He never came.
***
William Rush watched with concern. Since Thomas's return, Nathaniel had become more withdrawn. The gloom of midwinter seemed to be affecting his son more deeply this year.
The idea came up during a visit to Susannah Weber. He'd brought over a bushel of grain to trade for a new coat for Nathaniel, whose growth had left his sleeves two fingers short of his wrists. He found he was able to talk to the affable woman more easily than to his sullen offspring and quickly discovered that Orah shared the same mood.
Susannah Weber looked different from her daughter, with freckled skin and a short head of red hair. But she was just as direct.
"Well William," she said. "I think it's time we intervened."
"What do you suggest?"
"Leave the grain. Orah and I will bring the coat to Nathaniel tomorrow at dinnertime."
He nodded, slowly at first, then more rapidly. "I can make a meal."
"And I'll bring freshly baked bread."
Maybe together, they could lift the two young people out of their low spirits.
***
Nathaniel jumped at the knock on the door as if he'd been balancing on his toes all evening. He was always happy to see Orah, and especially now that it meant a break in the long winter. She helped him try on the coat, which was a perfect fit. The smell of fresh-made bread was an intoxicant, and at first everyone relaxed. But once the meal was served, conversation wilted. Their parents tried to carry the discussion, but something in the air dampened every attempt. Eventually, the room quieted until only the sound of forks scraping on plates remained.
After the meal, his father suggested they settle by the fireplace while he prepared tea. Nathaniel threw two logs on the fire. The wood sputtered and cast off sparks as if resisting the flames before erupting into a peak of yellows and reds. Soon, with their chairs close to the fireplace, all felt a warm glow on their faces.
After a respectful pause, Orah's mother, never shy, dove in.
"And how is young Thomas?"
Nathaniel glanced at Orah, who was no more eager to answer than him. When they'd delayed as long as possible, both began speaking at once.
Orah's mother stepped in. "Why don't you answer first, Nathaniel?"
"We don't know, ma'am. He won't let us near him."
Nathaniel stared at the fire with a focus worthy of a vicar trying to grasp the mysteries of the light.
"He's not the first to be taken," Orah's mother said. "It's a hard experience to recover from. He made need help."
"But the elders said we should leave him alone."
"I know what they say, but some wounds don't heal on their own."
"We've tried," Orah said, "but he's shut us out."
Nathaniel was struggling to contain his frustration. "Everyone tells us what to do and what not to do. But no one tells us what happened. How can we help without knowing?"
Orah's mother stood, grabbed the poker and prodded the perfectly good fire. When she was finished, she shifted to Nathaniel's father and hovered over him.
"They're right, William. They should know why we heed the words of the vicars... and why we hate them as well."
Hate the vicars?
Not the usual parental sermon. Some harsh truth was about to be imparted.
"We're loath to talk about it, William," Orah's mother said, "but for their sake, we must."
After a puzzling hesitation, he nodded.
She turned to Nathaniel.
"Your father was taken for a teaching when he was your age. It was long, weeks longer than Thomas's. When he came home, he was closed up inside. The Temple had stripped the joy from him. But as the elders say, he recovered in time. I hope you know he's a fine man and a good father, despite the teaching."
Nathaniel's mouth dropped open. His father taken, and longer than Thomas?
Before he could respond, she moved on to her daughter.
"Your father was taken as well. We'd grown up together, much like you and Nathaniel. My sweet young man. But when he came back, he was changed. We married, you were born, but he was never the same. It came back to him in his dreams. He'd wake up crying and had no way to stop it. When he died so young, the vicar tried to console me, but I'd have none of it. Though I'd never shout it from the bell tower, I blamed-I still blame-the Temple and their teaching. He was a gentle soul and they broke his heart."
Her resolution withered, and she collapsed in her chair. Orah reached over and squeezed her mother's hand.
Nathaniel struggled to control his breathing. His father was slumped over with his face in his hands. What could have happened so many years ago?
"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, careful to keep the edge from his voice.
