A Light From the Ashes Read online

  Listening carefully at Bridget’s door to make sure she was still asleep, Sophie walked barefoot in the cool, dewy grass out to the edge of the road to retrieve her orders from the mailbox. Pulling the paper from the box, she read the old printed words on one side: In a sweeping passion, she seized a glass vase from the table and flung it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The clash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.

  Paper being scarce, sometimes her messages came on the backs of pages from old books, sometimes written in the margins. Sometimes the messages were just circled words within the text.

  Sophie’s orders usually came from Foxglove. They’d only met a few times over the years when absolutely necessary, yet Sophie felt a connection with her. She’d imbued her with certain traits by analyzing the firmness of her handwriting and wondering about her choices of quotes and song lyrics to convey her messages. She’d met her not long after joining the Watch. Knowing that Foxglove was from a village outside of her own Boswell, they didn’t have occasion to meet often. Sophie also wondered about the code name, Foxglove, and how she’d chosen it. Sophie herself was accustomed to having two names, remembering the old Romany custom her adoptive parents had continued with her. Hers, Aishe, had been given to her the day she arrived in the Romany kumpania when they’d taken her in along with her younger sister, Laurie. Though no one called her that since their deaths; only those she loved had ever used that name. There was something intimate about sharing that hidden part of herself with Foxglove, even just on paper.

  She flipped the message over to see the handwritten note on the bottom of the page:

  Aishe~

  Abide with me; ’tis eventide, and long will be the night if I cannot commune with thee nor find in thee my light. ~Foxglove

  They would meet that evening at the lighthouse. Sophie thought again of her adoptive parents who’d brought her to this remote place, named her, and given her the chance for rebirth.

  “My Aishe, you and your sister have not been with us long. We’ve tried to teach you the ways of the ancient Romanies here in the kumpania.”

  “Yes, Daj.” Sophie helps her new mother wash the clothes in the small stream outside of town with the other women.

  A great yellow Monarch butterfly lands on a rock in the middle of the stream, moving so slowly that Sophie wonders if time has stopped in this new quiet place, more quiet than any other place she’d been. In the night, the sound of guns and screams still stab her dreams, bleeding out the fear and loss.

  The butterfly flits its wings, restarting time.

  “Do you see those young trees across the stream?” Her Daj points to a stand of saplings in almost a complete circle. Her arm is thin and graceful as the trees she points to. “Your Dadu and I planted those trees but may not see them grown tall as you will.”

  “What do you mean, Daj?”

  “The same time is not granted to all. We have and love you now. We are thankful for this time. But later moments may not be granted to us. So you must always remember those things we’ve taught you. Help your sister remember. The wind may bear us away as that butterfly on the breeze. Will you try to remember our ways?”

  Sophie wraps her arms, dripping wet, around her Daj’s waist. The scent of wild raspberries wraps around them both. She breathes in the raspberries, the stream, her Daj, and the moment, holding them suspended in her lungs as long as she can before breathing out. “I’ll always remember.”

  Still standing by the mailbox, Sophie turned back to look out to the bay behind her house. Her farm on the hill rolled down toward the beach, waves singing to the morning. Between the gray, salt-blasted wall of her house and the stand of trees at the edge of the woods, she could see the lighthouse in miniature, like a darkened lantern just barely rising out of the water. It hadn’t been used for many years since the waves had taken over the island on which it stood and creeped toward the mainland, gaining ground without retreat. The cold Atlantic now swirled just beneath the gallery of the old lighthouse where once stood the keepers, on the lookout for ships which would never again grace the seas.

  It was a dangerous endeavor to reach the old light, so the message was infused with importance. Sophie turned the paper over and over, the words crinkling beneath her fingers, enduring yet fragile. She traced the words, soaking them in, willing them to lift from the page, enter her body, and fill her with some kind of strength for what lay ahead.

  “Mommy!” Bridget called from the porch, rubbing her eyes, still sleepy. Her strawberry-blonde curls a bright contrast to the faded gray house behind.

  Even with frightening feats to be performed, she remembered that belonged to the night. In the day, there was still breakfast to be made, the child bathed, wood chopped, and clothes washed.

  “Coming, honey.”

  * * * * *

  Sam woke shivering in the cool morning damp. The fire was out. But something else seemed strange. His ears registered the morning sounds: birds out for their breakfast, other creatures starting to stir among the trees and underbrush, crickets chirping. What was missing? Rubbing his eyes, adjusting to the light, he sat up, looking to where the boy had slept on his extra blanket nearer where the fire was. But the boy was not there. Sam’s blanket was folded neatly near his feet where the boy had left it, but there was no other sign of him around the small campsite. Sam thought maybe he’d gone into the woods a ways to relieve himself, but when he didn’t return after a few minutes, Sam was concerned. He packed up quickly, pulling the last of the bread from his pack to eat on the road. He wondered which way the boy would have taken and why he’d run off so early. Sam looked both directions down the road through the dispersing fog. He thought he saw movement toward the east, so quickened his steps in that direction.

  “Ethan! Ethan, boy! Hold up!”

  The figure stopped and waited.

