I was only a boy when my father, the ambassador, was posted to Kyrabra, and I quickly learned to think of the city as my home. I learned the dialects of the streets, Kyra and Yerese. I came to know the streets, the people, and the subways. When the bombs began to fall, I was separated from my mother and father and I never learned their fate. When the Winter, as we referred to it in those lean, hungry years that followed, hit the war-ravaged city, I sought shelter in a subway tunnel. There were others at first, and they shared their food with me, though they had very little. One by one the others died, some of starvation and some of radiation sickness until at last I was alone. I could not go out into the endless winter to find food, but filthy and sour with the urine of some long-ago vagrant, the tunnel was at least dry and relatively warm.
I remember well my first night alone there, when I lay against the smooth yellow tiles, sleepless with fright. My stomach, which had not digested a real meal in days, bubbled like a hot cauldron of acid. I shivered off and on, my eyes darting through the clammy darkness like those of a cornered animal. I don't know now why I was so afraid; After all, I believed I was the last living soul in Kyrabra. The threats of cold and hunger were the only demons left to haunt my dreams.
Shena tells me the Winter was brought on by the bombs that fell on Kyrabra, a "nuclear winter." I only understood that the damp, penetrating cold that held me captive in the tunnel was uncharacteristic of early summer. "The Year the Winter Came in June" is another common title for those terrifying, ruinous months when the whole of the Earth went up in flames. I won't dwell on it now, nor explain to you how I happened to escape the fireballs and shock waves and radiation. Those sorrowful times have passed, and those of us fortunate enough to have survived must move on.
I'm not certain how long the Winter lasted, but I managed to live by catching and eating the rats that skulked about in the tunnel's heavy darkness. I found old newspapers and matches to build my cooking fires. In the beginning, I was afraid to go above ground, to the place I came to call the Overworld. Fortunately, I could find all I needed in the depths of the subway. I searched the many garbage cans for clothing and remnants of food. Once, I got very lucky and found an unopened box of canned lima beans in one corner of the tunnel. Of course, I quickly tired of their bland, starchy flavor, but I was simply glad to be alive.
On the rare occasions my belly was full, I paused to ponder my situation. I wondered if perhaps I were the last man on Earth, and why I, of all people, had defeated death. That sounds quite laughable now, but then I was very, very lonely. I shed many bitter tears of self-pity in the cavernous blackness of that tunnel, and prayed for death on more than one occasion.
When the heavy snows of the Overworld finally melted and the sun again showed its golden face, I was still afraid to emerge from my tunnel. I knew the radiation, like a living and unseen poison, had probably seeped into the soil. Would its malignant presence be in the rain, as well? Could I trust breathing the tainted air of the Overworld?
Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I climbed hesitantly up into the subway station. The temperature was hovering in the thirties, and the torn, discarded woolen coat I had bundled myself in was full of holes. The wind was howling and frigid as I emerged, ruffling my hair like cold fingers, and I nearly lost my nerve. So long had I lived in the tunnel that its hollow echoes and lonely darkness seemed familiar and secure. Even the musty cold had become a companion to me. The sheer, open brightness of the Overworld was a shock.
Still I shudder to recall my first sight of that ruined world! Where I had remembered the tall buildings of a modern, bustling city, now there were only burnt shells and steel skeletons. Where the land had been lush and green and gently rolling, now a blasted, lifeless plain lay before my eyes. A gray film of ashes seemed to cover everything, and the air was thick with its fine dust.
The sun, though, was shining over the ruins, glinting on the twisted wreckage of an electric car only a few feet away. I walked hesitantly toward it, shivering. The ashy dirt clung to my feet and to my ragged clothes as I moved. The sun felt blistering on my pale skin.
There were no windows left in the car, and most of the silver paint had been singed off. I pressed against the cold metal with trembling fingers, as if perhaps it was a mirage that would abruptly vanish at my touch. But it was real, solid. I peered in through the driver's side window, then covered my mouth to muffle the shreik that had clawed its way up my throat.
There was a corpse inside, shriveled, blackened. One charred leathery hand was still on the steering wheel. I backed away, dizzy, choking back vomit. I can't understand why it shocked me so; I knew everyone was dead. Still, this gory evidence was unexpected.
I started running then, past the concrete ruins, down to the outskirts of Kyrabra. A great river had once flowed through there, but all that remained of it was a shallow, muddy ditch. I tried to jump across the ditch, stumbled, and fell face-first into the dust. I lay there for a few minutes, my head swimming, my breathing labored.
