Moonlight stretched shadows from trees bordering east of the village. Great oaks and redwoods towered like watchmen to the village-folk. In the witching hours of the night, restless children peeked pale-faced through cottage windows towards silhouettes emerging from the forest. Dancing shades, fleeting between the trees, flailed their limbs to a rhythm the colonials feared till the night waned away.
The following morning, all the town gathered beneath the Orator's balcony. The Orator, a tall and refined man, made his way onto stage. Exiting his study, his *latchet shoes thumped hollow cross the wooden platform; the august gale rustled his salted beard. Below, at the foot of his house, the crowd bickered. Dressed in greatcoats for the autumn cold, their volume grew as rumors circulated.
The Orator's eyes, silver like a freshly sharpened axe, fell on the audience. Their nervous attentions shifted between him and their own murmurings. The sun rose. The horizon bled—hemorrhaged tinges of purple and crimson and the Orator found his thoughts lost in this vivid, red reality.
"We will need three this year," the Orator's words echoed. The crowd's volume grew again, but like a gavel, his voice thundered down, silencing the throng.
"It is inevitable." He paused. "Which children will sacrifice themselves for the sake of our Colony?"
The crowd grew restless. Their eyes swam amongst each other; then a small hand amidst the thrall sprung up. A smooth faced youth with a head too large for his torso ambled to the front of the crowd. The Orator examined the swain. Raven-haired, big brown-eyed; the boy's face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage.
"Eli, is it?"
The boy nodded.
"Two more," the Orator continued.
A cool, sleek fellow with ebony hair and a tobacco pipe loosely held betwixt his fingers answered. "I will join the boy." The crowd shrieked—no adult had dare venture beyond the forest.
The Orator grimaced. "I do not understand." Pensively, he tapped his finger on the balcony's railing.
Slim with a tilted brim, the Fellow smiled beneath the shade of his hat. "The decision is yours, Orator."
The crowd bickered in their mass:
Do you want your child to go?
The Orator watched their eyes flitter between him and their own chop-and-change conversations.
My boy is only twelve!
An adult tribute was unprecedented.
Observe the Commandments!
The Orator reasoned groups were more immoral than individuals.
Jesus, he's already volunteered himself!
Likely, they'd permit heresy to retain their individual lives. "One more," the Orator continued. They hushed and an older boy stepped forward.
"I'll go," Amias said. His storm grey eyes honed on their leader.
"Depart morrow's dawn. Today's gathering is adjourned. We thank you for your sacrifice."
The colonists dispersed to their routines—weaving textiles, tending acres and farm animals. The adults toiled till dusk; mothers held tears back like rain clouds. Hovering over bleak gardens, the children thought their parents would turn to water if they could. They would lament and nourish the barren furrows until spring came, but they didn't, and autumn blew cold as ever, wilting their ashen faces.
From the balcony, the Orator returned to his study. He disciplined to his ledger; he arranged preparations for the boys' and the Fellow's funeral. He recorded studiously the numbers of the crops and livestock. He accounted for this year's drought, the incoming supplies and even medicinal needs. He accounted for everyone and every outcome. And as the colonists toiled beneath the fall sun, they reminded themselves: For it is by faith we have been saved.
The Fellow and the boys stood mutely at the center of the lot. The Fellow veiled in exhaled smoke and Eli, savoy and innocent, his big brown eyes, deep like a lake, drinking the Fellow in.
Amias shoved his peer. "What are you thinking?"
Eli faced Amias and puffed his chest proud as a peacock; the boy's shrill voice eked out. "The cemetery is the only thing still growing here."
Amias flinched. "Eli, none. And I mean none have returned from the forest, not since years ago. Melody and your mother, they will weep."
Eli clenched his fists till his nails bit his palms. " Amias, isn't hasn't rained in this long!" The boy extended his arms in measurement. "Every winter we starve and now the tree shades?" Eli glanced towards the fenced perimeter of the village--sharpened logs plunged like toothpicks in a ring around their hamlet. "I don't know what's out there in the dark but..." The autumn winds made Eli's eyes water. "This can't be life."
Amias measured his friend. He'd seen stalks of corn sturdier than Eli, taller too. Yet, there was no reversing his decision. Amias glanced towards the Fellow; they were all dead men. He sighed. "Let's head home for now. We all need rest."
Eli nodded and trotted off.
The Fellow called. "We'll depart at dawn. Don't be late."
