The Black Sentry

by Bernhardt, William

  She nodded. “Anywhere would be safer than here.”

  “Is it still your intention to go with the Old Man? To join his Resistance?”

  “Yes. If he’ll have me.”

  “But think of the dangers. The Black Sentry. The Creepers. The Savages.”

  “I would rather die aiding the Resistance than die trapped in this village, living an empty life married to Mykah.”

  “You should think carefully before you do anything that dangerous.”

  “These are odd words coming from the boy who rescued the Old Man.”

  “I…would not want you to come to any harm.”

  “I do not intend to come to any harm.”

  They sat quietly for an awkward moment. “Brita...is what you said true?”

  “About what?”

  “About books.”

  The corners of her lips turned up. “Would you like to see one?”

  “Very much.”

  She glanced at the door again, making sure they were out of sight. Then she tossed aside the area rug in the center of the room. She inserted three fingers into what appeared to be a knothole in a plank of the wooden floor. To his astonishment, the plank rose out of its groove.

  “We keep them in this hideaway, where even the Black Sentry won’t look. I only wish it were large enough to hide the Old Man.”

  She reached into the opening, stretching her arm almost to its fullest extent. A moment later, she withdrew what he could only assume was a book. It was about the size of a loaf of bread, but black and thick. The outer covering was heavy, while inside, many thin sheets—what Brita called “pages”—were packed together.

  He crouched beside her. These pages were covered, in part with pictures, but mostly with tiny scratchings similar to those he saw on the map. He could make no sense of them. “What do you do with it?”

  “You read it,” she replied.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She pointed at the page. “These are letters. They form words. The words form sentences, just as we do when we talk.”

  “And you can read these scratches?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “What do they tell you?”

  “Stories, sometimes.”

  “About events that happened before the time of the Sentinel?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What else do the books say?”

  “Some recount the lives of great men and women. Or explain how things worked. How people lived. This book is”—she turned its spine so he could see the word—“an ency-clo-pe-dia. Sailing dash Tunis.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure. But the book tells of many wondrous things.” Her eyes lit. “Of termites and threshers and a man called Shakespeare who wrote poems.”

  “Poems?”

  “Poems are words arranged so that— Oh, it’s too difficult to explain. But they’re beautiful! And so are the stories.”

  “Are there many of these...poems? Or stories?”

  “There were. Before the Sentinel forbid them.”

  “If they were beautiful, why would the Sentinel forbid them?”

  “My mother says it’s because they put ideas into people’s minds. New and different ideas. The Sentinel wants everyone to have the same ideas. The ones he gave them.” She clutched the book close to her. “There’s so much out there, Daman. So much we know nothing about.”

  He saw the happiness these books brought her. He was glad—but also sorry he could not share this delight. “How many books do you have?”

  “Seven. We used to have eight, but the pages in one became brittle and crumbled into dust. Mother says we must be careful with those that remain. We take the books out less and less now.”

  She showed him the other books hidden under the floor. All had scratchings he did not understand. One said “ALMANAC,” one was the story of a man named “LINCOLN,” with pictures, one was a storybook about “JUSTICE,” one was a very thick book about “SCIENCE,” and another was the book Brita said she understood least of all, something called “THE HOLY BIBLE” written by a man named Gideon.

  “This book is a wonderful account of the Ancients’ government,” she said. “From the time when people controlled their own destinies and animals could talk.”

  He blinked. “Animals could talk?”

  “Of course,” she said scornfully. “Didn’t you know?”

  His forehead creased. He knew she was more knowledgeable than he, but... “It’s hard to imagine a time when animals could speak.”

  “Only for you,” she scoffed. “Because you are so unlearned. The proof is right here. This book tells all about it.” She showed him the thin volume, which she explained was called Animal Farm. “The Time of the Ancients was a time of wonders.”

  Finally, she showed him a book called a “dictionary,” which she explained was the key to understanding the words in the other books.

  “If you see a word and you don’t know what it means, you can look it up in the dictionary.”

  “But if you don’t know the word, how can you look it up?”

  “By how it’s spelled.”

  “What?” He didn’t begin to understand. He was so lost he couldn’t even ask intelligent questions. “Brita,” he whispered, “do you think perhaps...I could learn to read these scratches?”

  “Of course you could. You don’t have to be smart. You just have to know how it works.”

  “What is...SCIENCE?”

  She scooped up the thick book. “Oh, that’s my favorite. It has so many great ideas. Things you would never imagine.” She paused a moment, scrutinizing his face, as if determining whether she could trust him. “Would you like to see my experiment?”

  “What is that?”

  “That’s when you try to discover or prove something with a test.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Why the world works the way it does.”

  “We were taught that the world works the way it does because the Sentinel wishes it so.”

  She apparently didn’t deem that remark even worthy of reply. “This isn’t my first experiment. I made a compass, once, with a needle and a small pan of water. And I’ve watched mold grow on old bread. Did you know that hot air rises?”