  Sam ran to catch up with him. “Why did you leave so early, son? Didn’t you at least want to have some breakfast?”

  Ethan shrugged. “I didn’t want to wake you, I guess.”

  “Well, why did you leave at all? I thought maybe I’d take you with me back to my village, and then we could figure out what to do with you from there.”

  “No need to bother. I’ll be alright.” Ethan started to turn and walk away.

  “Now, hold on there. Just wait a minute, will you?”

  Ethan stopped walking, but his eyes stayed on the ground.

  “I have no doubt you can take care of yourself. But the thing is, you don’t have to. I know a little of what your life is like. I was out on my own when I was a boy too.”

  Ethan looked up at this remark, wondering if it could be possible there were grown people who had survived a life like his.

  Sam continued, “Even though I had friends with me, we were fairly starved. There wasn’t much in the way of food after the war. Now, I’m not saying you have to stay with me permanently if you don’t want to. I’ll leave that to you. But just know I’d like to take you with me, at least help to make sure you get a decent meal from time to time. What do you say?”

  Ethan straightened his shoulders, wiping his sleeve across his nose. “I guess that’d be alright.”

  “Peter Pan and the Lost Boy, right?” Sam grinned.

  “Right.”

  “Now, let’s see what we can do about breakfast.”

  * * * * *

  The smells of sun-ripened apples, burning leaves, baking pies, and a hint of gardenia met Sam almost like a kiss. This is what he had remembered, just the welcome he’d hoped for. He led Ethan down the hill toward the village, Jesse’s Hollow. The aromas reminded Sam it was Market Day in the town. All were preparing their trades of harvested vegetables, baked goods, hand-crafted jewelry, and the like. The sound of a guitar strumming came from the distance. Yellow birch and red maples formed a kind of tunnel over the path, obscuring the view of the town square until they were right upon it. A wave of memories of Market Days past washed over Sam as the fragrance
borne on the breeze. Helping Zacharias set up the photography equipment and samples of his work, carting a basket of necklaces and bracelets for Gemma which she’d made of the stones found along the creek bed. And always the hunger in the pit of his stomach as he was accosted by all the smells of food and treats to be had for barter.

  Two small tied canvas sacks hung from Sam’s belt carrying raspberries and hickory nuts he’d gathered on the trail to trade for bread and honey. All other necessities could be retrieved from the Government Office. No private farms were allowed to have animals other than chickens. So every Market Day once a week, the people could present themselves at the Government Office with their identification cards and be given a ration of meat and milk. They could also request clothes, soap, medicines, and other necessities if needed.

  A shock of deep-blue uniforms stood out against the rust-colored backdrop. Sam was somewhat shocked to see at least ten Corsairs standing guard at the edge of the town square, rifles in hand. In fact, there were more groups of them spread out along the border of the square. Sam hadn’t seen the Corsairs in such abundant number for many years. Ethan instinctively began walking more closely and slightly behind Sam as they neared the soldiers. Sam reached an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  “Not to worry, son. This is my home. All will be well,” he reassured, having to somewhat force the words out in a normal timbre. He found himself wondering if it were true.

  “Halt,” a sergeant spoke up harshly, stepping forward. “Identification cards.”

  Sam pulled his card from his pack, trying to make conversation with the soldier. “It’s good to finally be home after so long. I’ve been at the lumber camp for the past few years. Smells like someone’s got a pot of Brunswick stew on. That’ll be nice for a change.”

  The guard looked suspiciously at the card, then Sam, then Ethan. “Sam Erikson released from civilian service two days ago. It shouldn’t have taken you so long to return and report. Where did you go?”

  “I was caught in a rainstorm just after leaving camp.”

  “Who is the boy? There are no children listed on your card. No wife or family.”

  Ethan shrank back.

  “Stumbled upon him in the woods. He was starving. Parents are dead. So I brought him with me.”

  “You must register him as your adopted son at the G.O. immediately before you will be allowed any trade privileges.”

  Sam looked around for a moment, somewhat confused, and beginning to bristle at the sergeant’s accusatory attitude. The other soldiers stepped slightly forward as he hesitated to respond. He knelt down at Ethan’s level to address the boy. “I saw some more berries in the underbrush over there. I think we could use some more to trade. Can you go and pick some?”

  Ethan nodded and ran off to the side of the path, happy to be away from the soldiers.

  “Sergeant, I have only just met this boy. I had planned to help him find a permanent home with a family. But I’m not sure I’m the best choice of adopted father for him just now. As you say, I’m not yet married. Besides, I don’t even know if he wants to stay with me permanently. Couldn’t we just get him his own identification card and then go from there?”

  “That is not permitted.”

  “Has there been a new law instituted?”

  “‘No child shall be allowed in any town nor to receive government rations without an accompanying parent or guardian with corresponding identification card.’ This has always been the law, even if you townspeople never followed it.” He almost spit the word “townspeople” as if it were distasteful in his mouth.

  “Now, calm down, Sergeant. I have no intention of breaking the law. I’m just trying to get some clarification and do what’s best for the boy. He’s obviously been through a lot, having already lost his real parents.”

  “He wouldn’t have lost them if they weren’t revolutionaries. The Triumvirate must make sure there are no more rebels on the loose in the form of young brats.”