Amias faced the Fellow. He was a wiry man. The tallest in their village; his figure thin as a shade. The Fellow's presence felt ghastly, ephemeral as the thin wisps of grey smoke curled at the brim of his hat. It was necessary to see and hear and touch him to be sure he was real. Beneath all that haze, the Fellow was smiling; the red cherry of his **cheroot glowing as he toked.
"May I ask you a question?"
The Fellow puffed. "You just did."
The teen's brow furrowed to a grumpy line. "You could've disappeared from this place and no one would've batted an eye. Why forfeit your life?"
The Fellow breathed a curt, mirthless cackle. "Demons laugh when we discuss the future, boy. Even fates grim as ours." His lips formed a Cheshire grin. "Now go collect ye condolences before the day ends."
Amias eyed him. Black hat, black shirt and spindly bronzed limbs, his sinewy frame dwarfed the teen. "Your words aren't fake Fellow, but I can already tell your smile is a lie."
The Fellow indulged one last drag before discarding and stomping his cigar into the arid land. "The truth will not ease your suffering, boy."
*********************
Eli pace grew sluggish as he neared his home. His mouth had become impossibly dry. He hadn't time to find the proper words for his mother. 'Goodbye' and 'I love you' could never be enough.
Approaching the oak wood cottage, he traced the image of its pallid square face and overhanging eaves. The thought of culled vegetables warm over a licking fire eased him. The oakwood door flung open and his mother swaddled him. Eli nestled warm in her embrace. Then he explained his decision.
"The cemetery is the only thing still growing here," the boy said. He wondered where the Pastor went. Why is it no one reads now except the Orator? And beyond this gauntlet of trees, his peers whispered of a shore.
She was eerily quiet; fresh tears clung to the sleepless crescents of her eyes. "Eli, would you rather be loved or respected?"
Eli's brow creased. "Loved, mom. Loved. Always."
Her hands shifted to his shoulders; she spoke slowly, "Protect yourself by yourself."
Eli could feel his heart in his palms; his fist clenched.
"Note the direction of the wind." His mother's thumb traced gentle circles around his knuckle. "And Eli, Christians aren't necessarily good people. They're just forgiven."
Taps on the oak wood door broke their silence. At the open doorway, a girl beckoned Eli. His mother gestured him to join her. Eli hurried. His mother's eyes followed him then she returned to work, altering between preparing his supplies and supper. Outside the youths frolicked. Eli chased the girl around shoddy barns, unlocked gates and over leaning fences. As he pursued her, he examined the faces of onlookers. Torpid adults with drab eyes always following some hazy possibility—Eli thought. There had to be fates worse than death.
Eli halted as his friend slipped beneath the shade of an alleyway formed by a gabled roof and an abutting fence dividing the backyards. Eli moved through the shade and emerged again in sunlight. She sat on a wooden bench with her face opposite to him, her expression crestfallen as the red sun loomed before them. Eli approached her with a measured step and as he neared, he remarked on a faint humming sound.
"Melody, the sounds you make. They're enchanting."
She faced him with a furtive smile. "Years ago, when it rained, they would sing hymns in praise," her hands fidgeted. She said. "I've never sung for anyone before."
"Yeah, this is the first time I've heard you sing."
Melody's finger curled in her hair. "So you're leaving tomorrow." Her eyes narrowed.
"Yeah." Eli shifted closer.
They kissed and ruddy light illuminated their expressions. Eli, petrified like a gargoyle, then seeing the setting sun, he motioned, "The night is nearing."
Melody's hands moved to hold his face. Eli explained, "I love you and I am sorry. I'm so sorry, Melody. Part of me wants to grow old with you in this village and part of me wants to know the truth." His gaze fell to the earth.
She lifted his head. "Do you remember our first meeting?"
Eli blushed and Melody brought her lips to his. "You looked just like that. It was a winter morning and my parents had perished with the season. I was always so gloomy and you'd follow me around like a shadow on a clear day."
"I wanted to make you happy. Like how you make me happy."
"Mhm. One day you just blurted out that you loved me." she giggled.
"Listen, Melody I was--"
She pressed a finger to his lips. Her eyes checked for onlookers. "I thought you were brave that day, pestering as a bee to a flower petal. Don't change."
The two hurried home. The sun descending in cloaks of violet and vermillion, Melody turned back and hymned, "Your footsteps running around in the darkness. They alone I will listen for in the night!"
* latchet (shoe)-a narrow leather strap, thong, or lace that fastens a shoe or sandal on the foot.
**cheroot-a cigar with both ends open and untapered.
***Welcome to Lawless Heaven! I hope you enjoy your stay 😇
Let me know if you've any question at all! I'm always open to converse.