The Faithful

by S. M. Freedman

  “That’s right.”

  “You must be really old,” Talia remarked, and Disa nudged her with an elbow. “What? I’m just saying!”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  “Wow. You’re older than my dad,” Disa chimed in, and Sumner realized she was one of the Chosen. It explained her attitude.

  “Who’s your dad?”

  Her lips clamped shut. This time Bayani answered for her. “Father Zaniel.”

  Sumner felt the shock ripple through him. Zaniel had been a good friend, once upon a time. He hadn’t realized Zaniel was called to the Priesthood. Now that he knew, he could see Zaniel in the shape of her jaw, and in her brown eyes.

  “Speaking of doughnuts, I could tell you all sorts of stories about your father, Disa.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Really?”

  He nodded, and waited for her to start asking questions. Instead she gave him another speculative look, and then closed up like a dandelion at nightfall.

  Talia waited a breath before asking, “What’s it like Outside?” All three girls leaned in, eager for his answer.

  But he could feel Father Narda’s gaze on him, a barely veiled threat. Sumner sent his mentor a curt response. “Chill. I get it.”

  He focused on Talia. “Not half as exciting as life on The Ranch. There aren’t as many horses.” Talia nodded, looking disappointed but resigned. They resumed eating in silence.

  The food was delicious. The potatoes were fluffy. The chicken was redolent with garlic and fresh rosemary, and so succulent Sumner used a pillowy piece of bread to mop the juice off his plate. Over warm apple pie and vanilla ice cream, Sumner asked Talia how old she was.

  “I’m nine,” she responded, and he picked up the slightest hint of Boston twang.

  They could mind-wash all they wanted, but there were some things they couldn’t get rid of.

  “Disa is ten, and Bayani is twelve.”

  He was surprised Bayani was the eldest of the three, since she was the smallest. His mind alighted on that briefly, but something bigger was cresting within him.

  It was something he should have realized before, and might have if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed by returning to The Ranch. Like the ultimate self-centered prodigal son, he had completely missed the obvious: he was responsible for them being here.

  Well, not Disa, of course. But he was responsible for Talia, and Bayani, and the rest of the Disciples in the room. He felt a flush of heat prickle his scalp, and the room began to spin. The edges of his vision dimmed.

  “Are you all right?” Bayani asked, and before he could pull away, she placed a small brown hand on his forearm. “You are unwell.”

  “Bayani is a healer,” Talia said.

  Sumner pulled away from her, trying to quell the shaking. “I’m fine; it’s just been a long trip. I must be tired.”

  Bayani frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

  A girl from Boston.

  Nine years old.

  They were all looking at him. The whole room had gone quiet. He could feel the tension at the Priests’ table.

  Careful. Careful, he thought.

  But he couldn’t stop his mind. It was flipping through a catalog of kids’ profiles, searching out the match. And then he had it.

  Four years ago. Mary-Beth Hammond. Five years old. She had displayed strong telepathic tendencies.

  He gritted his teeth, desperate to clamp down on his racing mind. But it was too late. Disa picked up his thoughts.

  “Who is Mary-Beth Hammond?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  He couldn’t help it; his eyes found Talia’s across the table. Her mouth was open. Her skin was gray. Her blue eyes were glassy. He could almost hear the snap as her mind broke.

  And then she started screaming.

  “That was most unfortunate.”

  “I’m so sorry, Father. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Your level of control is not what it once was.”

  Sumner was slumped in the chair in Father Narda’s study. “According to you, I never had much control.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  Beyond the study was the Priest’s private bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and there was a pair of white lace panties hanging from the bedpost. Father Narda clearly had an Amante, although she wasn’t present at the moment.

  And speaking of lack of control, Sumner thought. He shook his head and returned to the subject at hand. “Will she be all right? Talia?”

  Father Narda was removing his robe. He hung it from a hook behind his desk chair and sat on the recliner opposite Sumner. His beige pants were threadbare, his shirt dingy and gray.

  “It’s hard to say. She’s Father Palidor’s pupil. He’ll work hard to repair the damage that was done. It would be a great loss to him if she were to require termination.”

  “Termination!” Sumner choked. “You’re joking, right?”

  “You know this is the way of things. Nothing can harm our mission. If she becomes a hindrance . . .” Father Narda raised his shoulders in a shrug.

  “But . . .” Sumner sputtered. “She’s only nine!”

  “And a valuable asset. But what must be done will be done. Don’t blame yourself, Sumner.” The Priest caught him with his gentle brown eyes. The creases around them were much deeper, and his hair had gone gray. Otherwise, he looked exactly the same.

  “It wasn’t your intention to hurt the girl, but may it serve as a lesson. Everything you do has a potentially disastrous consequence, if you do not follow the straight path. Do you understand?”

  Sumner nodded.

  “Good.” He rose with a grin. “My beloved Angeni is approaching. Let’s speak more when she’s out of hearing.”

  Sumner rose from his chair. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching and doubted Father Narda had either—at least not with his ears.

  “You’ll stay the night. I’ll have breakfast brought to your suite so we can avoid any more unfortunate occurrences.”

  “All right.” He knew he had no choice.