  Sam felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. The sting began to well in his eyes as he thought of his own parents long gone.

  “Now, you will bring the boy to be adopted, identified, and recorded, or you will not be allowed to enter this village. Understood?”

  “Yes.” Sam tried to keep the edge out of his voice.

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow, waiting for something before he returned Sam’s identification card.

  “Yes, sir,” Sam added.

  The sergeant thrust Sam’s card back in his hand before standing aside. “Let them pass. Make sure he goes straight to the G.O.”

  Sam turned to find Ethan, who was not picking berries after all but sitting and observing the scene play out from his hiding place in the brush. “Come on, son. Let’s go.” Sam placed an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word “son.”

  * * * * *

  At the Government Office, Ethan was duly registered as Sam’s son. Two rations of meat and milk, two sets of winter clothes, each including gray work shirts, work boots, gray winter coats, and brimmed canvas hats. Ethan felt the luxury of having his own things and enough food not to worry his stomach. He carried his clothes neatly folded in front of him, almost reverently.

  Sam found a stand of fruit and autumn vegetables, trading for a small basketful. “Here’s an apple, boy.”

  A grin appeared over the stack of clothes.

  “Here, give me those. I’ll carry them.” Then, turning to the keeper of the fruit stand: “Do you know Zacharias?”

  “Yes, of course,” the kindly woman responded. “Our senator and leader of the Old Ones,” she whispered.

  So he’d become the oldest living citizen, Sam mused.

  “I’ve not seen him here today. Does he still keep the same farmhouse outside of town?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t come every Market Day anymore. So often tired.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Sam smiled and began the walk toward his old home, Ethan following behind.

  His feet knew well the way, always turning toward Gemma. He wondered too why she was not in the town square on Market Day. Everything seemed odd on this day. Everything just a little off, not quite as he remembered home. There was an air of nervousness among the people he encountered. Everyone seemed to be looking over their shoulders. But Sam would let nothing ruin this day. He was within a ten-minute walk of seeing Gemma. Everything would be better when he could see her face again.

  He’d played the scene out a thousand different ways in his mind. She would be outside, Zacharias on the porch behind her. Sam would run to her, spinning her around as she laughed. Or he’d walk slowly, kneeling before her to offer the ring without a word. Maybe she’d see him first and run down the drive to meet him at the gate. But every iteration of the dream ended the same way, with her in his arms and tears on their faces.

  “Is Zacharias your adopted father?” Ethan asked, pulling Sam from his daydreaming.

  “Yes, he is. He took me and Gemma in when he found us living in the woods behind his house. A scrawny and angry lad I was, too.”

  “Where were your parents?” Ethan looked at the dirt path, kicking up rocks as he shuffled forward.

  Nor could Sam look at him when he answered, “Killed by the Corsairs after the Second Revolution.”

  Ethan nodded. Then he knew that Sam knew. He just knew. Ethan slowly reached his hand out to take Sam’s as they walked on.

  “Does Zacharias have a wife?”

  “No, boy. She died not long after the Disaster. Things were very different back then. People weren’t used to things we take for granted. Many couldn’t find food for themselves and starved. Others got sick from contaminated water. Then there were the attacks that happened. You know, Zacharias never actually told me how she died. I didn’t ask. But this town is named for her. Jesse’s Hollow.”

  As Sam and the boy came around a bend in the road, he saw the white farmhouse at the end of the drive, peeking out from a stand of yellow birch trees, making the house look like it was
lit from behind. The old man sat on the front porch, facing a small field of corn not yet harvested. He rocked slowly back and forth in a faded gray rocking chair. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t see the two travelers walking up the drive.

  Creaking steps on the front porch alerted Zacharias to their presence. His eyes opened slowly and registered recognition more slowly. “Sam.” The word seemed to fill his whole being. He had to take several deep breaths before continuing, trying to sound nonchalant about Sam’s return. “You’ve changed, son. Time was you couldn’t even grow a beard. And now look at you, mountain man that you are,” he chuckled.

  Sam extended a hand to help his friend from the chair, pulling him into an embrace almost too much for their manly pride to withstand. “It’s so good to see you, Z,” Sam said into his shoulder, which seemed to have shrunk since they last saw each other.

  Stepping back, Zacharias surveyed his foster son. “So, it’s been seven years. It feels longer.”

  “So it does. So it does.” Sam quickly looked toward the fields to wipe his eyes without detection.

  “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

  “Z, this is Ethan. New member of the family.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ethan. Looks half-starved. Just like you were. Why didn’t you feed him?”

  “I would have, Z, if he’d been with me. We just met yesterday,” Sam responded. “I smell your Brunswick stew. Maybe that will start to remedy his nutrition. Is it on the fire out back?”

  “Of course.”

  Walking through the house to the back yard, Sam took mental note of the changes. Dusty furniture, some pieces missing, unfinished repair jobs here and there. Gemma wouldn’t have left things like this. She couldn’t be living here with the house in this state. Sam and Ethan dropped their things in the front room, then pulled dishes from the kitchen cabinets, a few of the doors nearly coming off the hinges.