"West a hundred times. A thousand times. West to the far side of the ocean."
He gave up and turned away, tired of the show. But when he looked at his friends, their eyes had gone wide. Almost afraid to see what they were staring at, he turned.
The blue now filled only half the screen. On the left, there was land. And on the land, broad roadways led to a great city.
The old story-every word of it-was true.
***
The next day, Thomas ventured from the dining room. He wasn't sure why. Had he succumbed to Orah's nagging or was he just getting bored? Whatever the reason, he found himself alone in front of a screen.
When a keepmaster appeared, he had no choice but to admit why he came.
"Can you tell me about the darkness?"
The helper responded matter-of-factly, oblivious to the mood of his listener.
"Do you mean darkness as in the absence of light or darkness as used by the Temple to refer to everything that preceded it?"
"The darkness of the Temple."
The screen changed and a new helper appeared. This one had an unfortunate resemblance to the arch vicar, with thick eyebrows and a bushy beard. But when he spoke, he was friendly and enthusiastic.
"Thank you for your interest in the Temple of Light. The vicars invented the term 'darkness' to mean the time before they came to power. Of course, the term is simplistic. Any era has good and bad. The vicars justified damning our era by emphasizing the worst and hiding the best. There are many examples of both. I'd be pleased to discuss these further, but you can narrow the discussion by being more specific."
Thomas forced himself to recall his teaching. "Was there a liquid that melted flesh from bone?"
"The time before the Temple was a time of frequent wars. Atrocities were committed by all sides." The helper was warming to his subject. "Combatants were armed with weapons that used the knowledge of the day. One of these was an incendiary gel composed of polystyrene, benzene, and gasoline, which-"
One teaching confirmed. No need for the details.
"Was there an artificial sun dropped from the sky?"
The helper resumed with enthusiasm, unperturbed by the interruption.
"The Temple used the term 'artificial sun' to describe a super weapon that could kill many people. The crass attempt at symbolism was obvious. Their sun, the giver of life, would compare positively with-"
"Was it used?" Thomas was unable to look at the screen.
"I'm sorry. Please repeat your question."
Thomas squeezed his hand until the nails bit into his palm, then spoke louder, so there'd be no doubt this time.
"Was it used?"
The helper hesitated as if reluctant to answer. Finally, he said a single word.
"Yes."
"And how many died?"
"It's difficult to say. At least several hundreds of thousands, maybe millions if you count the long term effects of-"
Something drove Thomas on. He focused back on the screen.
"Show me."
The screen went blank. When it lit up again, Thomas watched the same pictures he'd seen during the teaching. He was unable to breathe. Finally, he said "Stop." The screen cleared and the helper reappeared, waiting with an infuriating patience.
When Thomas spoke next, the word exploded from his lips.
"Why?"
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"Why did they do it?"
The screen began cycling through helpers as if unsure which expert to select. At last, it returned to the original, who looked at Thomas dejectedly and said, "Unknown."
Thomas glared at the screen, challenging the man to come up with a better answer. But there was none. Everything the vicars claimed was true, and the keepmasters had no defense. He wanted to go back to the dining room and never hear of the Temple or the keepmasters again.
Then the helper began to speak, his tone no longer pleasant, but concerned.
"I've noted your last several requests dealt with the horrors of our age-and we had many. But it would be unfair to stop there. I urge you to explore our achievements as well, the writings of our great thinkers, the scientific discoveries, the works of art."
The helper opened his arms and waited. Science was Orah's domain. She'd been pursuing it for weeks, but it made Thomas's head ache. A part of him wanted to go out into the ruined city and race through the buildings until one of them crashed down on him. But something made him ask for more.
"What do you mean by art?"
The helper was again excited. "The creative arts. There are so many forms-painting, theater, literature, sculpture, music."
The last caught Thomas's attention and he repeated the word. "Music."
"I'm sorry. I don't... "
"Please show me music."