  “Angeni, there you are, my darling!” he said as the girl hesitated in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t realize you had company.” Her voice was as soft as silk. She was petite and doe-eyed, clearly of Native American origin. Her black hair was straight and hung down her back in a thick curtain. She was dressed in the red silk robe that befitted her status as an Amante.

  “Nonsense, my dear. Please, come in.” Father Narda eyed her with the greedy hunger of a ravenous teenager. “Let me introduce you to one of my dearest pupils. This is Sumner. Sumner, this is Angeni.” The Priest wrapped a possessive arm around the girl’s waist and pulled her forward.

  Sumner nodded awkwardly and mumbled hello. Of course, he knew this was the way of things on The Ranch, but the years Outside had sharpened his vision.

  “Angeni, why don’t you prepare for me while I show Sumner to the guest suite.”

  She bowed her head and moved toward the bedroom. Father Narda grabbed her arm as she passed. She looked up at the Priest with dead eyes, and Sumner’s heart squeezed painfully. Although they were brown, they reminded him of the blue eyes of the girl from long ago. His love. His heartache.

  “The black lace, tonight, my dear.”

  “Of course, Father.” She nodded at Sumner and disappeared into the prison of Father Narda’s bedroom.

  “It’s a beautiful morning. Shall we take a walk?” Father Narda poked his head into the guest suite.

  Sumner had slept fitfully, haunted by dreams that were likely twisted memories of his childhood. He had only picked at his breakfast of eggs, toast, and strawberries. He had finished the whole carafe of coffee, however, so he made a side trip to the toilet before joining Father Narda on the front porch.

  The fall air was crisp and thin. He closed
his eyes and took a deep breath. He could smell horses and cows and dying leaves, pine trees and pig slop and pancakes. It all mixed together to tug on the bitter roots that were intertwined around his heart.

  “I’m glad to have you back, my son.” Father Narda was smiling at him.

  How many miles had passed beneath their rugged shoes as he and Father Narda walked, side by side, across the barely tamed wilderness of The Ranch? They had spent hours in such fashion, discussing I Fidele philosophy, or Sumner’s burgeoning skills, or, during his teen years, the need to control his deepening interest in all things female.

  For a time he was consumed with desire for Adelia, a dark-skinned beauty whose shocking blue eyes had captivated his young heart. She was quick-witted and joyful, full of laughter.

  Adelia laughing. It was an image he still nurtured within his heart, her fragile glory forever captured in vibrant colors, untarnished by the heartbreak that came after. It was no wonder that he was in love with her, but he wasn’t alone in his desire for her.

  She was two years his elder, and though they had never shared more than a few stolen kisses, he was crushed when Father Narda took her as his Amante.

  The jealousy drove him to the brink of insanity. For months he refused to so much as look in his mentor’s direction, and he even made a formal request to the Priests that Father Cassiel take over his mentorship. That request was denied.

  He could remember the torment of seeing her in the red robe, sitting in subservient silence at Father Narda’s side. The first time he noticed her belly rounding out with the evidence of what the Priest was doing to her in private, Sumner went stark raving mad. With the classic stupidity of a fifteen-year-old boy, he hunted her down, certain he could make all things right.

  Cornering her in the stables, he kissed her fervently and pushed her up against the paddock door amid the earthy scent of hay and manure. He felt the small swelling of her belly pressing up against him, and placed a possessive hand over it, trying in some desperate way to claim the baby as his own.

  She kissed him back, and wept when he swore his undying love for her. He vowed to take her and the child away, promised her a new life on the Outside, far from the prison of I Fidele.

  But she was older than him, wiser, and knew it was impossible. Just as hopelessly as a rabbit in a snare, she was trapped. She kissed him one last time. He felt the damp warmth of her breath on his cheek. As they parted, she did not say a word; she simply turned her back and walked away. Adelia leaving.

  Never again did she speak to him. He watched from a distance as her belly swelled to an alarming size, and he heard quiet speculation about twins. Her skin grew wan, her hair and eyes dull.

  On a bitter winter night she gave birth to twin girls. The babies were small, but viable. Adelia hemorrhaged, bleeding out to the sound of her newborns’ first cries.

  That night, Sumner awoke from a troubled sleep to find her sitting at his bedside, watching him. She smiled, and bent as though to kiss his lips. He felt her heated whisper on his skin. A moment later she was gone, a wisp of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

  Adelia leaving.

  “For what it’s worth, I cared for her, too.” Father Narda brought him back to the present. Sumner bowed his head, wounded by the Priest’s words even as he doubted the truth of them. The last person with whom he wanted to share Adelia’s memory was the man he blamed for her death.

  Of course, Father Narda read this from him as well. He shrugged his shoulders, and they continued on in silence.

  “Her daughters?” Sumner finally managed to ask.

  The Priest smiled. “They are well. Beautiful girls. They look just like their mother.”

  “Are they—”

  “On The Ranch? No. They are Outside,” Father Narda said. Sumner was reminded of their habit of cutting each other off midsentence, already aware of what the other would say.

  “Should we visit the stables?” suggested the Priest.

  That long-ago moment of stolen passion was at the forefront of his mind, so Sumner shook his head.

