Read Online Freda: Volume III in the New Eden series by Peter Dudley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Dudley
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man who let fear and hate fill that part of his heart that should have been filled with love.”
“Darius,” cries out the boy with the big, round eyes. He’s little, maybe six years old, missing his two front teeth so it sounds like Dariuth when he speaks. I take the little boy’s thickly gloved hands in mine.
“That’s right,” I say. “Darius.”
I release the boy’s hands as I stand. The small circle of people, no more than twenty or so, has gathered closer.
“But that’s not all,” I say. “This story has something else to teach us. Think back,” I say to the children. “Do you remember the name of the little girl that spoke to Timothy?”
“It wath a little boy, not a girl!” the big-eyed boy insists.
I laugh a little. “Are you so sure?”
“Yeth.”
“Think harder,” I say. “Do you remember the words of the story?” I know, of course, that they do not, because they cannot read and do not have prayer books. Their lessons come from the First Wife once a week in the chapel, and for six months there has been no First Wife to teach them. And now there is no chapel.
A man’s voice intrudes from the darkness outside the circle of people. “I do.”
The circle parts, allowing Dane to step between the young parents, weave through the children, and come before me.
His sudden appearance rekindles my anger. Has he returned to tell me how stupid I am? To tell the children to ignore my stories and give up on my silly ideas about God?
He looks into my eyes, and I see not coldness there but... not love. Admiration? Pride? I wish I could understand him better. He always shows less than he really feels.
He reaches out, but instead of taking my hands in his, he lifts the book and stares at it a moment. Then he turns to the children. He looks down at the big-eyed boy and says, “It was a little girl. And it was a little boy.”
He understands. A thrill rushes through me. He understands, and he’s finishing the lesson.
The little boy begins to protest, but Dane interrupts. “The story never says whether the child is a boy or a girl. It never says how old the child is, or what the child’s name is. None of that matters. Do you know why?”
Dane is not a teacher, and it shows when he doesn’t even give the children a moment to think about it.
“Because anyone can falter, even a Semper. We’re all human. Right? And every one of us—from the wisest First Wife to the smallest, unnamed child—needs to step forward and help us back to our feet when we stumble.”
Dane hands the book back to me and murmurs so quiet that only I can hear, “Only the essentials, huh?” He’s grinning. “I’m sorry.”
Abruptly, he turns and stomps back through the circle to where Patrick stands. Without looking back, he commands, “We leave in ten minutes. We have a long way to go tonight. Have a snack, drink some water, tie your shoes. Whatever you need to do. If anyone needs warmer clothes, go into Semper’s house and take what you need. Only the essentials!”
Patrick follows him back to the stables where the two horses wait, laden with lumpy bundles wrapped up in blankets and looking confused about being roused on this cold night. As the two men check their lashings and the families separate, some to the fire and some toward the the house, I let the eager naiveté of the children rebuild hope within me. Of all the things we could bring, hope and faith are perhaps the most essential of all. I slip the book back into my pocket and look ahead.
To the southeast, the mountains loom, dark and unhappy. They threaten with deep snow, steep climbs, and treacherous gorges. Somewhere on the other side, our friends, the thousands of refugees from Tawtrukk and Subterra, are gathering to wait for our arrival. Fifteen miles of hard travel, reversing the steps that Timothy took three hundred years ago. Walking out of our paradise and into the hard, dangerous world beyond. And we have no idea what awaits us.
CHAPTER
“Darius,” cries out the boy with the big, round eyes. He’s little, maybe six years old, missing his two front teeth so it sounds like Dariuth when he speaks. I take the little boy’s thickly gloved hands in mine.
“That’s right,” I say. “Darius.”
I release the boy’s hands as I stand. The small circle of people, no more than twenty or so, has gathered closer.
“But that’s not all,” I say. “This story has something else to teach us. Think back,” I say to the children. “Do you remember the name of the little girl that spoke to Timothy?”
“It wath a little boy, not a girl!” the big-eyed boy insists.
I laugh a little. “Are you so sure?”
“Yeth.”
“Think harder,” I say. “Do you remember the words of the story?” I know, of course, that they do not, because they cannot read and do not have prayer books. Their lessons come from the First Wife once a week in the chapel, and for six months there has been no First Wife to teach them. And now there is no chapel.
A man’s voice intrudes from the darkness outside the circle of people. “I do.”
The circle parts, allowing Dane to step between the young parents, weave through the children, and come before me.
His sudden appearance rekindles my anger. Has he returned to tell me how stupid I am? To tell the children to ignore my stories and give up on my silly ideas about God?
He looks into my eyes, and I see not coldness there but... not love. Admiration? Pride? I wish I could understand him better. He always shows less than he really feels.
He reaches out, but instead of taking my hands in his, he lifts the book and stares at it a moment. Then he turns to the children. He looks down at the big-eyed boy and says, “It was a little girl. And it was a little boy.”
He understands. A thrill rushes through me. He understands, and he’s finishing the lesson.
The little boy begins to protest, but Dane interrupts. “The story never says whether the child is a boy or a girl. It never says how old the child is, or what the child’s name is. None of that matters. Do you know why?”
Dane is not a teacher, and it shows when he doesn’t even give the children a moment to think about it.
“Because anyone can falter, even a Semper. We’re all human. Right? And every one of us—from the wisest First Wife to the smallest, unnamed child—needs to step forward and help us back to our feet when we stumble.”
Dane hands the book back to me and murmurs so quiet that only I can hear, “Only the essentials, huh?” He’s grinning. “I’m sorry.”
Abruptly, he turns and stomps back through the circle to where Patrick stands. Without looking back, he commands, “We leave in ten minutes. We have a long way to go tonight. Have a snack, drink some water, tie your shoes. Whatever you need to do. If anyone needs warmer clothes, go into Semper’s house and take what you need. Only the essentials!”
Patrick follows him back to the stables where the two horses wait, laden with lumpy bundles wrapped up in blankets and looking confused about being roused on this cold night. As the two men check their lashings and the families separate, some to the fire and some toward the the house, I let the eager naiveté of the children rebuild hope within me. Of all the things we could bring, hope and faith are perhaps the most essential of all. I slip the book back into my pocket and look ahead.
To the southeast, the mountains loom, dark and unhappy. They threaten with deep snow, steep climbs, and treacherous gorges. Somewhere on the other side, our friends, the thousands of refugees from Tawtrukk and Subterra, are gathering to wait for our arrival. Fifteen miles of hard travel, reversing the steps that Timothy took three hundred years ago. Walking out of our paradise and into the hard, dangerous world beyond. And we have no idea what awaits us.
CHAPTER
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