Another day ended. Sol, once again, retired its eternal radiance from
man, as it has in its never-ending cycles of dawns and dusks, witnessed
by all the generations. In its greatness, it survived all of Terra's
hardships and afflictions and it was a living monument to forever.
No one seemed to look to it for comfort any more. The faces of women
and children didn't reflect its brilliance, since no one had reverence
for its good any more. It was a mindless disregard that was sustained
and nurtured by the generations of man that survived. For almost a
millennia they forced themselves into ignorance and then blamed it on
the chaotic destructions that scorched the earth and that burned the
human spirit. Nowhere, it seemed, was there anyone of power willing to
point-out a way to betterment.
Trust knew not any man who was strong enough to deny the utter
discontent that trembled in the hearts of men without freedom. To
almost every man, innately loomed a feeling of utter hopelessness.
In a dark room of the Blue Mountain, atop Bimini Hill, sat a
middle-aged man of high station. He was a man richly endowed with
great wealth, majesty and power, and he held the people's respect.
This man had taken pride in his accomplishments but he had become
saddened by his inability to present himself to the citizens in the way
that they revered him; as living strength.
Brook had long since known the problems of the noble land in which he
lived and reigned. He pondered its past and its future while he
aimlessly stared out of the window at the warming sunset. In his mind
flashed a memory of an old writing that expressed in an awesome detail
the fear and the agony of oppression that the whole world must have
felt in the final days, when the prophesied great abolition had come to
pass.
Entranced, his thoughts were prolonged as he sat and watched the sun
disappear into the earth; its light casting a reddish hue over his
light beard and reflected cooly from his vacant blue eyes.
His mind embraced time. It drifted along its tenses, all at once, as
if they were all merged into one music; a music that played
continually, along with the troubled voices that cried, only to him,
for help.
Caught up within his own thoughts, he payed little attention to the
servant boy that set a drink on the table by his chair.
Without a word the boy flamed the gas torches and the room no longer
remained dark. Quickly, he left the room.
"The sun was resting," thought Brook, as he reached for the chalice of
ale beside him.
He took a drink and the ale soothed his soddy thirst, and his parched
manner, much like the milk of a mother's milken breast soothes a
distressed babe, thus letting it sleep. But Brook could not sleep.
Brook waited for the moon and he finally welcomed its cool radiance at
midnight when he saw it rise over the junipers. Its silvery light
reflected its beauty off the scanty layers of the farming terraces.
Brook's eyes were fixed on the view outside his window. He tried to
envision himself living a thousand years ago gazing out of the same
window, marvelling at the sights that may have been there. In his
heart, he recited a badly remembered poem that was written just prior
to the War of Wars:
A torn heart dying within the mind
A failure to the reckonings --
Yesterdays, todays and tomorrows."
He lifted the palms of his hands to his sweaty face desperately trying
to keep from screaming out his tortured agonies. He believed that he
couldn't tell a soul about the truth concerning the past. He knew that
the Law was explicit:
"The Past is non-existent. This is never to be
questioned, and no investigation is permitted to
be conducted, in pursuit of the question of history.
History begins with "ONE". Only that which,
henceforth, occurs from the year ONE will be
recognised as history. Death, by torture, is
the punishment for this Law's transgression."
(CANON 3:18)
He turned his eyes away from the window and rose out of his chair. He
slowly paced to a large cabinet beside the huge entrance doors. From
around his neck, he brought forth a key and placed it into the slot of
the cabinet door then slowly opened it. Inside this cabinet Brook
kept, what he liked to call, "his gadgets." There were rows of
buttons glowing like coloured embers. Brook applied pressure to several
of the buttons.
Quickly, long drapes on the far wall rolled away and revealed a blank,
white, wall that soon began to produce pictures that moved like life
itself.
The images were of fire and of raging destruction. There were scenes
of huge cities that stood majestically on the horizon one moment, then
falling into mountainous piles of rubble, the next. More pictures
showed fat people, conspiracies, death and misunderstandings. Every
kind of unimaginable horror played upon the wall.
Brook sighed to himself, as he remembered the rest of the poem:
"His music ends ...
His silence devours his soul,
Caging his ever-diminishing days
In a way that any man could lose
His assurance in himself,
And 'why?' he is!"
Then he slowly repeated to himself the words that were the Law:
"The Past is non-existent", but he couldn't allow himself to believe
this, especially with the truth revealing itself in front of him, at
this moment.
