Phoenix Without Ashes (8 page)

“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 dwell 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 wound. 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?”

Her father half-turned. “No one, daughter. Do not bestir thyself.”

Devon raised his voice: “Rachel! It’s me. This is important.”

Aram started to close the door. Devon expediently put his booted foot in the gap. “Wait. I’ve got something to show all of you.”

“Devon?” Rachel looked over her mother’s shoulder.

Aram took a step backward and moved protectively in front of his wife and older daughter. “No one is there; not even a spirit of the night.”

Devon took advantage of the moment to swing the door completely open. He stepped inside the house. Ignoring Aram and Old Rachel, he held up the cassette. “I caught him, Rachel. I caught Elder Micah telling the Creator’s machine what to say.”

Ruth started to clamber down the ladder from the loft. Her father stopped her with a gesture of his arm. “It’s nothing, girl. Go back to bed.” He reverted to the jargon of the Elders. “Get thee gone, Devon. Go now before thou art done a harm. I mean thee no ill, boy, but there will be no blaspheming here.”

Still ignoring him, Devon continued talking to Rachel. “Rachel, listen to me! The machine isn’t what the Elders
say
it is. I think it’s broken. I don’t know how long it’s been broken, but it was Elder Micah who said you had to mate with Garth, not the Creator! Look: I have it all here on this thing from the machine.... The voice is
here.”
Old Rachel said with horror. “Thee took from the machine of the Creator?”

Aram snatched the cassette from his hand. “The holy relic! Thee stole—”

Devon said relentlessly, “Rachel, please! Listen to me. What I’m telling you is that we can be together.... I fought with Micah and Jubal.... They tried to hide this... to stop me... to kill me...”

“Thee smote the Elders?” said Aram.

“Devon...” An expression he couldn’t decipher flickered across Rachel’s face.

“We’ve got to let everyone know, Rachel. We’ve all been duped, used, lied to. Only the Creator knows for how long... maybe hundreds of cycles....”

Aram lunged to the side of the kitchen and picked up the ax leaning against the firewood bin. He hefted it menacingly as he came toward Devon. “Get away, Devon. Go now or thee will suffer harm.” The keenly honed edge of the ax head glittered in the lamplight.

Devon stepped backward onto the porch. Helplessly, he said to Rachel, “Come with me... please...”

For a moment, only a moment, she started to take a step toward him. Her parents saw it instantly; old Rachel tightly held her arm; Aram stepped in front of her and gestured with the ax. Ruth watched wide-eyed from the top rungs of the ladder.

Rachel spoke and Devon heard anguish in her voice. “I am my father’s and my mother’s daughter. I will do what I must. Go, Devon. Please go quickly...”