“Reuben!” he called. “Leah! Hiram!” The rest of their names. “Come here.”
They came to him obediently and waited to find out what it was he wished of them. His students were all younger than thirteen cycles.
Young Hiram, one of the youngest, whispered something to his neighbor. Behind him, eleven-cycle-old Leah jabbed him in the ribs. Silas pretended not to notice.
When all were assembled, the oldest, Young Reuben, said, “Yes, Master Silas?”
“We will not be working exercises in numbers for the remainder of the day,” he said. The younger students hid half-suppressed smiles of relief. “Several hours yet remain to the afternoon. We have been assigned a very special task by the Elders.”
That raised a small stir. Young Reuben said, “What is the task, sir?”
Silas felt the folded paper in his pocket; it exerted pressure against the skin of his chest. “We are to gather a heap of stones.”
“Stones, sir?”
He hesitated and decided not to explain. If he had been as good a teacher as he thought himself to be, they would not ask. “Yes. As many as you can find.”
“How big, sir?”
What would be required? “No lighter than about a half-kilo, no heavier than three.”
“How many, sir?”
“As many as you can find.”
“Any special kind, sir?”
“No... any kind. Just stones.”
He dismissed them and they scattered like a covey of surprised quail. Not quite like quail, he reflected. The children were silent and solemnly intent. Silas turned and retreated into the school. It was an echoing barn of a structure with rows of metal desks bolted to the floor and the single table located at the front. He sat down stiffly behind the table. In back of him, the blackboard held the neatly chalked columns of the multiplication tables. There were no other decorations on the walls.
“Sir?” It was Young Reuben with the first returns. “Where shall I put them?”
“By the steps,” said Silas. “Others will be along later to collect them.”
Young Reuben hefted a rock the size of his doubled fists. “This one glitters, sir.”
Silas didn’t look. “Pyrites. Fool’s gold.”
All afternoon the children radiated out and returned, like ants laboring to supply their mound. Toward dusk, Elder Jubal appeared at the schoolhouse door.
“Master Silas?”
The teacher looked up from the blank sweep of desk. “Elder Jubal.”
The children followed the portly Elder into the classroom. “It’s almost dark, sir,” said Reuben. “Have we brought enough stones?”
Jubal smiled and said, “You’ve all done well. It’s a fine collection of stones.” Then he spoke directly to the teacher: “Master Silas, will you come now to the Place of Worship? The trial is about to begin.”
TWENTY-FIVE
When the men unwrapped him at the penalty shed, Devon had rolled onto the hard floor and lain there too weak even to pull the gag from his mouth. He had nearly suffocated. His left eye was swollen shut. When he tried to move, his limbs twitched like the body of a gaffed fish.
Young Goodman bent down to retrieve his neckerchief. He held the cloth by one corner, examining it critically. “This Devon soils everything he touches.” He let the cloth flutter back to the floor.
Devon managed to get to his knees; some of the men backed away.
“He is a viper without fangs,” said Micah. “Fear him not. Long before new fangs grow, he shall meet his fate.”
Aram said, “Soon, Elder?”
“When the sun hast set,” Micah told them, “all thee shalt gather in the Place of Worship. Then wilt thee know the disposal of this sinful child.”
The men began to file out of the shed. Micah was the last to depart. He knelt and stared into Devon’s one functioning eye. “Thinkest thou well on thy sins; I fear thee hast passed the point of all redemption.” He stared for a few seconds longer and then stood.
Elder Jubal brought a brimming pail to the door of the shed. “A bucket of water, Elder, as you requested.”
“Set it inside.”
It was done; Jubal followed Micah from the shed and swung the door shut. Micah slipped the hasp over the staple and secured it with a heavy padlock. Then he spoke to Devon through the metal mesh. “The water be the bounty of our charity, Devon. Drink, wash with it, do what thou wilt.”
The two Elders walked away.