"Need a little help, stranger?"
The voice startled me and I reared backwards. I had not heard the high tongue spoken for so long that the few syllables sounded alien and sinister. The girl laughed a little as she helped me to my feet. "Don't worry, you're not dead yet," she said, "even though this looks like Hell to me. Have you been hiding in the city all this time?"
"As a matter of fact," I declared, brushing the dust from my coat and hoping to salvage the last of my dignity, "I've been living in the subway." I squinted in the bright sunlight, trying to make out the features of her face. The girl was slender and small, with big, dark eyes and untamed hair. "I thought I was the only one left," I finished lamely.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said with a wry smile. "As you can see, I'm still alive, as is another, Rahmen the Prophet. My name's Shena."
"Pleased to meet you, Shena," I said solemnly, holding out my hand. My tongue, so unused to speech, seemed to curl around the words. "I'm Darren."
"Well, Darren, your scraped knees call for some attention. You'd better come with me; we've got medical supplies back at the shelter."
We became well-acquainted with each other while walking the short distance to the fallout shelter where Shena and the prophet had made their home. Shena had been a student of philosophy before the Winter, the only student who took heed to Rahmen's revelations. "He predicted the fall of the bombs on Kyrabra to the exact hour," she said. "We were safe in the shelter by then."
"He knew the Winter was coming?" I asked incredulously. "Then why didn't he warn anyone?"
"He tried," Shena said, "But nobody believed."
It wasn't long before Shena had led me across the street to a tumbled ruin of a building. The gnarled, scorched skeletons of trees that surrounded the little house seemed to reach out and beseech me. It was on the edge of town, as damaged and blacked as any of the other structures. I cautiously followed Shena in through a dark doorway. We dodged piles of fallen bricks and branches, finally coming to a halt at a closet door. Shena gave the door a gentle shove, and we stepped inside. A steep, narrow staircase brought us to the shelter's entrance.
Shena pointed toward the ceiling, grinning proudly. "Five layers of lead embedded in concrete," she said. "We could have been at Ground Zero and still survived."
The narrow walls of the shelter were covered with shelves, each stocked with a mountain of canned food. My eyes widened at the sight of peaches, pineapple, stew, and other edibles I'd forgotten had existed. My stomach reeled and groaned with the thought of a real meal. I turned away and colored with embarrassment when I saw that Shena was studying me. "What have you been eating, Darren?" she asked, an accusatory note in her voice.
I grinned a little sheepishly. "Rats and lima beans," I said.
"What else?"
"Lima beans and rats."
The prophet's chamber, as I soon learned, was located at the back of the shelter. "Rahmen will be ecstatic to see you," Shena said. "He's had me scouring Kyrabra since the Winter ended. He was sure the third soul would be found there."
"The third soul?" I repeated.
"The third soul who will begin the reign of a thousand years."
"After I meet him, can we have dinner?" I wanted to know.
Rahmen was a frail, pallid man, his face creased and furrowed with age. His eyes, though, were sharp and sentient. They lit up when I approached, the brown irises burning like hot coals. "You found him!" the old man cried, leaping up from his cot. "Shena, you found him!"
"And you were about to give up hope," the girl chided.
He pressed a cool, dry palm against my forehead. "Any signs of radiation sickness?"
Shena shook her head. "Not that I can see, Prophet."
The old man was dressed in a plain cotton shirt and trousers that hung limply on his emaciated frame. "You must have quite a story to tell, my boy," he said.
Again I recounted all that had happened to me in the past six months, how I had weathered the Winter and kept myself alive in the subway tunnel. Near the end of my monologue, Shena brought me a bowl of warm stew, which I devoured in a few spoonfuls. Rahmen was attentive throughou the telling of my tale, although his mind had a tendency to wander. The prophet's words and ideas were a little strange to me, but Shena seemed to agree with them whole-heartedly. "Yes, I knew I was too old," Rahmen said when I had finished my story. "I knew the Father would lead us to another."
"I don't understand," I admitted. "Too old for what?"
Rahmen sighed. "The New Earth must begin with the young. Shena and yourself. We will be leaving for the journey soon, my children."
Shena saw my confused expression. "The journey to the Promised Land," she elaborated. "The Promised Land of the New Earth."
I pondered those words as I cleaned my now scabbed-over knees with antiseptic. It burned for a few painful moments, then abated. "Are you talking about the Apocalypse?" I asked. "Judgment Day and all that?"
