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  STORM’S SANCTUARY

  Donald Brown

  Copyright © Donald Brown. 2019

  eBook Edition

  Editor: Daniel de Kock

  Cover designer: Donald Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, without the prior written permission by the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All events, characters and relationships are fictional. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Darkness.

  Utter darkness.

  The man in the black cloak was struggling to find his footing up the hill. He was lean and tall and the cloak was seemingly swallowing him.

  When he finally reached the apex of the mound, a light breeze blew into his face and he could suddenly smell the distinctive scent of fresh fountain water up ahead.

  Pulling back the cloak’s hood, he took a deep breath and then peered down to the valley below with piercing black eyes, his pale skin glowing in the dark. The picture that came into view was that of a lively town with fairy lights decorating the streets, green lawns beautifying the yards of the pastel-colored houses, and song and laughter coming from the square in the center, where people were attending some kind of festival.

  In fact, he knew it to be a wedding and an important wedding at that.

  The cloaked man nodded his head and then his ears twitched when there was a rustle in the tall grass behind him.

  Moments later, the dwarf-like shape of a person half his size was standing alongside him on the top of the hill. The newcomer’s face was completely disfigured and partly covered by a black neckerchief. “All the preparations have been made, master.”

  “Good,” replied the cloaked man, without looking down. The strange breathing apparatus over his mouth and nose caused his frightening voice to sound like it was projected through a loudspeaker. “Is she ready?” he asked, turning his head ever so slightly.

  “Indeed she is, master,” came the reply.

  Nodding once again, the cloaked man said, “Then give this to her.”

  His assistant took the vial with a small gasp, careful not to let it slip through his fingers.

  The cloaked man ignored the surprise of his underling and continued. “This town will be the perfect place for our latest recruit.”

  His cold eyes swiveled down to focus on a signboard announcing the town’s name.

  From the glow of two lanterns, on either side of the sign, he could discern the letters.

  It read: ZION

  1

  “The last enemy that shall be destroyed …is death.

  “1 Corinthians 15 verse 26...” Father Dennis paused for a moment, allowing the words to hang in the air for maximum effect. His tall and slender stature was leaning forward over the pulpit, with his cold stare remaining fixed on the thick bible he was reading from.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally lifted his head and adjusted his glasses upwards with both hands, gently, so that it did not mess up his neatly combed hair. Then he cleared his throat and continued to address the congregation in slow, dragged-out sentences.

  “Here, Paul lays out our true and most forceful enemy. For the last one can only be the strongest one. The one that fights to the end. The one that will be the most difficult to destroy.”

  There was absolute silence in the church, which was located on top of the hill, looking out over the entire beautiful town of Zion. The sun was shining brightly on this cloudless day and the fresh smell of spring was in the air.

  “But, who exactly is this last enemy?” The preacher now asked, raising his eyebrows in expectation and casting his soul-searching emerald eyes on his audience.

  The question caught the congregation by surprise and some of the worshippers looked around furtively, like a bunch of school children being asked a complication question. One man started leafing ferociously through his bible, trying to find the answer.

  When no one volunteered a reply, the preacher took matters into his own hands. “Tom?” he called out.

  A young man with golden cropped hair hesitated slightly before standing up from his seat in the front row. The chair screeched on the hard cobblestone floor as he rose, which startled him and made him look back. When he noticed the noise was only brought on by his own clumsiness, he turned to face the preacher and then spoke.

  “Illn…”

  He paused and then took a deep breath.

  “Illness father?” he ultimately managed, still unable to suppress his nervousness.

  “No, Tom,” the preacher said, smiling. “It is one of the many agents of the enemy, but it does not represent death itself.”

  “The pox?” a peculiar woman shouted from one of the back rows. Some of the other congregants peered at her surreptitiously, perhaps fearing that her passion was rooted in the fact that she had attracted the pox once.

  Father Dennis shook his head, somewhat dismissively. “I’m afraid not. It’s still just an illness.”

  “The weather?” a farmer, still dressed in his overalls, called out.

  “Perhaps for you, James,” the preacher remarked amusingly, which sent a ripple of laughter throughout the audience. He waited a few moments for the crowd to focus their undivided attention back on him before continuing. “We are talking about a mighty force here, brothers and sisters. There is something else controlling this dark force, yet all of these things you have mentioned are mere agents in the employ of the enemy.”

  In a shady corner at the back of the church, a shabby woman, known as Bertha – dressed in dishevelled clothes – who had been slouching against the wall, leaned over to the doctor beside her. “It’s probably the devil,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, leaning on her blue cane.

  He grinned at this. “Let us wait and see. Don’t spoil it.”

  The old and conservative miss Pennyweather caught his eye and motioned for him to be quiet with her index finger pressed to her lips. He nodded quickly and focussed his attention back to the congregation, which had now gone largely silent again. Nobody was voicing any more ideas as to who they thought this enemy was.

  Finally, the preacher considered the couple standing in front of the pulpit. “George?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “What do you think, son?”