Devon scrabbled on hands and knees to the bucket and buried his face in the cold water. After he had drunk his fill, he tore loose a piece of his tattered shirt and used it to bathe his wounds. He now had the time and opportunity to assess the damage: his limbs moved, there seemed to be no broken bones. The bruises and abrasions, on examination, all appeared to be superficial. He wrung the water out of the rag and folded a compress for his swollen eye. Then he sagged back against the wall to rest.
The penalty shed was seldom used for its appointed purpose; there were few transgressors in Cypress Corners. The stout square hut, with its windows and door of heavy metal mesh, had last been used as an impromptu zoo cage. Devon could smell the pungent odor of big cat. The hill cat, one of the few remaining, had been so unwise as to give up the killing of surplus deer in favor of the easier course of preying on the goats and pigs of the farms. Old Ahab had cleverly managed to catch the beast, using a trap of specially strengthened seine. When he brought his captive into town, folk flocked around the wagon and stared. Then he backed the wagon to the door of the penalty shed and prodded the big cat until it leaped inside with one lithe bound.
The cat remained a novel attraction until the annoyed Elders deemed it a nuisance. It was decreed unseemly for so many citizens to loiter staring around the makeshift cage. The aid of Young Goodman and a few others was enlisted. The young men used sharpened poles to pierce the animal until it died.
Goodman requested the pelt of the dead beast, but his petition was denied. It was rumored that despite the decision of the Elders, the hill cat went down the disposal trap without its fur. A further rumor suggested that a piece of sensual contraband remained hidden in an unspecified loft, brought out and fondled only at night.
The smell of the hill cat lingered and cloyed in Devon’s nostrils. He remembered it pacing the inside of the shed in endless, restless circuits. And when my body is sent down the trap, will Goodman then keep yet another trophy? The thought disturbed him.
Shadows lengthened across the floor of the shed. He knew that frame by frame, the sun was following its track down to the west. That meant he soon would face the implacable eyes of the Elders in the Place of Worship. Rachel, have they hurt you? He expected no answer and none came. He hoped Rachel would not be at the Place of Worship.
“Are you at peace, boy?”
Devon looked up and saw Jubal accompanied by two other men beyond the door. He knew the two men were to support him if he could not walk; to constrain him if he tried to flee.
“It is past sunset,” said Jubal, fumbling with the padlock. “Time for your trial.”
“What trial? The verdict is preordained.” Devon mildly surprised himself by tottering to his feet.
“Throw yourself on the mercy of the Elders, lad.” Jubal finally got the door open. The other two men entered and took Devon’s elbows.
“You know better, Elder Jubal.”
Jubal looked away. “The Creator is merciful.”
TWENTY-SIX
Devon could nearly walk unaided when they arrived at the Place of Worship. The double doors of the hall gaped open, spilling a fan of light into the new darkness. One last appeal, he thought. Beg, and take whatever crumbs are thrown. Use them for time; perhaps someone will listen.
It was much like the last time he had been led here in answer to the Elders’ summons. This time the congregation was perfectly silent; even the smallest children did not fidget. Ten Elders were seated in a row along the rear of the platform. Elder Micah stood waiting like a raven with
folded wings behind the lectern. The Creator’s machine projected from the lectern top.
Devon’s two escorts released him and took stations by the doors. Elder Jubal took his arm and conducted him slowly up the aisle. It is, he thought, very much like a funeral.
He glanced from side to side. Rachel with her family, Garth with his, all were seated in the front pews. He met Rachel’s eyes as he passed; she shook her head mutely.
“Stand before us, Devon.” Micah’s voice seemed to echo in the cavernous hall. Devon looked up at him from below the lectern. He could hear a slight hum from the Creator’s machine.