His father's hands began to move, scrubbing his skin as if trying to remove a stain. When they finally dropped to his lap, his eyes were red.
"I was ashamed, Nathaniel. You don't know what it's like. In a teaching, they show you deep into the darkness, so you know why the Temple stands. You see horrors beyond imagination."
He went on to tell of the small hole, the lack of light, the thirst and hunger, the exhaustion and what, after all these years, he could only describe as the visions of the darkness.
Orah asked what Nathaniel was afraid to ask. "But why ashamed?"
Nathaniel's father licked his lips and thought long, then stood and looked down at the two of them.
"The end of the teaching is up to you. After a while, you beg to return to your normal life. Shortly thereafter, you'd give a limb to go home, be blind for life, just to go home. But the vicars want more, something deeper you might never get back."
Nathaniel sputtered, hardly able to get out the words. "But if there was no sense to it, why didn't you tell them what they wanted?"
A sorrow seeped into his father's bones, making his shoulders droop.
"You've admired courage and honor, Nathaniel, since you were no taller than my knee. And that's what the Temple demands before the teaching will end. To go home, you have to give up your courage and honor."
"I don't understand what you're saying?"
His father's voice was so low he had to strain to hear. But a single word rang out: Betrayal.
"Betrayal?" Nathaniel said. "But who was there to betray?"
Orah's mother jumped up. "Enough, William. It's more than I was asking for."
He shook her off, his back stiffened.
"To end the teaching, you must betray a friend. Why does Thomas avoid you? It's likely you who he betrayed."
Orah's mother placed herself in front of him and confronted her daughter and Nathaniel.
"You mustn't blame him." Her voice rose with each word. "Don't ever blame him. He had no choice."
The fire buzzed and flared. Nathaniel's eyes widened.
"What happens next?"
"Most who are betrayed are never taken. There are enough candidates. Time passes. We grow older. The betrayal becomes nothing more than an entry in the Temple records. That's why I finally told. I was led to believe that... " He turned away, unable to continue.
Orah rose suddenly, her face a single, unbearable question.
"Who did you betray?"
Nathaniel failed to comprehend. What had Orah seen that he had not? Her mother rushed in and grabbed her by the arms, but she twisted away.
"Who," she said, shouting now, "did you betray?"
Her mother waved wildly at Nathaniel's father.
"It's enough William. Say no more."
But Nathaniel's father brushed her aside and came to within an arm's length of Orah. Their eyes met. His expression melted into shame.
Orah let out a shriek and raced from the cottage.
Silence filled the emptiness left by her flight. Then the topmost log of the fire, the heaviest, chose to crush the embers beneath it. When it fell, the pyramid of flame dropped as well and the room became dimmer.
***
A few days later, Nathaniel attended Orah's coming-of-age. While not as big a celebration as festival - only friends and relatives were invited - it was an important event. While awaiting the guest of honor, Nathaniel kept twisting around, hoping to spot Thomas. But to no avail.
He wanted to see Thomas, to welcome him home, to tell him he understood. He and Orah had discussed what had happened, trying to understand it. Impossible. What had happened was beyond understanding, beyond forgiving. But of one thing he was certain: he blamed neither his father nor Thomas. He blamed the Temple of Light.
Finally, Orah emerged and took her seat on a platform erected in the village square. Her mother had the honor of cutting her hair to the prescribed length, just covering her neck. Afterwards, she was accompanied inside by three female relatives. Moments later she reemerged, the gray of youth shed, wearing the black vest and long dark skirt of age-now a full child of light. Next, elder Robert stated the precepts of the Temple, one at a time, waiting while she repeated each even though she'd known them for years. When she was finished, Robert led the assembled in the blessing of life, recited upon attaining major milestones.
"Blessed is the light that has given us life, allowed us to thrive and brought us here to this day."
Nathaniel studied Orah, trying to read her mood. When the ceremony ended with the communal "Blessed be the light," he caught her mouthing the words. But what struck him most was how grown she seemed, how she'd added to her normal seriousness a fierce intensity. His two friends had been changed by the Temple. Had he been changed as well?