The old man chuckled, a little ruefully. "Do you believe little Kyrabra was the only city leveled by the flames of war? Judgment Day has come and gone, young Darren."
It grew dark outside while we conversed; the thin rectangle of light at the top of the stairway had faded. Rahmen rested his back against the wall and dozed. Shena rose, taking my hand, and herded me from the prophet's chamber. "He needs his rest," she whispered. "You may not have noticed, but Rahmen is close to death. He has been ailing all these long months. Now that you are found, I fear his end is near."
I felt a pang of guilt. "Why does my arrival mean anything?"
Her eyes gleamed with an eerie, glassy brilliance. "His work on Earth is done," she said simply. "He predicted his own death in his greatest book of revelation: 'Lo, and three souls will begin the dawn of a thousand years, yet only two will live on to rule the day."
"I see," I said, but I didn't understand then, not at all.
That night, I lay sleepless on the canvas cot that Shena provided for me. For a few uneasy moments I almost wished I were back in the subway; I missed my familiar, comfortable bed of newspapers and rags. But in my heart I knew my days of hiding from the world were over.
Cool shadows bathed the narrow shelter in a soft and easy darkness. My full stomach soon lulled me to sleep. My dreams though, were ripe with fear, a red hell of a thousand fires before my eyes. I woke with a start, trembling. It was still night, as far as I could tell, but I could see a vague shape moving about in the dim light. "Shena?"
The figure turned, the shaft of moonlight from the entrance briefly glancing her face. "You're awake?" Shena asked in a whisper. She was holding a sack of some kind in her arms. "Good. We must embark on the journey early, before the sun is high in the sky. Get up."
"Journey?" I asked, disconcerted, then recalled our conversation of the night before. "I thought Rahmen meant that we would go in a few days."
The girl shook her head. "Rahmen orders that we must leave Kyrabra as soon as the third soul is found. Our lands lie far to the West, and we should make haste to reach them."
I yawned reluctantly but threw my legs over the side of the cot. Remembering my loneliness in the tunnel, I had no desire to remain behind when they started off on their trek. For the first time I realized that Shena and Rahmen were my people now, my family. Lost among the ashes of Kyrabra, we had nothing left but each other.
Furthermore, I still held on to the fragile hope that perhaps Rahmen was wrong, that their were small islands of land still untouched by the ravages of war, still untainted by the radiation. Could we find such a place, if only we traveled far enough?
I rolled out of the cot. My ragged shirt was clammy, soaked through with cold sweat, and I shivered a little in the humid air. I watched as Shena loaded cans into her sack, then began to help her. We packed the cans carefully and methodically, in groups of nine, one after the other.
Rahmen the Prophet came tottering out of his chamber after a few minutes, carrying a flashlight in his gnarled hand. "Ah, my child, you remember my teachings well!" he praised Shena, who beamed with pride. "Yes, we must go today, though I am not well."
"How are we going to carry these sacks for so many miles?" I asked, my back aching with the mere thought of such a burden.
"We aren't," said Shena. "Rahmen has a motorcart and full barrel of corn oil hidden in a mill cellar across town. We'll be able to ride for at least part of the journey."
We filled the remainder of the burlap sacks with matches and Geiger counters and canteens. Shena folded up the three canvas cots and piled blankets on top of them. Soon the walls of the little shelter were bare. Gathering our many sacks and packages, we ascended to the ruins above the shelter. Shena locked the chamber and boarded up the closet door, leaving no evidence that three human souls had once called it home.
The sun was high the day we departed, an unpeeled orange hovering above the horizon. Overhead, the sky was a comforting blue, the blue I remembered from the years before the Winter. We crossed the dry river-bed, dragging the sacks behind us, and entered the ruins of Kyrabra. Its buildings stood like thick bleached bones beneath the sun, and the demolished town was covered by a palpable pall of heavy silence. No birds sang, no crickets chirped. Even the wind was calm.
"Where is this mill, the one that holds the motorcart?" I asked my companions. The sacks were getting heavier by the minute. I had to bear most of the weight, since Shena was a slight girl and the prophet was almost too weak to walk.
"See how the city slopes upward?" Rahmen said, pointing with an arthritic forefinger. "Most of the building is underground, built into the top of the plateau."
"It's no more than half a mile distant," Shena reassured me. Her own brow was already sheened with perspiration. "But half a mile is a long way, uphill."