A new helper appeared, if anything more buoyant than his predecessor.
"Welcome to the study of music. Music has evolved throughout history, an art form that constantly changes. Is there a particular style that interests you?"
Thomas had no idea. Most of what he knew was the sounds produced by two flutes and a drum. But a thought struck him. The vicars disapproved of music. What had it been like before they came to power?
"Show music from before the Temple."
"There are many forms of-"
"Just pick one."
At first, he thought the screen had gone blank, but then he realized it was a scene at night. There was a flash of fire. When the smoke cleared, a brightly-lit stage appeared with young men and women upon it, all dressed in black and made up in ghastly colors.
The drummer started first, establishing the beat and then the others joined in. It was earsplitting, louder than anything he recalled-until he remembered a similar sound from his cell in Temple City. The vicars had claimed it was young people worshipping death. But he heard it differently now. It was a kind of music, and as he listened, he began to appreciate the rhythm.
Maybe this time, he'd caught them in a lie. He leaned in, needing to be sure.
"Can you show me their faces?"
The screen zoomed in on the audience. These were not children worshipping death, but revelers at a festival, the look on their faces pleasure, not despair.
Thomas settled back in his chair, the urge to run away passed. He recalled the words of the vicar of Bradford: freedom of thought had been boundless. The music he was hearing was chaotic, not to his taste, but was enjoyed by these people.
The day was wearing on. His stomach had begun to growl. He decided to sample one last sound before joining his friends for dinner.
"Can you show me one more, something a little... quieter?"
The screen cleared for a moment, then revealed a mass of players holding instruments the likes of which he'd never seen. He peered closer. He could pick out a flute like his own, except larger, more polished and elaborately carved. And another wind instrument, even longer, with more holes and silver pieces to cover them. But most of the players had wooden instruments-he assumed they were instruments-and held near them something that looked like a thin saw.
The leader in front tapped twice and held up a stick. The musicians readied their instruments. The saws were raised, pointing to the sky. And then they began to play.
Thomas took a moment to connect the sounds-rich and sonorous and somehow woody-with the musicians sawing at their instruments. Then, as he listened, he heard something else, not a single melody, but several, all going on at once. They didn't get in each other's way, but worked together, playing off one another to form a whole piece.
One of the higher pitched instruments tossed out a melody. A lower one picked it up, changed it and tossed it back. Then all came together for a note or two, changing the-he had no word for it-and split apart again. It was a musical dance.
He found himself getting lost in the bouncing, floating joy of it. It made him remember trips to the granite mountains as a child; the feeling of winning a race at festival; the euphoria of finding the keep. It sounded like something wonderful he'd been dreaming about all his life, strange dreams that hinted of music from long ago. Now he'd found it again, and it was better than he could ever have imagined.
Then it was over. The helper returned.
"You've been listening to the first movement of the Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major BWV 1047, by Johan Sebastian Bach, played by-"
"May I hear it again?"
The screen went blank. The musicians reappeared and began to play once more. But this time Thomas listened to see how the dance came into being, trying to understand how the different melodies wove in and out. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the flute that had lain silent for too long, closed his eyes and swayed with the sound until he could feel it in his fingertips.
Then he joined in the dance.
Enlightenment
The next morning, Nathaniel strode into a viewing area, desperate to learn more about the voyage across the ocean. He puffed out his chest and bellowed a command.
"Help. I want to hear stories about heroes."
No helper appeared. Instead, the screen filled with a catalog of titles. He came closer and scanned the list. One title caught his eye:
The Man Who Toppled the Temple of Light
. He repeated the phrase aloud, affirming what it said, and the screen cleared. In its place, a page of text displayed.
Shortly, a man with a rich baritone began reciting the words, which scrolled down the screen as he spoke. Before he knew it, Nathaniel was captivated. Abandoning his original plans, he sat and listened as the hours passed. The speaker told of a courageous man who stood up to the Temple in the final days of the prior age. He traveled from town to town, declaring the Temple was distorting the truth about the past. Although many listened, none would act. In the end, he was driven back to his village, where he was stoned by his neighbors at the urging of the vicars.
