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>With a sharp cry from the driver, the carriage starts off along the cobblestone streets, and into the night
>The ride isn’t smooth until the driving horse hits its stride; then you hardly feel the stray dogs beneath the wheels, the potholes that jostle you to and fro, the vagrants or drunks on the street that scream at you for blazing by them
>In that time, silence fills the cabin like an acrid smoke
>You and Natalie squeeze close to one another on instinct
>Across from you:
>Bishop Edward Neelan in his night clothes
>Doctor Mueller, legs crossed in her lab coat
>Echo, in a small kennel between the two of them, flattening himself to the bottom of the cage
>The Bishop draws smoke out of a long, ornate pipe, one hand-carved with two foxes chasing one another along its stem
>He exhales a greasy cloud which fills the dark cabin, clouding the faint glow of the single everflame lamp dangling from the carriage roof
>”I thought you’d run,” the Bishop says again, almost bored
>He fingers aside the red window curtains and scans the outside as you travel away from your house
>The light of the everflame streetlamp flitters into the carriage, tracing the old Bishop’s jaw in a dark shadow, setting his mouth in a thin, hard line
>He’s a bony man for his 50s; a frock of closely-trimmed silvering black hair sits atop his head
>The skin around his piercing blue eyes wrinkles
>Uninterested in the streets of Kiba, he nudges the curtains back into place and then shifts to focus on you
>”We all expected you to turn coward and run. And yet you listened to me. You listened to orders,” the Bishop says as he aims his pipe at you. “Loyalty’s an excellent trait to have when you’re in a situation like this. You’ll do well to remember that.”
>Words don’t find their way from your brain to your mouth right away
>They’re filtered through your heart first
“My uncle told me this wouldn’t happen,” you say as you point your gaze at your feet. “That’s why I didn’t run away, sir.”
>”Well, your uncle is a fool; not that it matters. Even if you ran, you wouldn’t have gotten far,” Neelan muses
>“We had Foxers outside your home almost the entire night — some of your fellow graduates who tested higher than you, actually. That drunk doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
>You can almost HEAR Natalie’s fists tightening up behind her back
>”What’s going to happen to our uncle?” she cuts in
>Anna gives the Bishop a look that says she’ll be glad to take this question
>The doctor tries a faint, calming smile
>“The Church will process him according to doctrine. He broke his oath, or, rather, his oath was fraudulent to begin with. But you shouldn’t worry about him right now,” she says
>”Fox shit!” Natalie explodes. “He did nothing wrong! Neither did we!”
>Your sister leans forward in her seat, eyes narrowing into angry slits. “Tell us what covenant we’ve broken, or let us go.”
>Anna interrupts Natalie’s grand stand with a snort of laughter
>The doctor re-crosses her legs and regards Natalie with a casual smirk. “Your anger is… understandable, albeit… hypocritical?”
>”Hypocritical? How?” Natalie sounds like she’s about to belt Anna
>The doctor’s smile stretches to a shit-eating grin. “Knowingly harboring an abomination without notifying the Church goes against Church covenant. You should know — you took an oath with Bishop Saudland last week to become a Zealot, and in that oath you promised to ‘herald all evil, heretic, and abomination in my sight.’”
>Natalie’s eyes go wide
>”H-how did you-”
>The doctor raises a hand to silence your sister
>”Oh, don’t worry — I pulled files on you two before picking you up. I spent a little time on yours, Natalie, but I admit, I spent most of my research on Anon,” she says as she turns to you and leans forward, perhaps a bit too close. “I’m excited to learn about you, you know? Every mutation is a chance to learn more about God’s wondrous world. And perhaps you represent a very special wonder.”
>At that you turn your head up towards Anna
>She’s so close you can smell lingering honeysuckle and peach blossoms in her fading perfume; feel her excitement and curiosity like a powerful heat against your chest
“I’m not special,” you say in quick, evasive response, “I’m… well, I’m a bit of an idiot, but that’s not anything special. There are lots of idiots in Enclave.”
>”Few mutants can make it as a Foxer,” Anna says with a soft, sympathetic voice, “Those exams and courses aren’t easy — Scribes take almost the same ones as Foxers. Of course, there are a few more exams on top of what Foxers take, but you get the idea.”