We pressed on through the main part of the city, which, by the readings of our counters, was closer to Ground Zero than either the subway station or the shelter we had left behind. It was desolate there, the buildings leveled, every trace of plant life gone. Above this section of Kyrabra, the gutted, charred remains of an apple orchard led to the summit of the hill. With the foliage cleared away we could see for miles beyond the outskirts of Kyrabra, the burned valleys, the gray ashy plains. Standing at the edge of the plateau, Shena dropped her sack and shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand.
"It's so...bleak and empty," she said, and I thought I saw a tear slide down her cheek. "Tell me, Prophet, is the whole of Earth like this?"
Rahmen, panting with exhaustion, had sat down on a tree stump. "It is, my child," he said evenly. "All but the Promised Land. And you will get there someday, with or without me."
"Oh, Prophet, but you will see it too!" Shena exclaimed, her eyes moist. "We'll take care of you you, Darren and I."
"My life is no longer important," the old man replied. "But we must find that mill. We won't get anywhere on foot."
There was a small clear stream on the other side of the plateau, and Rahmen decided we should stop there to refill our canteens after unearthing the motorcart. Since the stream originated in the Weryll mountains far to the north, Rahmen said there was a possibility that its water was "clean," meaning free of radiation.
We located the orchard's dismal-looking cider mill after a few more minutes of searching, a sunken wooden structure whose roof had been ripped away. "That's it!" Rahmen shouted, nearly stumbling over his own feet in happy relief. "Do you see it now, Shena?"
"Yes," the girl laughed, skipping over the dusty earth. "Yes, Prophet!"
"Before the Winter, Shena's family owned this orchard," Rahmen said to me. "But they were like the others. They didn't believe."
"The mill was a wonderful hiding place for the cart, though," added Shena. "It has a lead-lined cellar, as you'll soon see, built after the Third War but before the Winter."
A pile of shingles and broken wood was all that remained of the first floor. Rahmen thought the building had probably toppled over in a shock wave. In any event, its concrete foundation was reduced to rubble. We cleared away the debris at the rear of the ruined mill and found the cellar's trap door still intact. "I knew we'd need a vehicle of some kind when we emerged," Rahmen said, lowering himself to his knees. Shena and I watched as he typed a code into the door's security matrix. "There's a large barrel of fuel down here, too, that should last us several months."
The matrix beeped and the narrow door slid open, sending up a cloud of dust. When it cleared, we descended hesitantly to the cellar by way of a metal ladder. The damp, pungent scent of clean earth instantly assaulted my nostrils as I stepped down. Inside, the cellar was pitch dark and smelled of mildew. "I can't see a damn thing," Shena complained, jumping down from the ladder. "Prophet, do you have the flashlight?"
The old man shook his head. "That was the one thing I left, dear Shena. But I believe there's a matchbook in Darren's sack."
I retrieved the matchbook and struck a single match against the sandpaper on the back. The tip caught fire, lighting the cellar with a weak orange glow. I cupped the match protectively in my hand and then turned to my companions. I was shocked to see that their faces wore looks of stunned horror.
Shena moaned, covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes glassy saucers. Glancing around the cellar, I understood her panic. The underground chamber was empty except for a shiny puddle of oil on the floor. "The motorcart!" Rahmen exclaimed, his thin lips shaking. "My God, someone's stolen it."
"But how?" Shena said. "There's no one else..."
"No one else," I echoed numbly.
But I knew there must have been; there was a large chink in the opposite wall of the cellar, a chink wide enough to squeeze a motorcart through. When we reached the other end of the damp chamber, we saw that a chute-like hole had been dug at an angle to the wall. It looked as if someone had climbed in and made the chink with a pickax.
"It's not possible," Rahmen said in a flat voice weary with disbelief. "I've had the same vision all my life. Only three. Three souls!"
"Maybe it was broken into before the Winter," I reasoned, while the match's flame danced in the pupils of Shena's eyes.
"No, no!" Rahmen's face twisted suddenly with rage, and for a moment I thought he might strike me. "No one could get to the shelter until after the foundation was stripped away, until after the shock waves hit. Can't you see that, you stupid boy?"
The prophet stumbled backward, then collapsed against a pile of crumbled concrete. Shena gave me an angry look, then ran to him, touching his forehead. "Darren, you shouldn't upset him!" she cried. "Bring the water!" I unhooked the canteen from my belt and handed it to her. She poured a little of the precious liquid onto her scarf, then dabbed it on Rahmen's face. The old man blinked a couple of times.