  “I’m...not sure what you mean.”

  “Then just stay silent and watch. Maybe you’ll learn something.” She removed some materials from the back corner of a cabinet. She took a length of fabric, maybe twice the size of the book, then started a small fire in the open hearth. Once the kindling caught on, she held the fabric over the flames, then rounded the cloth like a ball. To Daman’s surprise, the cloth held the round shape, even after she removed it from the hearth.

  “It looks as if it were solid,” he remarked.

  “Well, in a way, it is. It’s filled with the hot air rising from the fire. Now watch this.” She sealed the fabric, tying it with a string, then brought it into the front room and released it.

  It rose toward the ceiling.

  His lips parted. “It’s amazing.”

  “It’s a balloon,” she said, laughing. “And it isn’t amazing–it’s science. I love balloons. I’ve read all about them.”

  “Did the Ancients have balloons?”

  “Of course. They were so common they became toys for children. The Ancients had even more amazing machines that flew through the air. Machines so strong people could take long rides covering enormous distances in a short time. They could travel all over the world.”

  “But–why?”

  “To see what there was to see,” she said softly. “To see the world outside their own village.”

  “Brita, do you believe everything the Old Man told us? About the world of the past?”

  “I do. Do you?”

  He paused. “Sometimes at night I have strange...well, I call them dreams, but they aren’t really dreams. Because I’m not asleep. I guess I don’t really see them–they just sort of a
ppear in my mind. Things I’ve never seen with my eyes. I don’t know where they come from, or why, but I do know—”

  He heard a terrific commotion in the street outside the house. Hurriedly, she hid the books and all traces of her experiment in the hiding place under the floor. After she finished, he stepped outside to see what was happening.

  Dozens of villagers scrambled to get out of the way. A Black Sentry platoon rushed past in formation.

  He felt a cold clutching at his heart. What could be happening?

  Xander rushed toward him, calling his name. His instinctive reaction was outrage. A slave should only speak when spoken to. He admired what Xander had done the day before, but surely insolence such as this—

  “Daman,” Xander said, “come quick!” He breathed so heavily he could barely speak.

  “Xander, please conduct yourself in—”

  “It’s the Black Sentry.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’ve found the Rebel. The one the Acolyte spoke of!.

  He tried not to react. “What has this to do with me?”

  “Don’t you understand? They found him at your house. While your father was at home.”

  “My father would never help an enemy of the Sentinel.”

  “The Black Sentry think he did. They have your house surrounded. And your father is trapped inside.”

  12

  Daman didn’t wait to hear any more. He raced past Xander, tearing down the street toward home.

  His home was surrounded by the Black Sentry, perhaps forty or more of them, more than he had ever seen in one place at any time.

  “Mister Adkins,” the Captain of the Guard shouted through the open window. “You are commanded to come out of your house. By order of the Black Sentry!”

  A hush fell over the street as everyone listened for his reply.

  Nothing came.

  What was his father doing? He must’ve been as astonished as anyone when the Sentry pulled the Old Man out of the cellar. Was he afraid to come out? Or was there something more going on?

  “If you do not come forth immediately,” the Captain bellowed, “we will be forced to come in after you.”

  Still no reply.

  Grimacing, the Captain of the Guard hit the door shoulder first, then bounced back into the street. The door barely moved.

  The door must’ve been barricaded on the other side. Rubbing his sore shoulder, the Captain motioned for several of his Sentry to join him.

  Together, they exerted their combined strength on the door. Slowly but surely, it gave way. When the opening was sufficiently wide, they poured into the front room of his house.

  The spectators surged forward, craning for a better view. He wormed his way through the pack and pushed his way to the open window. Most of the people in the crowd recognized him and let him pass.

  Inside, his father had turned the kitchen table on its side and crouched behind it. He threw everything in sight at the intruding Sentry—firewood, fruit, even coals from the stove.

  And in this manner, his father—the quiet, unassuming, mild-mannered baker—held off two platoons of the Black Sentry.

  But he knew his father could not hold them back forever. Ducking and shouting, the Sentry continued to pour into the room.

  From his window vantage point, he saw that his father was poised at the far end of the table, crouched down, as if preparing to spring at any moment. He could not imagine why—at first. Then he noticed the open kitchen door just beyond. The door faced an alleyway behind their house. With the Sentry drawn to the front by his father’s attack, escape through the rear was a possibility.

  More than twenty of the Black Sentry were in the entry of his home. If his father planned to make a run, it had to be now.

  His father sprang out from behind the table, diving headlong toward the rear window.

  He was fast, but the Black Sentry were faster. One had a rope with a loop at the end. It caught one of his father’s legs as he made the leap, then jerked him hard back into the room. At least ten of the Sentry were on him in an instant, tying his hands and legs, beating him with their fists.

  “Father!” he cried out through the window.

