"And that's why we came up with the Pact of the Ponds. We'd form a circle and cover our hearts."
He placed his right hand over his heart and thrust his left in front, then gestured for her to do the same.
"It won't work," she said. "We need three to form a circle."
"Then let's pretend Thomas is here."
At first, she glared at him. When he continued to insist, she gave in, covering her heart and grasping his wrist.
"Pact of the Ponds," he said weakly. "No more arguments and the game will begin."
She yanked her hand away. "But this is no game. Something terrible is happening to Thomas. I can sense his loneliness and fear, even at a distance. Do you believe that?"
Nathaniel recalled how she seemed able to read his thoughts.
"It's possible. For friends since birth."
"Isn't there anything we can do? Your father's an elder. What does he say?"
The shame from that morning rushed back. Nathaniel told her what happened, and she had the same questions.
"In what way will he change?"
"My father couldn't say. Maybe sadder."
"A sadder Thomas? What a horrible thought. Why didn't you press for more?"
"I tried. I don't know why he wouldn't tell. But I said things I never should have said. Since Thomas was taken, we're all in a foul mood." He glanced at the hut skeleton and had a thought. "Why don't we cover the shelter now, you and I? It'll cheer us up and be a pleasant surprise when Thomas returns."
The outrage Orah had bottled up came to a boil. "Our special ceremony without Thomas? How could you think such a thing? He's gone less than two weeks and you'd forget him?"
Nathaniel's head snapped back. First him to his father, and now Orah to him. The world had gone awry. He'd been angry with his father for one of the few times in his life. He'd never been angry with Orah.
"It's the Temple fault. They had to interfere. It's the vicars with their rules and ceremonies."
"You mustn't say such things."
"Why not? No one's listening."
"Because the Temple protects us from the darkness." She recited from the book of light, a verse the elders used to admonish children. "
Beware the stray thought. Like water dripping on rock, it can erode the strongest mind and open a path for the darkness.
"
"I don't even know what the darkness is."
"The darkness is the time before the light, a time of chaos and death."
He took a step toward her. "That's what we learned in school. But what is it really? You're the smartest person I know. Can you tell me what the darkness really is?"
She let him come closer, an arm's length apart, but remained silent for a long time. When she replied, her anger was gone.
"Yes, Nathaniel, I can tell you. The darkness is when a son hurts the father he loves, when friends are separated and when harsh words are spoken between those who care the most about each other." Her expression hardened; the delicate features were gone. "If the Temple ordains we be vigilant, so be it. By that meaning, I swear the darkness will never return."
Strong words had narrowed their vision, so they saw each other as through a tunnel. When the moment passed, Nathaniel noticed cold on his cheeks.
A light snow had begun to fall.
Festival
As festival approached, Orah came to believe Nathaniel had been right. Covering the Not Tree would be more affirmation of their friendship with Thomas than denial. Sad as she was at his absence, she had no way to help. So the day before festival, she agreed to wrap the structure in green to welcome him home.
Nathaniel fetched an axe from the woodshed while she rummaged about for some twine. They met as dark settled upon the woods outside the village.
It was a star-filled night, with a moon less than half full but bright enough to give light to their task. Orah picked a branch and had Nathaniel chop it free. As it fell, he grabbed an end and dragged it to the shelter. After she'd located the spot, they bound it to the slats with twine, then returned to the woods. In less than an hour, the shelter had been remade. Under the stars, it seemed a solid structure that had been there forever.
Orah ducked her head and entered, then watched amused as Nathaniel crawled in. Once inside, she waited for her breathing to calm. The shelter felt like a holy place. The smell of freshly-cut balsam was incense. Being under its cover was comfortable and warm, a memory of childhood. Her hope grew that Thomas would soon return.
The custom was to say a blessing when the work was done. This year was Orah's turn.
