by Al K. Line
None of that meant Vorce wasn't pleased he had his backup in place, and at year 111 P.L, as they dated their calendar, starting again Post Lethargy, Vorce stood next to a door in a private room in his quarters. This was the reason he'd set up the rather bizarre, upside down hierarchy of position where you got to live deeper in The Island the more important you were. He held his breath as he counted down the minutes to year 111.
There had to be a way out. Vorce knew this from the beginning. What if he hated it, really couldn't stand it for however long he would live in his Awoken state? He was no fool, so went to great lengths to ensure that one hundred and eleven years after they arrived there would be a way off the Island if the need arose. And the need did arise.
Vorce was bored out of his mind and couldn't wait for the door to open. He wished he hadn't been so damn cocky and set it up so it was impossible to open for so long, but at the time he'd believed he would fail to make a go of it if there was an escape route whenever he felt like it.
He'd done well, everything ran smoothly, and he loved his home, yet he longed for some of the old ways. The rolling hills, knowing he was on truly solid ground. He also missed hunting. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rush, the freedom and exhilaration.
The richer he got, the more Vorce had become interested in the wilder side of life. His obsession with sea forts had led him to all corners of the globe, and the forces of nature seemed to drive him ever onward to more extremes of adventure. Meeting remote, or downright bizarre people, hidden away in some of the forts, living their own isolated and strange lives away from society before it had even collapsed.
He loved it all. Vorce loved the people for their ideals and struggle to be free from "normal" society, and he loved the battle with nature as he clung desperately to crumbling buildings on tiny islands battered by the wind and the sea. He loved the hunt. Finding new places, new people. Such a challenge and a personal thrill, it had made him feel alive, overflowing with vitality and unstoppable as everyone else went the opposite way.
After one hundred and eleven years he moaned with pleasure as the foot thick steel door slid back with a snick and stale air greeted him, revealing the elevator that would descended the hollow, concrete pillar — just another strut when seen from outside. But this one was different, this one led down. Underground.
Vorce had stepped in eagerly. When he pressed the button, and the door closed and the elevator descended, he felt his entire body tingle with excitement, something that had been lacking for a long time.
Vorce had used the door once a year ever since that first time. The Island could cope without external help, but Vorce found that bringing a few items back every year allowed things to run a little more smoothly.
Whether it was an unexpected "discovery" of a stash of forgotten clothes he planted somewhere to be found, a miraculous new seed that would cope better with the harsh conditions, a thing as simple as replacing broken crockery, knives, sharpening tools, garden implements, building tools, ropes and cotton and needles and a never ending list of items he took for granted and never even considered, it meant that everything functioned a little better because of his yearly exodus.
After he returned with piles of welcome goodies, he introduced them carefully over the course of the year with no one becoming suspicious.
It was a lifeline, and it saved The Island from becoming just too damn miserable to cope with. He loved it, and cherished the people, the alternate and safe world he and the other Elders had worked so hard to build and maintain, but it got boring as hell and entirely too claustrophobic for those that remembered a world that was different. A world where you could walk for a year and never see the same thing twice. Where you could marvel at the crumbling structures created when he was a man approaching fifty and turned his back on it all.
And then he returned one day to find everything had gone haywire. Elders clamored for his attention. Where had he been? Why couldn't they find him? Did he know what was going on up above? Started by the children, now involving the adults — Awoken and Whole alike?
No, he had been busy. Private things, secret things, none of their business. Couldn't they cope with whatever was happening? Were they not there to keep control and ensure everything went smoothly? Yes, they had answered, but this was different.
Turns out, the inhabitants of The Island had invented a new game in his absence: The Hunt.
He thought of the history of The Hunt as he sat watching the sleeping girl and her, he had to admit, rather intimidating dog. He smiled. The drugs would wear off in a few hours, but there was no doubt in his mind that The Hunt would be resumed, although, as was the rule, it would be the person that found their visitor who decided her fate. In this case, Talia.
This was no mere coincidence though. 111. Talia was right, it held significance, and he hated that it did. Superstition was bad, it led to excuses. Vorce knew that allowing such things into the human psyche led to endless problems. Let something become too meaningful and it led to superstitions. To cults, splits and factions within once tight and happy communities. But this was no mere coincidence. Talia's birthday, the time since the last Hunt, the fact Arcene would, hopefully, be the hundred and eleventh star of the show, it was enough to make you believe there truly were other forces at work. Not to mention what the number meant to him personally, that it was when he first left The Island. How very odd.
Damn, was he getting superstitious himself in his old age? This was exactly why he never let such things take hold. It could make you believe your life wasn't your own to control, that there were excuses for your actions. There weren't. You did what you did and you dealt with it.
"Talia, what do you think of our guest?"
Talia's lip curled up revealing perfect incisors. Her raised welts shone hard and dark in the dappled light. "I think she's a warrior, and she isn't very polite."