“Hear the charges against thee, Devon. Thy list of offenses be long and diverse.” Micah read from a sheet of paper: “Witchery, heresy, sacrilege both petty and major, flouting the authority of the Elders, physically assaulting two of those same Elders, theft of a holy relic...” He looked up from the list. “There be more of varying degrees of heinousness. Must I continue? The point be plain that thou art a creature utterly devoid of moral scruple. Thou hast flaunted thy impiety and for good reason. I know not whether thee be mad or possessed, but each be as reprehensible as the other in the eyes of the Creator.” Micah’s indictment ended on a rising note and he paused. The silence stretched until Micah stabbed a finger down at Devon. “It be not our place to pass judgment on one such as thee. Trespasses such as thine can be judged only by a compassion the magnitude of the Creator’s.”
Devon knew what would happen next; he knew. Yet he could not speak out in reply. He felt as though he were a bird mesmerized before a hungry snake.
Micah inclined his head and spoke into the grille of the Creator’s machine: “Respond to my voice, O Lord of Hosts. We beseech Thee to pass Thy judgment upon this sorry child of sin who standeth before Thee now.”
Silence for a moment as the Creator considered the supplication. Devon turned to face the congregation.
Hie voice of the Creator thundered through the Place of Worship. “Analysis of evidence presented in prosecution of factor coded: Devon computes in name of the Creator. Decision: final elimination of factor from gene pool, effective instantest.”
The echoes slowly died. Devon turned his head and saw the brief smile of final, terrible triumph. The Elder’s features settled to a mask of sternness. He looked from Devon to the congregation. “Ye have heard the Voice of the Creator.”
At last Devon broke the paralysis that had bound his tongue. “Let me speak! I wish to be heard!”
The Elders shouted him down, Jubal leading the pack. Louder than the rest, Micah said, “From the mouth of an heretic we will hear no further words of dissension and wickedness!”
“Wait!” The word was shouted from the congregation.
Micah raised his head incredulously. “Who spoke?”
“Me.” Young Garth slowly stood. The rest of the congregation gradually quieted. Garth looked from congregation to Elders and his face was troubled. When he spoke, his words stumbled. “As, uh, as a principal in this thing, as one slurred by Dev—uh, by the accused, I request he be heard. Every man should have his say.”
Face radish-red, Young Garth sat down. His father set a hand on his arm. Old Garth looked startled, but clearly pleased.
Micah glanced at Devon and then at the congregation; he took a quick estimate of the situation. He said to the crowd, “Is it thy will?”
The congregation took collective stock of itself. The men looked at one another and exchanged hushed opinions. Most of the women remained silent. Devon searched among their faces for allies. Face still pink, Young Garth stared down at the floor. Halfway back to the rear, Old Esther openly wept. Devon picked out Young Silas among the crowd. The teacher’s eye evaded capture like a hare darting for a thicket. Silas looked in any direction save Devon’s, as though others might accuse him of infection from a subtle contamination; no help there. In the front pew, Rachel said a few pleading words to her father, then argumentatively added something else. Aram spoke back harshly, and Rachel turned to her mother. Old Rachel shook her head silently. Devon saw Esau and Goodman gloating in the second pew; no help there either.
Gradually a consensus of agreement grew. Several, then most of the crowd called out, “Aye, let him be heard.” Micah accepted the verdict expressionlessly. “Be it upon thy heads,” he said. Then he addressed Devon: “Young Garth hath spoken out for thee. Let thy calumny against him be in thy heart as thee meet thy reward.” He paused. “Speak, if thou wilt.”
Devon took a deep breath. How can I tell them? How will they understand? Hopelessly, he began: “This world of Cypress Corners, that you take to be only a hundred kilometers across... it is more than that. It is part of a greater whole, an even larger world. We are but one world among many, hundreds of others. All joined on a great Ark of space, moving through a greater universe of other suns and moons and worlds and emptiness; on a journey planned five hundred cycles ago—”
“Stop! I will hear no more of this.” Micah stepped down from the platform and soundly slapped Devon’s face. “Thy outrages of heresy go beyond bounds of mercy.”
Devon rocked with the impact of the slaps, yet somehow stayed erect. He swayed, but raised his voice above the confused, background babble of the congregation. “We are in a ship, a great ship built by people. Not the Creator, not a god in the machine, but people, like us. Our ancestors who tried to save us from the death of the Earth...”