He felt a cold tightness within his chest when he let himself think
about his ancestors and the way that they destroyed themselves. Their
greed for wealth and their crazed megalomania was the cause for the
deaths of millions. He saw these men die, in the pictures that
played-out right before his eyes. Once more he slowly breathed out the
words: "The past is non-existent."
He cautiously looked around so that no one would hear him, if only by
chance, as they passed in the hallway.
He remained in private thought.
He sat back down in his chair and closely watched the horrific and
colourful images that danced on the wall. "How can a truth be hidden
for a thousand years?" he wondered. "For a thousand years no one has
even imagined that the very fabric of life itself, had nearly become
death for every living thing beneath the sun." He looked at the fiery
scourge projected onto the wall, then lowered his head and pondered
heavily. How could he tell his people in Phoride, the truth about the
past. That the knowledge about it was subdued by fanatic religious
rulers, in their attempt to subjugate total control over them. Fear
for the Divine Punishment made them surrender their faith and submit to
the worship of a handful of man, as their gods.
Brook had long been a powerful man. He was one from the Great Line of
Knowledge, yet he wasn't like most of those other men. In his heart he
heard the multitudes of voices that screamed and cried out their pleas
to him, to reveal the truth and thus lift the burdens from their backs
and let them live in peace.
His soul embraced everything that he knew was right and to himself, he
nodded an agreement. The time had come to be strong again and to no
longer sit idly by and watch evil, as it has its own way in his land.
He moved back in his chair when he heard the sounds of the Monastic
Guard, marching in the city square and the painful screams of men and
women, that echoed between the buildings and out towards the hills.
Brook knew that these people were being blasted by with the
lightning-like bolts from the Guard's electrophoric weapons.
His strong and gentle hands slowly rose to his face as he sank down
into his chair. He set his elbows on his knees and he cleaved to the
thoughts within his mind, trying to force himself to remain in the
deepest meditation. He felt the hours pass, until dreams soon began to
visit him, making him lose himself and his worries to the mask of the
night. With the coming of his last conscious breath before sleep, he
recalled some of the words that his father said to him, upon his
deathbed.
"Brook, my son ... do not let the land become troubled. Don't be afraid
to fight because the horrifying torments of war can become a tool that
may prevent future afflictions."
Brook was asleep and everything in the room was left unveiled for any
eye to see. Although the pictures on the wall had ceased, everything
was left in open view. Each thing presented a danger to Brook's rule
and power.
The cool breezed night soared into dawn's amber glory. The sun slowly
began to illuminate the room and a robed figure carefully crept in,
much in the manner of a thief, yet it didn't take a thing. It had
moved softly and with purpose towards the white wall, where it drew the
drapes shut. Then it moved towards the cabinet where it closed its
doors with a faint click, and again left the room in much the same
manner as it had entered.
The sky was cloudless and the sun warmed the land with its radiation.
The sparrows outside the window chirped their hellos, while they basked
in that life giving light, before they took to flight for the day.
Boy, the servant, carefully walked into the room and looked about in
wonder; this was his usual facial expression, before he drew on enough
courage to wake his lord Brook. He carefully delivered a pewter basin
full of water, for his master's morning washing.
He called to Brook several times in a meek tone but with no response.
Moving closer, and touched his master's forearm, again calling Brook's
name. This time, however, the boy called in a much louder and
demanding tone of voice.
Brook quickly stirred from his deep sleep and for several moments just
stared at the boy with an indifference that somehow seemed to be forced
from himself.
Brook cleared his throat and sat up in his chair. He prepared himself
to play the Lord once again, but on this day he had decided, that the
long and horrible game would come to an end and that he would truly be
master, as it was his right.
He sat up in his chair and in his usual manner coughed a few times
before he spoke. Boy stepped back a bit when Brook coughed but he
quickly returned to him, and slightly bowed his head to him.
Brook coughed once again then took a deep breath as he looked about the
room then back at the boy.
"What is this call, Boy?" boomed Brook.
"Pardon, Sir, but the lady had asked me to wake you." answered Boy. "I
have brought water to wash the sleep from your eyes." He lifted the
basin up to Brook where, after a moment he splashed the scented water
up into his face then dried himself with the towel that hung over Boy's
arm. "Your wish -- my Lord!" uttered the boy, obediently leaving
Brook's presence as the Lady entered the room. She carried a large cup
and as Boy passed her she smiled at him and told him that he could go
into the garden until he was needed again. He smiled in reply and
thanked her, then hurried away.
