Phoenix Without Ashes

by Edward Bryant

  Devon paused in the shadow of the entrance, listening to the clang of metal against metal, seeing the orange sparks fan out with each blow. He was struck by the power and rhythm of the smith; it was a steady, reassuring song.

  Clang!

  Devon stepped through the doorway. At the sound of hard sod-boot heels on the threshold, Garth looked around.

  Clang!

  The rhythm faltered only slightly. Garth turned back to the anvil. Again the hammer swung in its arc.

  Clang!

  “Garth.”

  Clang! There was no response.

  Devon said, “I’m sorry. I had to do it.”

  Clang! Garth looked up. With a flash of annoyance. Still he said nothing and returned to hammering with even greater vehemence.

  Devon moved around the anvil where Garth could not avoid seeing him. “Try to understand. It doesn’t have to be the way the Elders say it is. If you loved Rachel, or she loved you, I would never have spoken.”

  Clang!

  “Garth...”

  Garth stopped. He stood with red-hot shoe in tongs in one hand and hammer in the other. For a moment, Devon thought Garth would hurl one or both at him. Then Garth turned and quenched the shoe in the water bucket. He watched Devon through the steam.

  Devon said, “Will you at least listen—”

  Garth interrupted him. He turned his eyes toward the wall and spoke. “I have been humiliated in the eyes of my fellows. My family, and especially my father, have lost stature. I have been badly used.” He reached across the bench and picked up the bow portion of a steel crossbow. Holding it against the light from the doorway, he squinted along the bow’s length, searching for imperfection. An expert marksman, he lavished no greater love on any of the other tools he had crafted.

  “Garth, we’ve known each other all our lives. We’ve been friends.”

  With the tongs, Garth began heating one end of the bow.

  “Won’t you please try to understand?”

  Garth said to the wall, “I would rather talk to my friend than to this wall.”

  “I am here.”

  “If someone were here to hear me now,” Garth continued inexorably, “I would say that the past is done, and what the Elders have decreed is what is now. I would say that none of this makes me happy, but I am Old Garth’s son and I will not suffer him to lose status because of me. I will do what I am told.”

  Devon said, “Do you know what Elder Micah will have done to me?”

  Garth looked obdurately from wall to bow.

  “I am to die.”

  Shocked, the smith looked directly at Devon. “No—even Elder Micah would not be so harsh.”

  “‘Let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon,’” Devon quoted. “‘Let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him.’”

  “He will relent—”

  “You know better, Garth. Micah would have me exiled forever to the hills. I cannot spend the rest of my life foraging for rabbits or stealing from the fields. That was a sentence of death.”

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Believe,” said Devon.

  A hardness slipped down lover Garth’s features. He said, “I will do what I am told.”

  Devon stood for a moment longer, looking at Garth; then, very sadly, he turned to go. He paused at the door. Garth hammered lightly on the crossbow. “I understand, Garth. And I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t in the middle of this.”

  He exited and heard the hiss of steam as the bow was plunged into the bucket.

  EIGHT

  For perverse purposes he could not later fathom, Devon wandered the remainder of the afternoon through the streets of Cypress Corners. He deliberately intruded into citizens’ spheres of attention, trying to stir reactions. He was seldom rewarded.

  In Old Martin’s market, he discovered elderly, widowed, near-sighted Old Esther purchasing a cut of beef. The bell jangled as Devon opened the door and walked in. Old Martin glanced up, glowered, then, stony-faced, returned his attention to his customer. Devon came up to the counter. “Hello, Granny Esther,” he said.

  The old woman turned around and peered up into his face. “Oh, hello, Devon. My goodness, I—oops,” she said, suddenly remembering her duty. She was distantly related to Devon, a several-times-removed aunt.

  Old Martin said irritatedly, “It’s a fine bit of steak, Granny Esther. Cut right from the rib of the animal. Look at the marbling.”

  Devon reached over and started to pick up the steak; Martin snatched it back. “Better look close, Granny,” Devon said. “The marbling isn’t so visible.”