"May the light bless our shelter." She stopped. The phrase was well-worn, uttered without thought. This year's blessing had to be real. "Not the light the Temple claims to own, but the true light that burns in our hearts." Then, grasping Nathaniel's hands, she spoke for both of them. "Dear friend Thomas, we're sorry to have covered this shelter without you, but know you're not forgotten. We're here in the darkness with you. Not the darkness of the Temple, but a warm and loving darkness that will soon embrace the three of us again."
Nathaniel gasped at her statement-too close to heresy. She squeezed his hands to regain focus.
"Thomas, we are with you. Say it with me Nathaniel. It'll be stronger."
They both inhaled deeply and spoke. "Thomas, we are with you." And she added, "Return to us safely and soon."
In what moonlight filtered through the branches, she could glimpse puffs of Nathaniel's breath as it filled the space between them.
***
For as long as Nathaniel could remember, he'd looked forward to festival. This year was different, with his coming of age and Thomas's absence. But when he awoke that morning, he was pleased to find he could still get excited.
The day began at noon with foot races. There were contests for the youngest, then the older ones up to adulthood. Finally came those of age, from seventeen to twenty five. Boys and girls competed separately, so Nathaniel could cheer for Orah.
She'd always been fast, but now, as one of the oldest in her group, she managed to win all three of her races-the sprint around the commons, the longer run through the village and a scramble in and around obstacles. The scramble required more agility than speed, and favored the younger girls, but this year, Orah competed with a special intensity.
Age worked against Nathaniel. He had to compete with men whose muscles had thickened and minds had grown accustomed to the length of their limbs. Deriving no inspiration from Orah, he ran poorly in the first two events. Then, in the scramble, he fell at the finish, lunging in an attempt to make the final three and skinning his knee.
When all the races had been run, the elders awarded prizes. By tradition, each winner had a wreath placed on their head, made from the flax that grew around Little Pond.
Flax was a vital crop, harvested for its fiber and seeds. But in the spring when the flax was in bloom, families would go out among the stalks and search for the most beautiful flowers, the whites and lavenders, with the blues most valued. During the long June evenings, everyone would sit and weave the stalks into rings. Then the flowers would be hung on the walls to dry, looking like the wings of a butterfly. A simple prize, but even the oldest had their festival wreaths still decorating their homes.
It was common for the elders to delegate the awarding of prizes to someone close to the winner-a parent or, for the older ones, a betrothed. When Orah was to receive her due, elder William Rush called on his son. Nathaniel looked at him questioningly, but his father just smiled, offered the three wreaths and gestured toward Orah.
Everyone knew Thomas had been away a long time, longer than the usual teaching. And they knew Nathaniel and Orah were his closest friends. So as Nathaniel placed the wreaths on Orah's head so gently he moved not a hair, there were murmurs of approval.
But Nathaniel had forgotten the last part of the tradition. At the end, male presenters were expected to kiss a female winner, twice on each check. The crowd, however, had a better memory and urged him on. Nathaniel took on a look that said he wished he were elsewhere, but in response to the crowd, he rested a hand on Orah's arm and leaned in to brush each of her cheeks with his lips. She laughed and rolled her eyes, but her olive skin failed to hide the flush that added crimson to the color of the flowers.
***
By the time twilight came, Nathaniel was ready for the feast. Races had been run, and happy winners sported wreaths on their heads. Food and drink were spread out on every surface, from the railings of the commons to the Temple altar. All that was needed was the lighting of the bonfire and festival tree.
A spruce tree had been set up in the village square, with candles attached to each branch waiting to be lit for festival. Would the vicar disapprove of this tradition as he had disapproved of wassail? Perhaps. But no vicar ever joined them for festival, and no villager ever discussed it with them. What was unseen and unspoken was allowed.
The lighting of the tree started at the top. This year, Nathaniel was chosen to help. He planted himself at the base of the tree, while strong arms hoisted a nimble ten-year-old onto his shoulders-a role filled by Thomas at a similar age. The boy paused to balance and then straightened. A pole was passed up to him with a burning candle attached. He kindled the topmost candle and then worked his way down. Once the top third was ablaze, the boy vaulted to the ground and many hands lit the rest.