  The soon-to-be-husband had been keeping eye contact with the preacher throughout the entire sermon and was now trying to hide his surprise that the emphasis had been placed on him.

  George was dressed in a spectacular black-and-white suit, its tight fit accentuating his athletic body. His neatly combed raven-black hair shimmered in rays of sunlight streaming through the tall window above the pulpit. While his deep blue eyes considered the preacher for a moment, he still couldn’t come up with an answer. Why is he asking me about this dark topic on my wedding day? he thought. Isn’t it supposed to be a day of joy and laughter?

  “What do you think this enemy is, George?” the preacher pressed on, almost in a hush, his focus now fully fixed on George’s face.

  “The dereliction of duty,” George responded confidently.

  The preacher considered this for a moment, rubbing his chin, then said, “Certainly something that the enemy sows, but not the absolute representation of the force we’re dealing with.”

  George shook his head dismissively. “I beg to differ, Father. Nothing could be worse than not doing one’s duty.”

  Father Dennis nodded in defeat, but the small smile on his face showed that he still did not really agree. He turned his head slightly to face the bride, smiling fully once more. “Dorothy?” he asked gently.

  Dorothy lifted her head and beheld the preacher from beneath a stunning satin veil. Ev
en though she was mostly covered, it was clear to everyone that she had the beauty of a goddess. They could see her silky blonde hair, falling down to beneath her shoulders, and her soft skin that was glowing with energy, completely free from the pox. Furthermore, Dorothy’s kind brown eyes seemed to cast a spark of friendliness around her face and the pure white wedding dress she was wearing accentuated the subtle curves of her petite body. A smile began to form on her lips at the preacher’s encouragement, which caused two cute dimples to make an appearance on both sides of her tiny mouth. “The absence of friends, family…” she said in a quiet voice, then trailed off and looked at her beloved George, who was also smiling brightly. Clasping her hands together, she added, “and unconditional love.”

  The preacher considered this, too, with a serious expression on his face, nodding slowly. His eyes were moving between the bride and groom, almost calculating. “The absence of that is definitely one of the most powerful weapons of the dark force, Dorothy,” he finally said. “But it is certainly not the force itself.”

  He shifted his gaze back to the rest of the audience, where some of the congregants were letting out a few groans in annoyance at the longevity of this search. Father Dennis took his time to eventually reveal his secret. He almost seemed to have grown bigger by the all the wrong answers and appeared to be relishing in the build-up to the crescendo of the truth.

  The preacher gave one last expectant stare across the room before saying in a hushed voice, “The answer is: the devil, my friends.”

  The audience gasped loudly. Miss Pennyweather quickly brought a hand over her mouth in shock and wafted air towards her face with the other. The doctor smiled at Bertha who returned the grin. Some of the worshippers had secretly known the answer all along, but they were simply too afraid to have said anything.

  George and Dorothy exchanged a tender look. He took hold of her hand and squeezed it slightly. They had been worried that this would happen. Father Dennis was known for going off on unrelated tangents.

  “The fallen angel is the architect of all our illnesses,” their preacher now elaborated, “and it is he who is ultimately responsible for the death that we all fear so much. Yet he remains unknown and hidden, because one of his most powerful tools is deception, a way to convince you that he is not even here. It is often said that the greatest trick the devil ever performed was to convince you that he does not exist. Just look at how you struggled to name him… even here in the church! Therefore, vigilance is required on a daily basis, I think it was in Leviticus…”

  Although he usually came across as charismatic, the preacher was struggling to control his audience’s attention. His doomsday messages and prophecies were usually not well received, even more so on this day.

  Tom was idly wringing his hands – still a bit moody because he had been singled out at first by the preacher – and asked a bit too loudly and cheekily to his neighbour: “Will he just finish already?”

  Father Dennis pretended not to have heard the comment and continued his laborious explanation of the dark powers of the devil. This made a number of people sigh. They were impatient in waiting for a bit of entertainment, for the proper wedding ceremonies; the feast. Not for this drivel.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be a wedding?” James muttered a bit loudly from the back.

  At last, George cleared his throat meaningfully, as the crowd began to grow more restless and noisy. They had come to see a wedding ceremony, not a sermon. All of a sudden, the preacher paused in the middle of his lecture – his hands still raised in the air – and then looked around, as if he had been awoken from a trance. He noticed George who was giving him a momentous look, then dropped his arms and continued, slightly irritated. “Yes…but perhaps that is for another time. The point I’m trying to make is that the devil can be one of the biggest threats to the happiness of a marriage and we should be aware of that.” He stopped and peered determinedly at the couple standing in front of the pulpit.

  They looked up at him and when they realized he was expecting something in return, they both nodded, somewhat perplexed. What did he think their position had been on the matter, that the devil would help their marriage?

  “Now we can marry the happy couple,” Father Dennis said, a bit of warmth returning to his voice as the congregation perked up.

  2

  How do you know if someone is happy?

  Storm pondered this, looking up to peer at the authoritarian statue before him.