  Ignoring him, Martin said, “Good red meat.”

  “Old meat,” said Devon. “Old Martin’s always kept a bottle of red dye behind the counter. Everybody knows.” He started to reach over the counter, and Martin grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you remember?” Devon said to him. “Only you and Granny Esther are here.” Martin’s fingers slowly loosened.

  Granny Esther held the meat a few inches from her eyes, meticulously examining it. “Hmm, you know, Martin, I don’t believe this is as fresh as it could be.”

  “Of course it’s fresh,” said the shopkeeper. “Who says it isn’t?”

  “Well... no one. But just the same,” said Granny Esther, “I think that tonight I’ll fix me a vegetable stew.” She smiled a fragile smile and turned away from the counter. Martin slapped the steak back into the case as though it were a dead fish.

  At the door, Granny Esther looked at Devon with a wise, sidelong expression. “Don’t worry, child,” she whispered. “I’ve long known Micah. He’s a hard man, but he’ll show mercy.”

  Devon tried to smile at her. But what must I do to earn that mercy? he thought.

  “You must pray,” said the old woman. She smiled up at him as he held the door open. Old Esther shuffled out into the street.

  Old Martin continued standing with iron control behind the counter as Devon took a cracker from the barrel by the door before leaving.

  A sharp pain sprouted suddenly between his shoulder blades. Devon sprawled forward in the dust. “Aye, brother Esau,” said a grating voice. “I could have sworn I just ran into something.”

  “It could not be,” said a second voice. “There is nothing at all.”

  Devon raised himself with his forearms and looked around. Two young men stood above him, grinning as they ostentatiously looked past.

  “Aye,” said the first man. “Agreed. There is nothing whatever.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Young Esau,” said Devon. “Young Goodman.” They were both about his age; both stoutly built and wearing the same type of shirt, overalls, and boots that he did. He remembered them for being two of the attackers from whom Garth had rescued him so many cycles before.

  “Do you hear something?” said Young Esau.

  “I hear the wind.” Both young men laughed uproariously. Devon started getting to his feet.

  “I heard something else,” said Goodman.

  “And what might that be?”

  Goodman looked at Devon venomously. “I heard something about a friend of ours who is not here.”

  Esau cooperated. “Oh? A brother I might know?”

  “No doubt. Do you remember Devon? Devon the foundling? Devon the questioning fool?”

  Esau nodded. “The troublemaker...”

  Devon stepped between them. “What was it you heard?”

  “Only a short time ago I was sweeping up the hall in the Place of Worship,” said Goodman, taking a pace to the left so as to look at Esau directly. Goodman periodically performed volunteer deacon labor for the Elders. He was occasionally referred to behind his back by the more outspoken citizens of Cypress Corners as “Young Micah.” The Elder Micah had no natural son.

  “Yes?” said Esau. He thrust his face close to Devon’s. “Yes?”

  “I heard the words of Elder Micah as he spoke among his fellows.” Goodman paused for effect. “I doubt that brother Devon will dw
ell much longer among us here.”

  “I already guessed at that,” said Devon.

  “More, I don’t think Devon will long live to haunt our hills.”

  “What do you mean?” Said Devon.

  Young Goodman chuckled darkly.

  “You boys!”

  Esau and Goodman turned guiltily. Considering his bulk, Elder Jubal moved surprisingly quickly across the street toward them. “Why dost thou idle here in the thoroughfare? Have not ye tasks to accomplish?” Jubal’s accusatory stare traversed from one to the other, skipping over Devon as though the latter were hidden by a sty upon the eye of the Elder.

  “Aye, Elder,” Essau muttered. Young Goodman nodded assent. Eyes averted, the two young men hurried away.

  Elder Jubal tarried briefly. He rhetorically addressed the warm air of the street: “He that is casteth out of the sight of all must not aggravate the good intentions of others.” Jubal cleared his throat self-consciously, turned on his heel, and strode away.

  “What?” said Devon toward the retreating figure.

  There was no answer.