"I'm all right, I'm all right," he gasped out. "It was just the shock, you see--Oh, God, what will we do now? I have seen the land where we will reign. It is far, far to the west. Too far."
"Shh, Great Prophet," Shena hushed him. "You must remain calm. We will find another way, Darren and I. We are young and strong."
The old prophet's body sagged as if the rage was draining from it. "Yes, yes, but I must rest now, I ache so," Rahmen said, sounding a little mollified. "Go on to the river without me. We need more water, but be sure to use your counters first."
"We'll get plenty, if it's clean," the girl promised. "Darren and I will return in less than half an hour."
The water was indeed fresh, and by the readings on our Geiger counters, contained a safe amount of radiation. "It's not completely clean, but it won't make us glow, either," Shena said, dipping her canteen into the stream. The cool water bathed my dusty hands as I did the same. I brought a handful to my mouth and marvelled at its taste. "Will Rahmen be all right?" I asked Shena after I had slaked my thirst.
"I think so, Darren, but it is a harsh blow for him," she said. "We must now find another vehicle or mode of transportation, and that may be impossible."
"But if there is someone else--" I began.
"There is no one else!" Shena exclaimed. Her sunken eyes blazed in their prominent sockets. "There can't be. Rahmen sees all, and he sees only three."
I replaced my canteen and stood on aching feet. Turning around, I glanced over the top of the plateau behind us. The mill was hidden by a grove of scorched trees. "Shena, how does he see?" I asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, brushing a few stray hairs from her face. "He is a prophet, of course."
"In central Kyrabra," I said, "prophets with the gift of foresight were thought to be in league with the demons. Disciples of Satan, and all that."
Shena looked at me as if I had said that the moon was made of cheese. "Rahmen is a good man, a follower of the Father," she said in a low, ominous tone like the hiss of a snake. "How dare you speak such blasphemy!"
"I didn't--I mean, I'm truly sorry," I stammered.
"Sorry? After all we've done for you, you'd better be sorry. Go back to your subway, to your feasts of rats, if you wish to speak this ill of Rahmen!"
"I'm sorry, Shena," I repeated, as I could think of nothing else to say. We gathered up our canteens and bottles of water and climbed the plateau in silence. The girl refused even to look at me, and with every step I took I felt a pang of remorse. Of course Rahmen was a holy man, I thought. Why else would the Father have saved him?
Finally I felt a need to break the silence. "I will tell Rahmen the error of my thinking and apologize," I said to Shena when the mill came into view.
She turned to me, and I could see her eyes had softened. "That's not necessary, Darren. I forgive you, and I know Rahmen would, too."
But I couldn't apologize even if I had wanted to; upon reaching the mill, we discovered that Rahmen was gone. Shena and I searched every inch of the orchard, calling out his name, but to no avail. It seemed he had disappeared; at any rate, he didn't answer us. Then, peering into the cellar where we had left our supplies, we saw that two sacks of food were now missing. A piece of dirty paper had been tacked to the remaining sack. Shena, her breathing labored, tore it off and looked at it. Peering over her shoulder in the dim light, I saw the paper had been scrawled with words in the cryptic Kyra language.
"It's a note," Shena said, her brow furrowed pensively. "But it can't be from Rahmen; he doesn't know Kyra, and neither do I."
"Allow me," I said, taking the paper from her. "I'm moderately fluent."
To whom it may concern,(I read aloud),
I have enjoyed your motorcart immensely. Thank you for the oil and supplies, too. I've put them to good use. Maybe you are wondering where the old man is, eh? The one who predicted the flames and the winder? Well, he's mine now. Bring me eight gallons of corn oil and another sack of food before nightfall and I may relieave him. Otherwise, he's diead in the morning. And by the way, I live in the temple of Luna, suburb E. See you soon.
The letter was signed simply, Alon.
I let the grimy paper fall from my hands and gazed up at Shena. Her skin was a shade paler than it had been. "My God," she said, "it's a ransom note. Whoever this Alon is, he's kidnapped Rahmen!"
"Don't worry," I said, gently touching her shoulder. "We can deliver those things he's asking for, can't we?"
Shena sunk to her knees and shook her head. "If we give him our last sack of food, we'll starve. And I don't know where to find one gallon of oil, let alone eight. Oh Darren, how could this happen? We were alone here on this Earth, Rahmen was sure of it. How could he be so wrong?"