  Is it a particular type of smile? Is it a facial expression or something that can be seen in a person’s eyes? Or is it rather an aura, a feeling that radiates and can be easily identified?

  The statue in question represented the Guardian of Sanctuary, who had been the absolute servant and therefore had to be the happiest person of all.

  To Storm, however, the statue’s face – or what could be seen of the face, since it was partly hidden behind a hooded cloak – appeared grim and stern, almost angry. The statue’s hand was clutching a shield in resolute defense.

  To be honest, he does not seem particularly happy, young Storm thought. But, even considering that the Guardian might not be happy was a bad thought!

  “Bad thought,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head vehemently, as if that would rid his mind from the idea.

  Somehow sensing misbehavior, the older man – who had been shoveling snow in front of Storm – stopped and turned around to reveal his red face, overwhelmed by a walrus-like moustache. This was Storm’s teacher, Mr. Walrus, whose eyes were now scanning his students, attempting to seek out the perpetrator who had voiced the improper thought.

  As Mr. Walrus’s beady eyes swiveled about, the stiff ruler in his left hand – which he carried around to emphasize a point or to whack disobedient students across the head – followed them. When his gaze fell on Storm, his expression softened and he replaced the ruler in his back pocket. Then he returned to his shoveling, emitting a sigh of relief, pleased that it was his worst student who had demonstrated the weakness.

  When Storm thought it to be safe again, he resumed his train of thought, glancing at the statue once more. The sculptors who had constructed the statue must have overcompensated and made him much more aggressive than he actually was, Storm now decided.

  Yes, that must be it.

  He nodded to himself, satisfied with his assessment.

  It is the only thing that makes sense.

  Storm leaned on his shovel with his right hand and brushed his long black hair away from his face with his left; the fierce wind kept on blowing it over the caramel-brown skin on his cheeks.

  Taking a moment to study Sanctuary, the only home he had ever known, Storm’s customary frown was present on his forehead.

  He watched the snow trickling down in front of him, the little fluffy white crystals reflecting in the clear tanzanite-blue of his eyes. The snow was obscuring most of the view of Sanctuary, to such an extent that only the fine outlines of the buildings could be seen. Storm had never seen Sanctuary not covered in snow. Ever since he could remember, the icy coldness had been part of his miserable life. It seeped into every surface, crevice and crack, creating one of the biggest struggles for the inhabitants of Sanctuary: How to stay warm.

  This outside appearance, though, was pallid in comparison to what Sanctuary actually resembled. The Sanctuarians were busy winning the war against the cold at a frenetic pace, with the leaders of Sanctuary promising citizens that heaven would soon be upon them. They merely had to continue with their selfless ways, which would ultimately ensure their victory.

  Mr. Walrus, empowered by the Servants of Sanctuary, had a different remedy altogether, though. He argued that the way to combat the cold was to tell yourself that there was, in fact, no cold. He constantly taught his students that the perception of cold conditions was a mere by-product of the mind.

  “If one can best these thoughts in one’s head, we can change our awareness of it,” he always told his baffled learners.

  De
monstrating this maxim, he was now shoveling snow while stubbornly wearing only a thin cotton shirt and a pair of hemp pants. When the boys, with their far warmer woollen overcoats, had arrived at the statue earlier, he had pontificated that he had best the snow, pointing at his simple clothing and declaring that he felt no coldness. The boys had cheered at the news – some more convincing than others – but Storm couldn’t help but notice that Mr Walrus’s arms were shivering slightly and his face was quite red for someone not experiencing any coldness. Storm now tried to push these logical observations out of his mind, as he was clearly not meant to have them.

  The cold wasn’t the only problem. It was accompanied by a constant hunger, since it was almost impossible to grow anything worth eating in the inclement weather.

  Nevertheless, the leaders of Sanctuary refused to budge and still decreed that crops should be planted and planted in the way they decreed. But, no matter how well they were cared for and how hard Mr. Walrus was preaching, the crops simply refused to grow in the smothering snow.

  As a result, most Sanctuarians suffered from severe malnutrition and everybody was battling with constant hunger pains. Every now and then, some of them eventually succumbed, merely adding more bodies beneath the thick blanket of snow covering the land. The hunger had really turned for the worst lately and Storm had actually witnessed a few Sanctuarians eat a corpse of a fellow Sanctuarian who had died recently. They hadn’t even bothered to cook the meat. The moment they had seen the cadaver, they’d start disemboweling it, bone fragments flying into the air as the flesh was removed from the skeleton in a frenzy. And not only them. They had to compete with the few birds that remained in Sanctuary, by slapping them away each time they landed to try and join in.

  At least things are not as bad as what happened at Zion, Storm thought, noticing a slight movement at the base of the Guardian statue from the corner of his eye.

  Mr. Walrus had slowly begun to shift his feet to stand on the base of the statue. He scanned the surroundings cautiously and when he was satisfied no one was looking, he started brushing away the snow from his feet, feverishly rubbing his hands together every few seconds. He had told the students that they would clean the statues of the former Guardians as an act of selflessness and service. These two words summarized the core values of Sanctuary.