At the end, elder Robert marked a card with Orah's name, to be sent off with the next courier to Temple City.
Now, it was time to celebrate. As everyone proceeded to the feast, Nathaniel lingered to congratulate Orah. He grasped her by the waist and swung her around. But as she faced the back, she caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder. She whispered "Thomas."
Nathaniel let her down gently and turned. There he was, lurking in the last row like a distant relative from another village. Both approached their friend as if coming upon a bird in the path they wished to see more closely but not frighten away.
Orah tried several expressions, before settling on gratitude.
"Oh Thomas, I'm so thankful you've come. It's the best present I could have."
He took one step toward them, the most he could do. Nathaniel made no motion that might scare him off. He was certain he glimpsed his friend behind the mask the teaching had imprinted on him. He was certain he detected a longing to be with them.
But Thomas came no closer.
Remembering his father's distress, Nathaniel chose his words carefully.
"We'll always be your friends, Thomas, no matter what you've done. We're here for you when you need us. We're here to listen, when you want to tell."
And then he waited.
At the front of the commons, the feast was underway. Others were calling for Orah to receive her first toast. Thomas balanced on the balls of his feet. When the villagers called a second time, he spun around and fled. The mask of his face had never changed.
***
When dusk had settled on the village and they were tired of entertaining, Nathaniel and Orah wandered off and, without intending it, ended up at the Not Tree. Nathaniel brushed snow off a flat rock outside the shelter and they sat in silence, huddling together for warmth.
"What does it mean, this coming of age?" Orah finally said. "I feel no different. You've been of age longer. Can you tell me what it means?"
Nathaniel shrugged. He had no answers and knew she had more to say.
"I'll tell you what I think, Nathaniel of Little Pond. I think it means two things. First, we can no longer have illusions. We have to let them fade into the thin air from which they came. Second, we have to make choices. And that will be the hardest."
As they talked, Nathaniel heard a crunch of snow from the path. His first thought was that they'd been discovered after all these years. So he felt relief when he spied Thomas emerging from the trees. He nudged Orah with an elbow and tilted his head toward their friend.
Thomas paused at the edge of the clearing. Nathaniel waited, wondering at all the times he'd longed for something new and how his strongest desire now was to return to the way things were.
"I knew you'd be here," Thomas said, his voice strained, but close to his own. "I always know what the two of you are thinking. That hasn't changed."
One side of his mouth did its best to curl upward, passing for a grin. All three moved forward, silent as the snow-covered woods, and met in a steadfast embrace.
Confession
Nathaniel plowed through the snow, breaking trail for his friends. A storm had blown in from the north and swirled through the Ponds for the past two days, leaving in its wake drifts to the eaves of the cottages. This morning, the sky had cleared, though a headwind still howled, stealing breath and stifling speech. But Orah had insisted they mustn't leave Thomas alone. So Nathaniel trudged along, collar turned up against the wind, breaking though the newly fallen snow.
He paused to get his bearings. Another hundred paces to Elder John's home. Once the steam from his lips slowed, he drove his knee forward and set out again.
Except for the height of the storm, they'd managed to get Thomas outdoors every day. While before he'd complain about the slightest discomfort, now he seemed to thrive on the cold. Gradually, he was returning to his former self. Their efforts had been rewarded that morning when he told them the darkness was in the past or in Temple City, but not in Little Pond with his friends.
When neighbors saw the three out and about, they gladly invited them in. One by one they came forward, first with sympathy, then with stories of teachings.
"My uncle, Edward - he's long gone- had a teaching. Wouldn't talk about it until his fortieth birthday. Kept it inside all those years. He was a good man, but after he let it out, he was a better man."
"My brother Richard-you know him, gone off to work in Great Pond-had a teaching. Came back, said nothing for two months. Then went to the village square and spat at the altar. Never said a word after that, but he was fine."