a way any Cleric had never heard before. He fantasised about the outcome. An upgraded dorm room, with a blush of children congratulating him.

  She was next in line. She said the words and the Cleric touched her hair in a gentle way; more gently than he had done to the rest. Was this girl special? The Cleric watched her walk away and let out a sigh suggesting she was his favourite, the one to beat. Jeremiah was filled with excitement; he’d take the egg.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ the Cleric said with mocking, ‘here to recite scripture so soon?’

  ‘Yes, your Holiness.’ He bowed softly.

  ‘Rather arrogant, considering you haven’t even been here a day. You think you’re able to recite the verses of the Vulgate with beatific precision?’ The Cleric looked over toward the girl helping herself to a chuck of bread.

  The hall fell into a profound silence. ‘I shall do my best.’

  ‘Best!’ he said, shocked. ‘You don’t do your best here, young Prince. You either do, or you don’t.’

  There was a pause between them. ‘When shall I start?’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  Jeremiah cleared his throat.

  ‘Women received their dead raised to life again, and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; they might obtain a better resurrection. And others had a trial of cruel mocking’s, moreover of bonds and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword. They wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins–’

  ‘How dare you utter the words in the common tongue!’ The cleric’s hand cut through the air too fast for Jeremiah to see coming. It hit his face on the side of his severed nerve endings, but Jeremiah felt it all the same.

  ‘Ten lashings for the Royal Highness in the morrow. How dare you insult the scriptures with your native rancid tongue. Away with you.’

  Jeremiah struggled with the robe. The open wounds from morning’s lashings kept sticking to the starched cotton. Another cleric, this one a woman; she had a kindness behind her tortured eyes, yet still managed to spot insolence. ‘You’ve soiled your robe. Back to your dorm and change. How dare you dishonour your holy garb with such disrespect.’

  He had hoped reciting the scripture in the common tongue would bow well with them, that such a gesture would be deemed as charitable. Perhaps the family were wrong, and the people weren’t ready to hear the words.

  At dinner, the older children’s skin hung from their bones like undergarments. They each wore weathered faces, beaten into submission. The grog they served for dinner contained lumps of physical matter, bobbing in a broth of dirty dish water. It was all they had to look forward to. Jeremiah refused to let it beat him.

  The girl continued gifting him smiles. She’d steal stares at breakfast and had since been re-sat closer to him during dinner. Jeremiah rushed with glee over every smile. The warm feelings they gave were a rare delight in a place filled with solemnity. He longed to thank her for them.

  IV

  Days blended together in the confines of his mind. They threatened to ruin the plan at first, then their mundane habit left plenty of room for his monumental task.

  One evening after dinner, Jeremiah sat in his dorm, absorbing the words of the Lord, placing each scripture in a room of his memory palace along with the triggers to ignite them. His palace rivalled any that his brother would inherit. Two hundred rooms and counting, each of them contained scripture, and he wondered how many they could take until he started to forget. The doubt of the capacity made its way to the forefront of his mind, he’d eliminate it with silent meditation, a trick he learnt from reading the forbidden books his father kept hidden in his chamber.

  Papers above settled on the ledge had dried in the light, providing four sheets of parchment. He was yet to scribe his first letter. They’d be expecting he’d send one to his uncle pleading for his release. His uncle had no power here, none of the Royal families in the Eurasia did. He placed a candle next to the parchment and hovered his pen over the address line.

  Banging at the door. He stood, put on his robe and placed hands out, open, ready for the arbitrary inspection as his heart thumbed behind his rib cage. On his left hand his index finger nail had dirt under it, would they notice? He gulped, hoping it was Specky conducting the evening’s inspection. He was the only one who seemed to have a caring way about him. At dinner, he’d walk the aisles and ask some of the other children if they enjoyed the food. Jeremiah prayed it was him, if the Lord could grant him anything it would be that. The scarred back had since scabbed over. He felt it crack as the fear of fresh lashings looked to add themselves to the landscape.

  The door opened. ‘Good evening, your Holiness…’

  His words were cut short, it was the girl. She crept in with a finger pressed up to her lip, begging him to practice silence. She closed the door and smil
ed.

  Jeremiah struggled to believe what he was seeing. ‘What have I done?’ he asked, expecting she’d been sent to get him for punishments.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her voice held every bit of kindness he knew it would. ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Jeremiah said, worried his new friend was going get them in serious trouble.

  ‘You’re him.’ She went to touch his face.

  He backed off, shocked that anyone would ever attempt such a gesture. She must have been mocking him. ‘No, leave me alone.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ she said in a voice filled to the brim with care. ‘I heard about you, Prince Jeremiah.’

  ‘What do you know about me?’ he replied, warming to her company.

  She listened to the door, her eyes searching in the air for sounds.

  His body surged with nervous excitement.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘they shan’t be coming tonight.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘They have a schedule, never break it. It’s what we use to get ourselves by in this place, their routines are as precise as Nightingale clockwork. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it.’

  ‘They have no routine.’

  ‘I thought you were the clever one?’ She said sitting next to him. ‘Their patterns are coded. They consider us too thick to know. They have kept to the same routine code for a generation.’

  ‘How is that possible? Surely someone must say something.’