Lady Dearborne was in a happy mood. She smiled warmly at her husband
as she approached him with the cup full of broth. She extended to him
her fair hand and when in reach, he took it gently into his own and
guided her to his side. Her smile beamed as she bowed to him then sat
down on the floor by his feet. She gently placed her head against his
knee after giving him his broth. He drank it and sighed, and stroked
her hand as she hummed a lovely tune for him.
He looked at her, taking in all her beauty, regarding her many years of
love and loyalty with much pride. He believed that no man on Earth, in
the past, present, or likely to in the future, felt as he does.
Dearborne was a vibrant woman, twenty-nine years of age, with beauty
unsurpassed by any other in Phoride and the surrounding kingdoms. Her
long brown hair ended in curly locks that fell in front of her and that
decorated her creamy neck and shoulders, enhancing the fair, light
smoothness of her bosom, which emerged from her low cut gown like the
pinkish eggs of the great Kenttitian Eagle. Her totality glistened
like the polished marble god-statues from Laurentine.
When she spoke, her voice was reminiscent of a loon gliding over still
water, during an early morning mist. Her words displayed generations
of knowledge which she had taken to her heart and mind, over her
seemingly few but happy years of life, with her Lord Brook.
She ceased her humming as she ran her hand across her husband's calf.
With affection, he returned the caresses to his love; his hand gently
rubbing across her silky hair.
She spoke without looking up at him or breaking the rhythm of her
strokes.
"You were not to bed, again, last night. I was worried and came down
here to call you. You were asleep. I didn't want to disturb you --
but it doesn't matter." she said, then she looked up at him and smiled.
"I know that you were not keeping yourself apart from me." Brook moved
his hand to her glowing face, stroked it and smiled at her. He gave her
a longing kiss.
"I'm sorry, my sweet." he finally said as he helped her up off the
floor and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she
put hers about his neck. They kissed one another, and held it for the
longest time. "Did you close the drapes over the wall, and shut my
cabinet door?" he asked her.
"Yes!" she answered loyally and put her head on his shoulder.
"You've done that so many times, and yet you have never asked me
anything about their nature. Somehow you seem to know they should not
stay exposed, for the random eye to see!"
"It's not my privilege to question what you do, or why you do it. My
place is here, at your feet, my love!" she told him in a voice that
assured him of her potent and loyal love.
Brook kissed her hand.
"No, my love! Your place is not at my feet, but at my side. Even so,
my place is your place. It has always been and always will be. I love
you, Dearborne!"
"And I love you, my dearest Brook!" she responded and his trembling
heart was calmed by the tranquillizing inflections in her song-like
voice.
An hour passed by as they sat together. Dearborne was on Brook's lap.
Neither one said very much of anything to the other. Only in touches,
kisses and embraces, and the volumes of thought that passed between
them, did they say anything.
They kissed each other again and she turned her body to converse with
him more directly. She told him that the ArchBishop sent a messenger
earlier in the morning before he was awake, with a request that she
would try to get him to the Cathedral, to speak with him.
"The ArchBishop," she told him, "wonders why you haven't answered his
calls to a conference, earlier. It's been weeks since he asked you to
the cathedral. This morning he sent word, to me, to persuade you to
see him."
Brook instantly became disturbed and let her off his lap. He stood up
and slowly walked over to the window. After a few moments of silence
he turned to her and in a loud, angry, voice spoke his mind.
"I do not entertain business with such a man. I hold no men like him,
in regard, as friends _ or anything else. I shall not go to him, from
my own will, and if he cannot move his bulbous body to come here, I
will not exert myself for him." Brook's voice echoed about the stone
room, its bass quality full of contempt and hate. Then he noticed that
he had frightened her, because her face became drawn and startled.
After a moment, she spoke in an uneasy manner.
"My love, that ... that's not proper. The ArchBishop cannot be treated
like that ... He's the --"
Brook quickly stepped towards her and put his hands on her upper arms,
interrupting her train of thought.
"-- He's the biggest hypocrite that has ever lived. He's a
megalomaniac who has always taken advantage of these people in Phoride.
Yet, I have stood by and watched it, and allowed it. What's to become
of it all?"
He dropped his hands from her arms and embraced her. Then, in a
breathless whisper, while his eyes were closed, committed himself to
subdue the powers that the ArchBishop thought he had under his
command.Dearborne, worried and confused by her husband's quickly
changing moods, held him closely to herself.
"What is wrong, Brook? I feel like something severe bothers you. Tell
me what trouble's
you, my love." she pleaded in a concerned voice but, for a while, he
did not answer. He stepped away from her and moved towards the window
again, and said nothing. Dearborne thought that Brook was going insane
and she prayed to her fullest ability that she was wrong, and that she
was just entertaining foolish and childish ideas.