  NINE

  The cellar door set against the rear of the Place of Worship was an inclined plane of dark metal, a meter and a half across. Hinged along the top edge, it was secured at the bottom by a combination lock. Only three sides of the sun were visible above the horizon when Devon cautiously crept near to the rear of the holy building.

  He carried the flat metal rod the small boy had used earlier to roll the hoop. The closely spaced cypress made an effective screen. Devon wedged the end of the rod into the crack below the combination lock and exerted his weight downward. Just as the pry rod began to bend, the lock snapped open with a flat crack. Devon looked around guiltily, but no voice was raised in question, no Elder appeared around the corner of the building. Still carrying the rod in one hand, Devon lifted the door and stepped quickly down into the darkness.

  Light filtered dimly into the basement from shallow window-wells at either end. Devon paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust. Impedimenta choked the basement: storage pods, stacks of unusued pews, boxes of virgin hymnals.

  At the far end of the room, a dusty staircase led to the upper floor. Devon climbed the steps carefully; one of the boards creaked and he stopped. Overhead the plank flooring squeaked as one or more persons moved about. No one approached the trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Devon cautiously continued.

  He could hear voices, but the words were muffled by the intervening ceiling and floor. Devon set the pry bar carefully down on the top step. Then he slowly raised the trapdoor a few centimeters and peered out through the crack.

  The Creator’s machine was visible, projecting out of the surface of the lectern. Elder Micah, his back to the trapdoor, attended the machine. A second man in funereal garb—Elder Jubal—emerged from beyond the platform.

  Micah punched the same key that had been triggered when the decree against Devon was given. The machine spoke: “Gene pool orders original mating selection without variance. New factor, coded: Devon, unsuitable. Balance maintained. Answerrrr—”

  Micah gave the device a quick, sharp blow with the side of his hand.

  “—werrrr.” Click. “Answer: none.”

  “Damnable thing,” said Micah. “Pray that this device will endure. We have not the knowledge to repair it.” He pushed another control and an oblong plastic object, the length of the Elder’s thumb, popped out of the Creator’s machine. Micah held it for a moment contemplatively. “I suspect the cassette is nearly worn out, as are the others. It must last for one final service.”

  Jubal said, “How will you do this?”

  “His final disposition?” said Micah. “Apparently shaming him before the congregation will not set him on the path of righteousness. We come to final moments with Devon.”

  “Too many questions.”

  “Aye, there are problems enough without his questions. If one asks, then, inevitably, others will too. Thus is born chaos.” Micah slid the plastic cassette into the slot in the top of the machine. He punched a key and spoke into the grille: “Erase previous voice recording. Record and play back following message only beginning with words, ‘My wishes.’ Convert voice recording to machine voice. Add appropriate gene pool computer conclusion.” Micah paused, clearing his throat slightly. “My wishes have been spurned by the undevout Devon. His presence among the faithful is a blight and a danger. He must be driven out of the lands I have given you, into the hills, nevermore to engage in human congress. This I order in the name of the Creator.” Micah pressed a final key. The machine made a few desultory clicks and buzzes.

  From his place of concealment, Devon watched with amazement this perversion of religion. Not that he had been particularly pious of late, but this confirmed and even justified all his rebellious noises. The Creator’s machine is manipulable by Micah, thought Devon. And Micah is clearly not the Creator. Therefore does it follow that the Creator must be dead? Or perhaps He never existed? Theology had never been Devon’s forte. Yet even he resisted taking the jumbled thoughts too far. On the lectern, the machine made peremptory sounds.

  The voice that emerged from the grille was flat and mechanical. Devon recognized it as the voice of the Creator. “Gene pool selection invariant. New factor, coded: Devon, attempting disruption optimum genetic balance. Disruption counter to program. Disruptive factor must, repeat must, be eliminated from gene pool. In name of Creator, new factor, coded: Devon must be eliminated. Any means must be employed; any means shall be condoned.” The voice clicked off.

  Micah and Jubal looked at each other with evident satisfaction.