I could only shrug in response. Shena backed against the dirt wall and began to sob quietly. I didn't know how to comfort her, so I stood awkwardly, watching the tears course down her face. Then I said, "Let's find the Temple, Shena. Maybe we can reason with Alon."
"Reason? He is like us--hungry, alone, and desperate." She frowned. "It won't work, unless..."
"Yes?"
Shena wiped at her wet cheeks. "Perhaps Alon will take me in the prophet's place."
I looked at Shena then, her love for Rahmen gleaming tenderly in her eyes. "Oh, Shena, you can't!" I cried, surprised at the emotion in my voice. "Where will that leave me?"
Shena looked at me then, her face heavy with disappointment. A wave of shame washed over me. "You will go with Rahmen," she said sadly. "To the Promised Land."
I tried to argue further with her, but shame weakened my resolve; she refused to listen to any of my feeble protests. When the sun was high in the heavens we left the mill and trekked back down into the city. Heavy gray cumulus clouds had begun to gather, and the air was turning colder. We had taken nothing with us but the ragged clothes on our backs. It was going to be a fair trade--one soul for the other, but though I held my tongue, I was determined not to let it happen
The Temple of Luna, the largest neo-paganist church in Kyrabra, had once been a magnificent marble structure with crystal turrets. It took Shena and I nearly an hour to reach it, trudging for four miles under the glowering sky. As it had been built in a deep valley outside Suburb E, Luna had been spared much of the damage the rest of the city sustained.
We stood before the great bronze doors, wondering if Alon, the faceless man who had caused this unneeded hardship, was already watching from one of the many windows. Above the arched doorway a statue of the goddess Luna stood, carved from alabaster. One arm and the left side of her solemn, noble face were missing.
"Should we knock?" said Shena, staring up at the statue.
"I don't think this situation calls for politeness," I replied. Then I sucked in a lungful of air and shouted, "Alon! You have summoned us, now show your face! We've come for the prophet."
My voice echoed several times in the afternoon quiet, its low pitch vibrating in my eardrums. There was no answer at first, and I began to feel somewhat ridiculous. What were we doing here in the middle of this empty valley? I wondered. Then Shena pulled at my sleeve, and I could almost feel the tension radiating from her body. "I saw a shadow, there in the window," she whispered hoarsely. "He's coming." Shena reached out and grasped my hand in her own.
The bronze doors swung open and a tall, black-haired man stepped out. I had not expected Alon to be so young; he looked scarcely older than Shena and I, his face smooth and unlined, his shoulders broad, his body thick and muscled. Alon's eyes, though, were a deep and icy blue, all-knowing, powerful. I winced as Shena's nails dug into my palm.
"Where is the prophet?" I grated out.
"So you've come for him, eh?" Alon sneered, his voice sour with contempt. He spoke in Yerese, once the language of trade within the city. "I don't see the ransom that I asked for."
Shena moved forward defiantly and met his steady gaze. "We have nothing to spare," she declared. "There is no fuel to be found anywhere in Kyrabra."
"Then why have you come?" The young man's eyes narrowed and he drew his black cape more tightly against him. Although the Winter was over, the weather was still unseasonably cold. "If you do not have the food and the fuel to pay for his release, the prophet dies."
"Perhaps there is another trade we can make," Shena said.
Alon shook his head and smiled cruelly. "There is no other I will accept."
"Would you take me in the prophet's place?"
The young man's grin slowly disappeared. He studied her, considering this proposal. An uneasy mix of anger and helplessness rose inside me, but I bit my tongue. Shena stood her ground, measuring Alon, watching every flick of his eyelids over her. "You would do this for the old man?" Alon asked, "this sickly, feeble old prophet, when you are so young and obviously full of life?"
"Yes," Shena conceded. "He saved me from the Winter, loved me--and in turn I believed him when everyone in Kyrabra called him a fraud. I would sign my life over to repay him."
"So it shall be done, if this is your wish," said Alon. "But I believed, too, my dear, and that is why I am alive today. Come, I will show you to the Prophet's room."
Rahmen was sitting in one of the chapels, bleary-eyed and shivering, when we approached. "Shena! Darren!" he croaked, recognizing our faces and attempting to rise. His knees buckled then and he fell back into his chair. He was half-delirious, I noticed, his mind detached and far away. "Oh, I was wrong, Shena," the prophet babbled. "There are four, not three, silly me! Our cart was stolen, and then I was brought to this house of idols--"
"I know, but everything's fine now," Shena soothed, removing her shawl and draping it over Rahmen's thin shoulders. "You're free to leave the Temple."