On the streets were the sounds of people; talking, laughing, buying and
selling, and going about their daily routine; which, in more cases than
not, was just trying to survive. In the distance, from the direction
of the Cathedral, came the horrific buzzing sounds of the Monastic
Guard's electrophoric weapons. The sound was like the drone of a
million panicked mosquitos, swarming in a mass confusion.
Brook's eyes filled with tears and Dearborne looked towards the window.
Silence took command of the room. Dearborne slowly moved towards the
window, touched Brook's forearm and looked at him with her big brown
and compassionate eyes. He placed his hands upon her, then they
embraced until the nightmarish sounds of the ArchBishop's weapons died
and the sounds of the children, playing in the streets, filled the air
in its place, again.
Dearborne knew that there was a change in Brook. Never before has he
cringed under the sounds of the ArchBishop's weapons, and the results
of them thereof. Soon, Dearborne cried, too.
Brook eased his embrace on her. He stroked her hair and kissed the
tears from her eyes until she stopped crying.
"It is time, my love." Brook finally said in a low tone. "It's time
for me to tell you about all these things here, with me." He motioned
to her the whole room and what it contained: the shelves of books, the
cabinet, the small statues, the white screen and the musical
instruments beside it, in the corner. "After all our years of
marriage, I will tell you about these things that my father, Smith
Blue, left for me to use, to keep my rule strong in Phoride."
She dried her eyes with a handkerchief that she took from her sleeve.
Brook guided her to every part of the room and explained to her the
uses which every item had during the time of the Twentieth Century,
over a millennia ago. He explained to her that the statues were the
likeness of the rulers during that time. He told her about how these
men's search for wealth and power plunged the whole world into a bloody
conflict that escalated into a cataclysmic holocaust, that almost
wiped-out every living creature from the face of the Earth. He had let
her know of how only a few handfuls of people survived and how they
were able to rebuild the world and civilisation, to what it was now.
He disclosed how these people took the best of both simple living and
great technology, to make a better and more ordered life on Earth. And
he recounted to her how he was descended from a line of knowledgeable
men called "scientists", and how the idea of such men was lost over the
passage of a thousand years, that eventually became thought of as a
royalty. The faction name, "THE BLUE" had become thought of as
nobility and so was its adoption for a surname lineage, to which was
now his.
Dearborne asked questions about many things. Things that even Brook
had long ago asked himself, because he was never able to obtain the
answers after his father died, and there was no one else to ask.
All he could do was speculate and read some of the old texts, that
explained some questions but never in enough detail to warrant full
understanding and satisfaction to his churning curiosity.
Dearborne now understood why Brook kept this room so private, allowing
only the two people closest to him, in his life (she and Boy), to
enter it. She now knew why she thought it necessary, those many
times, to close the cabinets, and drape-over the wall, when Brook fell
asleep and left them in the open. Brook was aware that all this
knowledge would be misused if it were in the hands of someone like the
ArchBishop and his puppet legions.
Brook had mixed emotions about his life and his own power. Although he
and Dearborne had been married for thirteen years, this was the first
time that he divulged so much dangerous knowledge to her. In Phoride,
as elsewhere in the world, the way of life has been one of mistrust and
suspicion. Yet, Brook knew that she would tell no one because there
were many things that they shared and neither one has revealed them to
anyone else.
When Brook finished telling Dearborne most of the important details
about the gadgetry, they stood at the window for a long time and just
stared at the town, and its people.
The Monastic Guards patrolled the streets while the people went about
their day-to-day activity, buying and selling items that they took to
the market.
As far as the eye could see down the street people were busy making
their livelihood. They talked and laughed with one another and rarely,
if ever, paid any mind to the black-clad, helmeted guards that policed
the area.
Children played in the streets. Some of the daring one tried to
actually annoy the guards who, like zombies, went on their way without
showing the slightest hint of aggravation. Afraid of being punished
for their children's misdeeds, parents beat their children for everyone
to witness. They did not want the "Almighty's Angels" (as they guards
were often called), to pour their wrath upon them. They felt that
their children's bloody noses and cut lips were enough to show their
respect, and submission, to the rule of the Almighty.
Brook put his arm over Dearborne's shoulder and stroked her hair. He
set her small and delicate hand into his other, and held it tightly.
Turned towards her, he saw a few shiny tears slide down her rosy
cheeks. "They are the ones that I must now tell." he said, pointing
out the window at the children.