Nathaniel's fingers curled into clenched fists as he listened. But the story wasn't finished. After the man's death, the villagers had remorse and rebelled against the Temple. The reaction spread like a wave, and soon an entire region had walled off the influence of the Vicars. Banished books were reprinted and forbidden ideas resurrected. Free thought flowed. The story ended with the seeds of enlightenment planted and beginning to grow.
The tale left Nathaniel drained. He mourned for the man and blamed the people for not supporting him sooner. But he exulted in the outcome. Though the man had perished, he'd made a difference.
Before he could dwell on it further, the screen cleared and a woman appeared, smiling graciously.
"Thank you for listening to the story of
The Man Who Toppled the Temple of Light
, author unknown. We hope you've enjoyed this book. If you're interested in similar stories, please ask and we'll make recommendations."
Nathaniel crumpled his brow. What had he been listening to? He recalled his request for stories and knew the helpers could be literal.
"Is this story true?" he said.
"No.
The Man Who Toppled the Temple of Light
is a work of fiction. If you're interested in nonfiction books, I can show you a list."
"What is fiction?"
"Fiction is a class of literature that is the creation of the author, an act of imagination."
Nathaniel's chin sunk to his chest. Orah's voice echoed in his mind:
What you see is an illusion
.
When he spoke, he forced the words to be crisp so the helper would have no trouble understanding.
"Tell me more about this book."
She said the book had been written in the days before the keepmasters fled and was one of the last works rescued. It had been outlawed by the Temple censors, who controlled all means of printing.
"And what happened to the writer?"
"We're not sure. Probably imprisoned or executed."
Maybe the story wasn't a total illusion. The author had lived it. He wrote the book to show the truth and move others. He believed in his cause and paid the price.
The day had flown by with no answers to his original question. But he'd learned a greater lesson.
Ideas combined with courage can change the world.
***
The next day, Nathaniel tried again to learn about those who'd crossed the ocean. He raced through corridors, switching from screen to screen, uncertain which question to ask. Each corridor led to another until he'd gone as far from the golden doors as he'd ever been. Nothing remained but an unmarked anteroom with no screen and a solitary doorway leading away from it to the very limit of the keep.
He nearly turned back, sensing a blind alley, but curiosity drove him on. The passageway was narrower than the rest, barely wide enough for a single person. As he progressed, the ceiling tapered downward until he had to duck his head to continue. The hall ended at an ornate archway that opened into a viewing area. Unlike the others in the keep, this chamber was crowned with a marble dome, the masters' sole concession to grandeur.
Immediately, he became disoriented. Elsewhere in the keep, the walls were smooth, broken only by screens. Here, they were covered with rows of boxes embedded in the surface, each a foot wide and a hand high, with their faces protruding. All were decorated with an oval medallion on which lay a glittering stone. These came in every shape and color-blue sapphires and red rubies, yellow and green opals, honey-colored amber and purple amethyst. The lighting in the room was directed not for the benefit of visitors, but to highlight the stones. As Nathaniel drifted about the room, the refractions generated unsettling rivulets of light.
He groped along the edge of one of the boxes, his fingertips struggling for purchase, and then pulled. It was tightly sealed. He tugged harder, and the box groaned, shifting a hair's breadth. The movement had exposed a gap for his fingers to grasp. He positioned his hands, bent at the knees and grunted. The drawer slid an inch.
A pungent odor filled the air, distasteful but vaguely familiar. Then it struck him-not a viewing area but a crypt, and the boxes held human remains. He slid the drawer back into place, then collapsed onto a chair to compose himself. When he glanced at the floor by his feet, he noticed another of the medallions lying on the ground as if awaiting a box of its own. In its center was a chunk of obsidian, at once clear and black throughout. It was the only one of its kind in the room.