Everyone stared as the tree chased away twilight. Then Elder Robert took a piece of kindling and held it in a flame until the tip caught. Amidst an air of expectation, he tossed it into the bonfire stack. Within seconds the dry wood was engulfed, and the flames rose higher than the festival tree.
A cheer went up. Most stayed transfixed as the flames spread but a few headed for the food. As they did so, they froze in place. A hush rolled across the crowd, until every head had turned. Nathaniel stretched to see what was happening.
There at the edge of the light stood Thomas, like a part of the shadows.
What had they done to him? His skin was pale, his cheeks so hollowed that his face showed no sentiment save exhaustion.
Adults recalling other teachings hesitated to approach. Children caught the fear from their parents. Nathaniel was stunned. But Orah rushed toward him.
"Thomas, you've returned to brighten our festival. What a gift."
She reached out to touch him, but he recoiled.
"A drink." His voice was rasping as if it hadn't been used for days. "May I have a drink?"
Someone in the crowd gave him a cup. His hands shook so much that liquid spilled on his soiled tunic. After two gulps, he glanced at the festival tree and began to well up.
Nathaniel moved, forcing his way through the crowd and wishing for the old Thomas, denying the image his eyes presented.
"Have you been to Temple City? Did you see it?"
Thomas growled like an offended stranger. "I saw nothing but darkness."
Two elders stepped forward and placed restraining hands on Orah and Nathaniel.
"He'll need time," elder Robert said. "Give him a few days."
Orah pulled away and pressed closer. "What is it, Thomas? Did they hurt you?"
Thomas's head snapped around. He straightened and looked at the crowd as if about to deliver a sermon. His speech was stilted, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
"The Temple of Light does not harm its children. Only in the darkness was violence done. The vicars have shown me the truth. Horrible things happened in the darkness. I'll dedicate my life to see it never returns."
The elders muttered how the teaching had made him wise beyond his years, but now he needed to rest. Gentle, older hands led him away.
"He's home at last," Orah said as the crowd tried to regain its festive mood. "But he's no longer our Thomas. And it remains to be seen whether what's been taken from him returns or is gone forever."
Gone forever
. The words echoed in Nathaniel's mind. He finally had his wish.
Something had happened in Little Pond.
Winter
Winter settled on the Ponds and into the bones of its people. There were no blizzards, but a light snow fell every few days, leaving the pathways covered in white. Twilight seemed to come right after noon, and the dark and cold stalked everyone.
For the farmers, this was an idle time. Chores saved until after the harvest-cottage repairs or fences to be mended-had been completed by the first snowfall. The few animals they kept took a small effort each day. This was a time to create little luxuries, to tool leather or carve wood. And to catch up on reading.
The Temple was the sole source of the printed word, and the owning of books was prohibited. When the vicar brought a new book, it was placed in the commons to be shared by all. During winter, the shelves were empty. Books would pass between neighbors without ever being returned to the commons.
Nathaniel consumed three books a week. With so few to choose from, he found himself rereading many from his youth. Most were the same, praising the light and damning the darkness, but he studied them anyway, hoping to gain insight from an adult perspective.
Orah, on the other hand, spent every daylight hour working, either at the loom or when her mother was taking a turn, sewing clothing from the resulting cloth. Twice a week, she trekked the two-hours to Great Pond. On the way out, she carried a few bolts of cloth to trade. But she returned with her pack laden with spindles of yarn.
As the Pond people stayed inside more and went to bed earlier, neighbors saw each other less. Nathaniel and Orah met every day, but their conversations were tinged with sadness and briefer than usual. As for Thomas, he never ventured from home. His friends heeded the caution of the elders. "He'll return to himself by spring," they said, "though he may never be quite the same." This gave them little comfort.
Occasionally they'd invite Thomas to their meetings, leaving notes with a place and time. They offered to help or listen. They promised not to criticize or judge.