"Well, it is for you to decide. We shall do as is right when we have a guest, but it has been so long. She shall be Judged, and your Verdict shall be accepted."
"I've already made my mind up. How greedy, how rude. She has a sword! What kind of respectable woman goes around carrying a sword. And look at her. Look at those socks!"
"Now, now, no need to criticize. Come, let us prepare, there is much to do before The Verdict is passed."
Arcene dreamed of giant insects in the sea, her belly domed and tight against her vest. Leel snored at her feet.
The History
Occasionally, people arrived at The Island. In the early years of The Lethargy it was rather frequent, lessening until it was a rare and strange occurrence. To begin with they were welcomed with open arms, but it soon became clear to Vorce not all their surprised visitors were nice people. Some were happy to embrace the community, and were accepted, but others were trouble-makers and he dealt with them.
"Accidents" that nobody talked about, the truth known, never acknowledged. The day he visited the mainland and returned to chaos, visitors were rare, many of the eager inhabitants having never known a person not born there apart from the Elders.
As the population became increasingly insular, so their wariness of outsiders grew, although they were always courteous, and let Vorce deal with them how he saw fit.
He cast judgment in private. Those he liked were made welcome, those he didn't were never mentioned again, soon gone. When he returned that fateful day, he rushed topside with the nervous Elders only to find there had been a new arrival. The man had created a very bad impression, so it seemed. He had been rude, taken food without it being offered, and had gone so far as to slap the behind of one of Vorce's own young wives.
It caused instant uproar. The man was stripped naked, bound and beaten, and then somebody had the idea of letting him loose and really teaching him a lesson. Children were armed with sticks, adults with more serious weapons, and all hell broke loose. Bloodlust took over.
Because the man had broken so many rules held sacrosanct, the frenzy built and the man was toyed
with, stabbed at, punched, prodded, and chased until exhausted. When Vorce arrived above ground the people were shouting and calling names at the exhausted creature as he crawled on bloodied hands and knees up the steps toward Vorce.
Once he was given an explanation as to why they were behaving like this, Vorce understood human nature had changed little. Wasn't he the same? Did he not hunt, and love the chase when on the mainland? Hunting deer or boar, thrilled by the blood pounding fast and the adrenaline rush? He asked the people what they wanted done with the man, and they wanted him dead, run down and killed like the wild animal he was. This person had no manners, no respect. He was a bad man and they wanted satisfaction.
Who had found him? A man stepped forward. Vorce proclaimed that the rules of the blue applied: finders, keepers. It was his discovery, his right to judge. The man judged the molester of women guilty, punishment death.
Again, the newcomer was chased around the gardens, beaten and punched, kicked and stabbed, finally killed by a small group that banded together, including the parents of Vorce's wife, the death blow given by the man that had judged him.
That day Vorce proclaimed The Hunt a part of their life. When new arrivals came they would be Judged, and as before, the good would be welcome, the bad would be hunted. The person who discovered the newcomer would Judge, the deathblow theirs to give.
The Hunt became official.
It wasn't the be-all and end-all of Island life, just a background to daily existence. It was something that happened on occasion, and became increasingly rare as time passed. But traditions solidified and it progressed from not only outsiders but to their own kind. It was rare, very rare, and Vorce made sure that only in the most serious of circumstances would a Hunt ever be sanctioned.
Theft, murder, the taking of someone against their will, all were valid reason for a Hunt, and the population were seldom keen to accuse anyone unjustly. If it was done out of spite, or there was no proof, then the accuser would be shunned, shown to be a bad person themselves, and often never forgiven by their friends or family.
But it happened. Not often, but it did. The Hunt remained mostly a distraction when outsiders came and refused to conform to their life, the only time that the strict laws were relaxed. New people were often trouble even if they weren't outright rude or hostile, so often a Hunt was the result.
It felt so long ago now. Over a hundred years since an outsider came. Over the years, Vorce became aware of the power of The Hunt on the psyche. It was a communal letting off of steam, a release on an all-encompassing scale that set things back to normal, as if emotions had built and this was the only escape.
As time passed, he had made it an ever grander occasion, but he knew even that wasn't enough. A properly epic distraction was needed, something that would be talked about for years. A way for the people to have something new, unique and different in their lives. They needed an outlet, events, distractions. There had to be something to reminisce over and give everyone something to damn well talk about.
Life, and the lack of outside influence, was, to put it bluntly, rather boring. Every day was the same when you got right down to it, so even if Hunts were few and far between it didn't matter. People talked of Hunts over a century old, never tired of discussing the first one. There were even lessons, studies made of how Hunters had done, how long they lasted and detailed discussions about the final death stroke and how well the Judge had done.
One thing remained a constant for all involved in The Hunt: the person found guilty never survived. Death was always, without fail, the final outcome.
Vorce noticed that, inevitably, the occasion was losing its sparkle. Fewer people were involved, and it wasn't such a talking point. Everything was told second or third hand as most never got to see what actually happened. They began to lose interest. Stories were one thing, but people needed to be immersed in the action to be excited.