“No more!” Micah glared at the prisoner. He spoke in a cold fury. “Thou hast heard the Voice of the Creator; the verdict be clear. We are bound but to obey. Let this child of darkness be taken from the Place of Worship and stoned to death. A place has been prepared beyond the school.”
Devon stared back, not yet fully comprehending what the Elder had said.
! Nor had others in the congregation. “Stoned to death?” someone said. The voice was appalled. They had all read of stonings in the Book, yet none had ever seen, much less participated in one. “Stoning?”
Elder Micah broke the crowd’s paralysis: “The Creator has decreed it!” He turned to the other Elders and shouted, “Take him! Take him now!” They swarmed across the platform like somber, aged birds of prey and enclosed Devon within a dark ring of bodies.
Devon’s voice rose above the knot as he shouted: “I’ve seen it! I’ve been there, outside Cypress Corners, outside this world. I’ve been there and come back... and we’re doomed, we’ll all die if we don’t—”
“Silence!” Elder Micah screamed. Devon struggled in the grip of the Elders as they pummeled him with ancient fists. Micah swung his fist with all the strength he could muster; the knuckles connected with the tip of Devon’s jaw. The young man sagged toward the floor.
Elder Micah stepped back, panting with exertion. He turned and glared at the congregation. “You see now,” he said. “You see. It be as the the Creator hath said. Devon hath come amongst us a devil-spawn, a demon himself, to corrupt us—” He stared at Young Rachel. “To plot against us, to defy the Maker’s will. Thou hast heard the heresy. Now canst anyone not agree with the decree of the Creator?”
“No,” said Aram vehemently.
“No!” shouted Esau and Goodman. Others joined the cry.
Garth and Rachel stared in horror at each other.
“Hear me,” said Micah. “When Devon regaineth his senses, he shall be conducted to the penalty shed for the remainder of the night. At first light, the stones of the land will end his vileness for all and good. Now go and ponder the wickedness thee must expiate from among thyselves.”
The now-aroused congregation arose as one and, for the first time in living memory, departed the Place of Worship in anything but an orderly fashion.
Garth and Rachel, with their families, followed more slowly.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Long after Old Sarah had gone to bed, Garth and his father sat looking at each other across the kitchen table. The unsteady flame of the lantern cast Old Garth’s face in a harsh, unforgiving relief. How old he’s become, tho
ught his son, sadly marveling. Why have I not noticed before?
The dark pouches beneath his eyes, every crease and wrinkle in the weathered skin, the sagging facial muscles, all revealed themselves to Young Garth’s eyes. It must have happened slowly, but I just didn’t see. Some day I’ll look the same as him and my son will stare at me this way. I’m looking at my own face.
The older man spoke. “Your pain touches me, Son.”
“What, Father?” Garth jerked out of his reverie.
“Your pain—I felt it when you spoke for Devon in the Place of Worship. I can feel it now.”
Garth pictured Micah’s face after the Elder struck Devon to the floor. “I do not hate Devon, Father.”
“It should be so. He was your friend all through your childhood.”
Garth hesitated, then said painfully, “I cannot take part in the stoning.”
His father looked down at the table for a long time, until Garth wondered if he were asleep. Then the old man raised his head and said slowly, “Consider your family’s honor, Son, and your own.”
“I cannot help kill him,” Garth said obstinately. “Please be with me in this.”
“Is there more you would tell me? Things I must know to support you in this break with the oldest traditions?”
“I do not love Rachel, Father. I have never loved her.” The old man considered the statement. “You both were promised at birth. The pronouncement of the Creator’s machine was taken. Your will must play no part in this.”
“It has to, Father.”
“But why?” His father’s voice was anguished. “Why?”
“Father, Rachel loves Devon. I have known this always. And he would die for her—and will, at first light. How can I stand between them when I care nothing for Rachel save as friend?” He had to force the words out, knowing they bore barbs which pierced his father. “Is this not evil, too, Father? Please. I must know.”
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