  “Very well—let’s walk to the cliff.”

  “All right.”

  They made their way past the stables and riding ring, past the chicken coop, and into the shadows of the trees. Sumner was only half listening to Father Narda’s discussion of the summer crops, what had fared well and what was a disappointment. He nodded in the right places and watched his feet, only coming back to the present when they neared The Hut.

  Through a break in the trees, he caught a quick glimpse of the front of the cabin. The red fabric that hung across the small window twitched, and Sumner locked eyes with a boy on the other side.

  “My name is Jack Elias Barbetti. I was born May 9, 2004. I live in Seaside—”

  With all his force, Sumner sent his thoughts flying back at the boy. “Oregon. I know you, Jack. Keep your mind shielded, and don’t forget yourself.”

  He broke contact and continued past the cabin beside Father Narda. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red fabric twitch back into place.

  “Yes, we are well prepared.” Father Narda nodded, stepping over a tree root that bumped out across the path. His brow was furrowed in thought, and Sumner released a breath. Perhaps the Priest was too distracted by his own thoughts to notice the brief communication between him and the boy.

  “Our store of wheat, dried corn, and potatoes is enormous. Oh, you should see it; it’s a thing of beauty! We also have enough dried fruit, meat, and fish to keep us going for decades to come if necessary. I wish I could show you the underground facilities, but they’re off limits.”

  In shock, Sumner stumbled and caught himself against a low-hanging branch. “It’s . . . real? The Underground?”

  Like most children raised on The Ranch, Sumner had dreamed about The Underground. He’d dreamed of a giant shadowy labyrinth. Of row upon row of generators, fueled by the black water of a subterranean river. He had dreamed about plants and flowers and fruit trees happily flourishing under artificial lights, about bee colonies and animal runs and giant fish tanks. And air purifiers. Oh, yes. Hundreds upon hundreds of air purifiers.

  Father Narda chuckled. “Of course. We’re walking above it now.”

  Holy hell, Sumner thought. He looked down, but there was nothing unusual to see.

  The trees gave way and they stopped near the cliff’s edge. Hundreds of feet below them, the farm stretched away in neat rows. They watched the antlike figures harvesting the last crops of the season. Squash, broccoli, and beans were directly below them, and farther away the old green combine was moving along the rows of dried field corn.

  “The time is fast approaching, Sumner. We are in the endgame now.” Father Narda turned into the brisk wind and took a deep and satisfied breath.

  “We are making our final preparations, and you have an important job to do.”

  “What is it?” Sumner was shivering. The wind was biting at him through the thin fabric of his fall jacket.

  Father Narda turned to face him, and Sumner felt the probing at his mind, like a fingernail digging a trench into his forehead. He resisted as best he could.

  “You are struggling with your faith.” It was a statement.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you?” Father Narda tipped his head to the side, studying the younger man thoughtfully. “You seem confused, lost. Am I right?”

  Sumner shrugged. “I have my moments.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Always best to be honest, hmm? After all, I Fidele does not require absolute blind faith. It’s acceptable to question our Doctrine. From time to time.”

  “It is?”

  “Oh, most certainly! Even I have had occasion to question.” The Priest’s hands on his shoulders were warm, soothing. But his eyes were cold. “But time is too short to waste in such a way. If you hesitate, young ones wil
l die.”

  “I . . .”

  “The time of gathering is upon us. Our family is being awakened and called home. One by one they are mobilizing. Within the week we expect most of them to return to The Ranch. But the younglings who have not yet been taken, their lives are now in peril. We need to gather them in.”

  “All of them?”

  “If you wish them to live.”

  “What . . . what’s going to happen, Father?”

  Father Narda’s jaw tightened. “The details of Day Zero are not your concern, Disciple.” The last word hissed through his teeth.

  Sumner swallowed hard, knowing he’d crossed a dangerous line. More tentatively, he asked, “What’s the time frame?”

  “This must be done immediately; there is no time for delay. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “I do not need to remind you we are watching.”

  “No, Father.”

  “Good.” He clutched Sumner’s face between his bony hands. Despite the chill, his hands were hot. They seared Sumner’s cheeks, and he tried not to wince.

  “Sumner, I love you as my own flesh and blood. Follow the straight path. Don’t force me to end your life.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I was dreaming about horses. Huge, glorious creatures whose legs were as tall as I was. They had softly rounded bellies and thick coats, rich with their musky scent.

  Broad hands encircled my waist and lifted me, up and up, as though I were no more substantial than a puff of cloud. My legs kicked out at just the right moment and came down upon the bare back of a pure white mare. A thrill of exhilaration rippled through my stomach. The mare’s flesh was tense beneath my thighs, ready to take flight at my bidding. Tighten my legs against her flanks, and I would become the wind.

  Curling my fingers into her coarse white mane, I leaned in. My hands were not my own. They were small, the color of coffee.

  Go! Go fast! Fast! I want to fly!

  The horse complied, galloping out of the darkness and into the open fields beyond, into glorious sunshine that blinded me with its beauty. Peals of laughter escaped my lips and were sucked back into the wind behind me, like tumbleweeds.