  But there was nothing he could do. The Black Sentry had him.

  13

  Daman broke away from the window, burrowed through the crowd, and pushed his way past the front door. Two of the Sentry grabbed him, holding him back.

  “He’s my father!” he shouted, but it made no difference.

  Once his father was completely immobilized, the beating ceased.

  “Let me go to him!” he begged, but they did not. Several others dragged his father out of the house.

  Mykah was one of those dragging him away.

  “Mykah,” he said, “my father has treated you like his own son your entire life.”

  Mykah’s eyes did not meet his. “I’m sorry,” he said, in an odd, hollow voice. “But the Sentinel’s will must be done. He’s our Master.”

  “A Master who would do this is no Master of mine!”

  A sudden, deathly quiet fell over the room. Wide eyes flitted from side to side.

  Xander appeared behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. “Master, why are you out and on your feet? You know the physic said you should remain in bed. After that severe blow to your head, you are not yourself.”

  It took him a moment to realize what Xander was babbling about. “Oh…yes…”

  Xander put his arm around his shoulder and led him out of the crowd.

  Mykah and the others hauled his father away. They would take him to the Keep, where he would be held until his fate was determined at trial. But that was just a formality. He already knew what the result would be. In the entire history of the village, the Black Sentry had never once brought charges without receiving a verdict of guilty from the Magistrate. To be charged, as his father surely would be, was to be sentenced to death.

  “And it was all for nothing,” he heard one of the Sentry say. “All the noise and fighting. We still caught the Rebel.”

  Whipping around, he saw that the Old Man had been taken captive. Two large and particularly cruel-looking members of the Sentry held him, arms pinned painfully behind his back. He appeared dazed, barely conscious. Blood smeared one side of his wrinkled face. His temper boiled thinking of what the Sentry must have done to him.

  The Old Man saw him as well, but quickly looked away. Obviously, he didn’t want the Sentry to know there was a connection between them.

  It was all over then, he thought to himself. This new opportunity, this new hope, however small, was gone.

  *****

  After the excitement ended and the crowd cleared, two of the Sentry warned Daman to remain near his home should he be wanted during the trial. He did not argue with them. After his imprudent words, he fully expected to be hauled to the Keep himself. Apparently the Sentry decided to be generous, realizing he was young and under a great deal of stress. Xander’s bluff about the “blow to his head” probably helped as well.

  He went to the Keep. He was refused entrance. They would not let him visit his father.

  On his way back, he met his mother. She had been at the grove near Blaine River collecting berries and had just heard what happened. She looked as if she had aged ten years since breakfast.

  “Have you seen your father?” He knew she was fighting back tears.

  “Not since he was taken away.”

  “They say he aided the Rebel. That he’s part of this Resistance that fights the Sentinel.”

  “Yes,” he said, bowing his head. “That is what they say.”

  “I do not believe it. It cannot be true.”

  “No, Mother,” he whispered. “It is not true.”

  Her eyes burned down on him, splitting his soul.

  She knew. He was sure of it. She knew he was the one who had betrayed the Sentinel. She knew it was his fault Father had been arrested and beaten. She knew it was his fault her husband would be execu
ted, leaving her without a partner for the rest of her days, leaving her with no one but a disobedient son who would soon lose his Winnowing and be transported somewhere else.

  Her face trembled, but she said nothing more. She brushed past him and entered the front office of the Keep. A few moments later, she too was turned away.

  He sat on the steps outside, too unhappy for words. He had been foolish and impetuous, as always. He was the most miserable wretch that ever lived. And the worst son.

  *****

  About half an hour later, Daman saw Mykah emerge from the Keep. Mykah walked past without speaking. Then, as if by afterthought, he stopped.

  “You must understand,” he said quietly. “These are troubled times. This old Rebel and his Resistance—they pose a great threat to our way of life. The Sentinel must be protected.”

  He fought back the words that came to mind.

  “The Captain of the Guard has decided not to prosecute you for your foolish words and actions,” Mykah continued. “We all agreed that you were in a strained frame of mind and did not know what you were saying.” He paused. “I personally assured them that you did not mean what you said.”

  His eyes rose. “I did mean it.”

  Mykah’s mouth became thin and tight. “Daman, listen to me. We are no longer children, passing our time at games and nonsense. I’m a member of the Black Sentry. I must obey and enforce the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel.”

  “I will never obey the Sentinel.”

  “Then from this day forward, we can no longer be friends.”

  He stared at Mykah, barely able to believe his own ears. They had always been friends—always. As far back as he could remember.

  “There’s more.” Mykah shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “If I learn you’re part of this Resistance, or you’re acting contrary to the Laws and Ways of the Sentinel, I will report you to the Magistrate. Do you understand?”

  He did not answer.

  “Make no mistake, Daman. I will report you.” He turned abruptly and walked away.

  “Goodbye, friend,” he whispered, long after Mykah was gone.

  *****