  “It’s a shame,” said Jubal. “I can almost like the boy, sometimes.”

  “It is necessary,” said Micah, “to ensure the Creator’s Work; and the Creator’s Work is order.”

  “The Creator’s work,” shouted Devon, “is fraud!” He emerged from the basement, banging the trapdoor up and over. Micah and Jubal turned as one.

  “You,” said Micah as Devon charged up the last few stairs. The two old men moved to stop him. Younger, stronger, more determined, Devon easily thrust them aside and broke for the Creator’s machine. With a sacrilegious recklessness he punched the keys at random.

  “Stop, boy!” said Micah. “You shall perish in fire for your impiety.”

  “Better that than the cold hills,” said Devon without turning. Elder Jubal grabbed his arm and tried to wrestle him away from the machine. Devon batted distractedly at the old man, forgetting that he still held the metal pry. The rod slapped across the Elder’s face and Jubal fell away, blood spurting from his nose.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” said Micah. The Elder grappled with Devon, winding his long arms about the younger man’s shoulders and chest. He clung to Devon’s back as though he were a saddle.

  Devon ignored the old man. He slapped the Creator’s machine again and suddenly the cassette popped out. Devon grabbed the plastic cartridge and turned toward the door. Micah tried to stop him, even though he was sliding down Devon’s body toward the floor. His bony arms wound around Devon’s ankles like vines. Devon stumbled and nearly fell, then jerked loose and made for the door. Micah sprawled forward full-length on the planking.

  Devon and the cassette disappeared into the wide bar of dusk-light from the doorway and were gone.

  Elder Micah slowly raised himself to his knees. He clenched and unclenched his fists in impotent fury.

  Young Goodman clattered into the Place of Worship. “What be the matter? I heard cries.” Neither Elder answered at first. Goodman looked around the hall. “Elder Micah? Elder Jubal?”

  Jubal sat on the floor with his back against the lectern. His hands were clasped over the lower portion of his face. His eyes were glazed. Blood oozed between his fingers and dripped on the floor.

  Micah had himself sunk down and now sat supported by the wall. Pain made his sharp features a mask; he pressed his right hand against his chest as though stanching an invisible wou
nd. The Elder finally spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Payment,” he said, “shall be exacted.”

  TEN

  The farmstead of Aram was perhaps the finest cultivation in all the world. Aram labored diligently to produce the highest possible yield from the contrasting square fields of wheat and corn, soy and barley. Then there were the alfalfa meadows, and the pastures for sheep, goats, and cattle. A belt of woodlands bordered two sides of the farm; timid deer occasionally ventured here from the hills. A stream, fed by springs in the hills, meandered across Aram’s land until it emptied into the lake, Perseverance.

  Eventually the farm would pass from Aram’s stewardship because he had no son. The land would ordinarily have been given over to Garth, as prospective senior son-in-law, save that Garth was apparently set to become the new metalsmith. Presumably that meant that rights to use the land would eventually fall to whatever man married Aram’s youngest daughter, Ruth. It was a theological mystery among his neighbors how Aram could be cursed with two daughters. The Creator’s ways were sometimes obscure.

  It was after dark when Devon trudged up the road to Aram’s house. The insects had begun their night-sounds. Dog, the unnamed dog, did not bark; he recognized Devon. He rushed up, tail slashing the air violently, and Devon hunkered down for a moment to rumple his ears. Together they approached the house, Dog dancing in happy circles.

  Devon paused in the darkness a few meters from the porch. He took the plastic cassette from his pocket; it reflected glints of light from the kitchen windows. A long moment of hesitation: Now, he thought. It must be now.

  Four steps up to the porch and four more across to the screen door. He knocked and there was no response. He knocked again and saw shapes move beyond the print curtain. Old Rachel answered the door. She saw Devon waiting in the sliver of light from the ajar door and said without looking away from him, “Aram!”

  Aram’s face appeared beside hers and stared silently at Devon. A voice Devon recognized as Rachel’s said from inside, “Who is it?”