I helped the prophet get to his feet. "Come now, Prophet. We'll go back to the mill and rest for a while," I said.
Rahmen nodded agreeably, and we walked back the way we had come, the prophet leaning against me for support. Alon allowed Shena to follow us to the door, but kept a firm grip on her arm.
"The transaction is done," Alon said. "I must bid you farewell. This girl is mine now."
"Run, Shena! Run!" I cried, as I leapt without warning upon Alon. Alon shoved her away and met my attack with a swing of his arm and a huge fist exploded in my face. When I regained my senses, a few moments later outside the temple, Rahmen was leaning against the closed door.
"Shena! What have you done?" Rahmen lamented, pounding the door weakly with his fist. I struggled to my feet and tugged at the handle, but Alon had locked it. All around us there lay a dark and despairing silence. The storm clouds overhead were somehow blacker, more menacing than before, and I knew I had to get the old man to shelter. The wind was moaning, stirring up clouds of dust and ashes. Another blizzard was coming for all I knew.
Rahmen had fallen to the ground, his ropy fingers clawing through the dust. "Shena, Shena, my daughter!" he cried. The wind blew his hair back and forth across his grizzled face. "Shena!"
It started to rain then, droplets like small icy needles pelted me while I considered what Shena would want me to do. I hadn't eaten since the morning and was feeling weak now, but I picked up the old prophet and carried him in my arms. I walked through the veil of blinding rain, squirming as its chill seeped into my clothes. There weren't any flashes of lightning that I could see. I heard the thunder, though, deep and bellowing, as if the very throat of the sky was closing in around me. Somewhere along the line I realized my tears were mixing with the rain, tears for Shena and the life we might have had, tears for Rahmen who was now courting death. I stumbled on, the weight of the prophet's body a forgotten burden, my eyes closed to the steady torrent of water.
I don't know how I managed to find the mill again, but I returned to active consciousness as I descended into its cellar. In our haste Shena and I had left the trap door open, and the underground chamber was partially flooded. I set Rahmen down on the drier end, then curled up, exhausted, near the ladder. My heart was still pounding, and I was soaked through and shaking with cold. Rahmen had fallen asleep in my arms at some point; I could tell he was alive by the shallow movements of his chest when he breathed.
I decided I should get up and tend to him, although my muscles ached terribly. As soon as I had Rahmen comfortably propped against the wall, I dried him off with a blanket and tucked others around him for warmth.
Now that we had reached the mill, I discovered I was too tired to ponder what had become of Shena. I closed my eyes and prayed only for sleep. Oddly enough, slumber eluded me, and I stared out into the darkness instead, listening to the rain as it pounded on the trap door. I thought about ashes then, how gray and brittle they were. A good symbol for death, I decided. Yet didn't ashes nourish the growth of new life? In Kyrabra, they were often scattered over farmers' fields as fertilizer.
A poignant image filled my memory then, of the sweet-smelling corn field that had once stood behind my house. In early spring, when the air was ripe and fine, one could see slender green shoots pushing up through the ashes on that field. From dead, charred matter there arose new and triumphant life. Could Rahmen and I, like those fragile buds, find a way to live without Shena in this ruined world?
This question was still lingering in my mind when sleep finally came to me. I never did find rest, though, because I was jarred roughly awake only a few hours later. I sat up in my damp clothes to see that someone had turned a flashlight on in the cellar. The yellow beam washed over Rahmen, who was motionless with fear in the corner. "Darren!" the old man cried in a rasping voice. "Help me!"
Still groggy and disoriented, I crawled over the wet floor, the stink of mildew swimming around my head. I caught a glimpse of the figure holding the flashlight, and at once I knew what was happening. Alon had broken into the cellar and was now trying to steal our last sack of rations. He stood ankle-deep in the water, digging through the sack with both hands.
Seeing that I had awakened, Alon shoved me backwards against the wall and threw his fist into my jaw. "You'd better just lie still if you know what's good for you," he hissed, his breath foul on my face. I was lucky that first blow didn't knock me unconcious; it was perfectly landed. My jaw was already swelling up and throbbing with pain. "What, no canned meat?" Alon cried, tossing the rations this way and that. "Where's your stash at? You'd better tell me now!"
I rubbed at the side of my face, wincing as I brushed the aching spot. "There's no more, I swear there's no more," I told him. Then I saw the thin glint of a knife in the flashlight's beam. Alon was advancing toward me, brandishing a sharp dagger in his right hand. He picked me up by the collar of my shirt and pressed me to the wall.