Vorce had an idea.
He became a man of truly mythological proportions. Vorce brought cinema back to life.
One day it was just there. He'd collected what he needed over preceding years, and then, when a particularly vile woman had shown up in a huge boat and proceeded to actually laugh in the face of a man who asked what it was like on real solid ground and was it nice, Vorce erected the old cinema screen overnight and did something that was forever marked in history. He took her to the mainland, along with the Judge who had happily proclaimed her guilty, and a number of Elders.
The Hunt was truly born.
After that things got out of hand, but there was no turning back, no escape. It happened every year without fail — any longer and people became restless, quarrels broke out and violence erupted. It was tradition, the community needed its fix, him included. He knew he was as addicted as everyone else, especially as he was involved in every single Hunt. Judges were never told how they got to the mainland, they were drugged and awoke in England — an old name that somehow retained its relevance.
Everyone assumed Vorce could leave because of the power of the Judgment, because of his power — that the currents allowed him to sneak away in the dead of night, nobody even thinking he had direct access through a tunnel underneath the sea. That was one secret he would never share; he was too scared that his grand experiment would fail.
Truth was, he loved The Island. More than anything though, he loved the power. Vorce was corrupted by his own sense of what he believed was right for himself and his people, resulting in a man probably more deserving of being hunted than any of the unfortunate people involved in their tradition.
As he watched the preparations being made for The Judgment, Vorce couldn't help thinking back on all that had led to this macabre part of their otherwise sedate existence. What had started as people turning their pent up anger against a rude and obnoxious stranger had somehow led to defining them as a people.
Once a year, all grievances aired and accusations made in public, Vorce allowed the people to act as judge and jury on those accused — the accuser had the final say as to punishment. Would it be a Hunt? Would the person be shunned by the community, or imprisoned? It was a Hunt more often than not, especially if it had been a long time since the last one.
Vorce, as did everyone else, knew this was no trivial matter. To chase down and kill a human being was an extreme act from an otherwise mild-mannered and mostly pacifist society, but the eagerness was always there in the background. How had it come to this? Because they needed an outlet, that's why. People needed a release of one form or another, and they wanted Justice. If somebody disrupted their peaceful society then they had to pay the price.
He looked at the gathering crowd, the work of the day now put on hold while everything was prepared for this unexpected Judgment. They were good people. He was good, wasn't he? What was worse, imprisonment for a lifetime or to be hunted? At least it meant you got out of your crimes in a way. A day, two, or rarely three, of fear and then death, versus a lifetime locked away knowing you would never see the sky again?
Didn't many countries have the death penalty back when he was busy making money and building houses? Of course, and jails were overcrowded. Crime was commonplace and nobody batted an eyelid. So was this so bad?
Reality TV shows had dominated the screens of billions of people around the world, watched only to feel better about themselves. They watched to witness how badly those so-called celebrities acted. See them bicker and fight, eat bugs and let their every movement and word be recorded. People loved that kind of thing. Voyeurism, the excitement, the anticipation of it all going wrong. Fights, and screaming, and crying.
He'd tried to build a different society, to put the worst of that life away once and for all, but human nature was the same — people needed a release. They needed competition. They needed Justice. They needed, wanted, The Hunt.
It evolved, Vorce made sure of it, morphing it into a non-date-specific but usually at least yearly event. Surprise was good, so it was never a particular day. The anticipation ke
pt everyone excited, craving. Everyone stayed in line as nobody wanted to be hunted, but there was always someone who acted against the rules. And if peace lasted for too long? Well, people got antsy, became disruptive, until, eventually, someone broke and did something wrong. The Hunt always happened in the end.
There was a concern that people would long for their ancestral home now The Hunt was on the mainland, so slowly he imprinted the myth that only those directly involved would be allowed such mysterious passage, and he left it entirely to the communal imagination how this was achieved. People were rather gullible when you got right down to it, and with no better explanation they believed all manner of crazy things. Did they beat the currents of the sea? Or the sea allowed the select few to leave, as it didn't want to let those found guilty remain on the blessed Island?
There were endless myths. Maybe they flew? Was there a machine from before year zero that took them away? Some thought it magic. Vorce told no one the truth, absolutely no one. All apart from him were drugged in his chambers before he took them to the mainland.
This was his secret, one he knew he could never share. There must never be a choice for people. Society would crumble rapidly if they had the option of leaving, he was well aware of that.
Even the Elders never asked. They were people chosen carefully a long time ago, full of themselves yet meek, believing in the ways of The Island. Vorce's subtle manipulations of their minds over the years, through his strength in The Noise, undoubtedly had rather a lot to do with their obedience and lack of questions.
Vorce came out of his reverie, smiled at the expectant faces spread around the lush, if rather rugged gardens. People gathered on the steps, others in small groups below, watching as the preparations for The Judgment were finalized.