"You're lying," he accused.
"There's no more!" I exclaimed again. Alon's hands at my throat were quickly closing off the air. "There's no more food, no more oil. That's why we planned to leave Kyrabra--we were going to starve!"
When Alon moved his hand to get a better grip on my neck, I took a chance and reared forward, delivering two sharp kicks to his groin. Alon screamed in rage, doubling over, and we tumbled down together into the dirty water. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Rahmen stand, a concrete brick in his hand. He hurled it at Alon, who had his dagger poised over my chest, but the brick only glanced off his shoulder.
The thief turned and knocked Rahmen down with one blow of his massive forearm. The old man groaned once, coughed, and then was still. For a split second Alon's attention was diverted away from me, and I was able to kick the dagger from his grasp. It ricocheted off one wall and landed somewhere near the prophet's prone body.
The flashlight had been shoved to one side and was now pointed at me. "You can't lie to me!" Alon growled, his face a rabid mask of hate. "You can't lie to me and live." He took hold of my shoulders and threw me to the floor as if I were a piece of lumber. I knew I couldn't overpower him; he was much stronger than I was. I felt his large hands jerking around my throat again, and as Alon pressed harder the room started to spin. My field of vision was suddenly grainy and purple, and I was becoming too weak even to struggle against him. My head felt tolerably light and numb, and I was beginning to think death wasn't so bad, after all.
Then, miraculously, the darkness lifted and the heavy pressure was no longer on my throat. I gasped and gasped for air, my chest heaving. Alon's weight was still bearing down on me, however, and I couldn't move. I watched, incredulous, as he sank sideways into the water, his body limp. In his back, lodged squarely between the shoulderblades, Alon's own dagger protruded. A dark stream of blood, black in the beam of the flashlight, was spreading down the back of his shirt.
"What?" I choked out, shaking my head to clear it. "What? Who's there?" I wriggled out from under Alon and tried to pull myself upright. The water in the cellar seemed deeper now, lapping at my scabbed knees as I reached over to grab the flashlight. I held it upward, and as I directed it around the cellar, the warm beam shone on a cold, expressionless face. A familiar face. "Shena?"
"Yes, Darren," was all she said, and then we were holding each other, crying and shivering at the same time. I saw her bloodied hands and knew what she had done for me, what she had done for us. We lay there weeping in that fetid cellar until dawn broke over the ruins of Kyrabra.
When we emerged, we left Alon there to rot. As for Rahmen, we carried him up the ladder and set him on the parched, clean earth of the orchard. He was alive, but barely; he was suffering from hypothermia and his nose had been broken. Shena and I did our best to clean his wounds, then cooked him some hot soup from our salvaged rations.
"How are you feeling, Prophet?" the girl asked when he had finished the meal.
Rahmen chuckled a little. "What a question," he said, caressing Shena's hand. "Of course, my dear Shena, I'm going to die. You've known for months that my time was coming."
Shena didn't protest. "Yes. I understand, Prophet."
"There shall always be evil, even among the souls of the New Earth," Rahmen said with a sigh. "That is my final warning, and I hope you will heed it well."
"Always," Shena promised, "but Alon is dead. What other souls remain to threaten us?"
"Alon is dead, yes," Rahmen replied, "but I can see that his evil lives on."
Rahmen the Prophet died early the next morning, and Shena and I buried him in the dry soil behind the cider mill. We knew what we had to do then; the Promised Land was waiting for us. Gathering up our supplies, we traveled to the Temple of Luna and retrieved the stolen motorcart. Unfortunately, its fuel had been expended long ago, and we had to leave it behind.
Shena and I turned and walked from the ruins of Kyrabra, I carrying the remnants of our rations, she carrying Alon's child in her womb.
Hi! My name's Kristen Comer and I live in Northeast Ohio. I graduated from high school on June 6, 1999 as the valedictorian of my class. This fall I plan to study journalism and English at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. I have one brother who plays bass for the band Funnybef. He's two years younger than me. I also have four very good friends whom I'd like to say "hi" to: Megan, Trisha, Jaime, and Jonathan. I currently work for the Canton Repository as a reporter, and this summer I also have a tutoring job. In my spare time I play guitar, listen to alternative and country music, play sports, and of course, write. I hope to be a professional writer someday. SF and fantasy are my favorites. I would welcome any feedback on my story. Please tell me what you think. My address is Marada_99@yahoo.com
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