>A dark laugh rolls out of the Bishop’s chest
>”You better hope you’re special, boy. That might give you a place in the Church after tonight,” he says as he draws another mouthful of smoke
>Wat
>That’s BULLSHIT
>You went through six years of Academy to become a member of the Church!
“What do you mean? I’m a Foxer. I have a place in the church,” you argue, “I-isn’t that enough?”
>The Bishop’s eyes narrow
>”You’re a Foxer on paper, but you’re an abomination before you’re a Foxer — one that managed to slip through our nets. I’d quote scripture at you all night about casting a wide net against the enemy, but I’d rather deal less in theology and more in the reality tonight,” he replies
>At that he leans forward, a smirk curling up on his lips
>A veritable devil’s grin
>He exhales a ring of smoke from the side of his mouth
>“We charge you three with heresy against the Church. Knowingly harboring an abomination under your roof and place of work. And, as both of you are now official members of the Church — a Foxer and Zealot respectively — you have violated your oaths.”
>”And violation of those oaths carries a heavy penalty.”
>”Exile,” he says with finality. “Or execution.”
>He pauses for a second and lets his words sprout like weeds in the crevices of your skull
>Your world deconstructs around you
>Though the carriage jostles you around like you’re inside a tin, you don’t feel the cobblestone streets beneath you
>You feel a million miles away from this scene
>A hollow, sinking resignation settles in your chest
>You really did trip at the finish line
>A result of something you can’t control
>The smoke from the Bishop’s pipe curls, finding its way to your watery eyes
>But you don’t cry
>You can’t
>Color drains from the world into a muted gray, like Echo’s coat
>Natalie’s arguing again but you can’t hear her
>Her lips move, but no sound comes out
>It’s like that dream you had
>The Bishop silences Natalie by yelling, but you can only see him rise in his seat
>The sound of drums
>Drums in the deep
>Fills your ears
>You feel something pressing against your knee
>Neelan pokes you with his carved pipe
>Sound returns to the carriage
>”Did you hear me, boy?”
“I- I didn’t hear anything there for a second…”
“What I said is it doesn’t have to end tonight — no exile for you, your sister, or the drunk. Not if you’re everything we hope for,” he says, a tight, knowing smile spread across his aged features
>A pulse of color blossoms once more in the cabin
>Hope
>The world returns to its chaotic, unorganized motion
>Vagrants on street corners, stray dogs under the wheels of carriages
>The feel and sound of your own carriage traversing cobblestone
“What are you hoping for?” you say in a flat voice, already defeated
>A bid to salvage what small life you and your family have left
>“We’re hoping that you’re of some use to us. You might not know, but the Church has mutants in its ranks. Some are Scribes, some are Inquisitors. Anna and I have worked with telepaths who can sniff out a mutant better than any of our foxes can.”
>At that, Echo rattles in his cage and cuts loose with an annoyed yip
>Neelan smirks at the sound of Echo’s biting retort, but continues speaking
>”What’s more interesting to me isn’t that you’re some kind of abomination — it’s the fact that for the very first time in Church history we have an abomination that’s slipped into a Foxer’s scarf.”
>That word
>’Abomination’
>It makes your skin crawl with anger and disgust
>That’s not you
>“Most of your kind, we pull off the streets as vagrants. No education, no military training, not a coin to their name. But a Foxer and a mutant? That’s something unheard of. Maybe a first. Provided you’re the right kind of mutant, you present a unique sort of-”
>”Usefulness,” Natalie says, practically spitting the word out of her mouth in disgust on your behalf
>”I’d use the word ‘opportunity’ first, but that fits the bill just as well, if you’d like,” the Bishop says in reply, never taking his eyes off you
>He leans forward
>His old blue eyes — the eyes of an experienced Foxer — study your pale face outlined with a minimal amount of peach fuzz
>”I wonder: most mutants end up with six feet, three arms, or they can’t string a sentence together if God asked them to. They stand out like a burning bush in the desert. And yet… the only thing that gave you away was those silly gloves,” he says
“My gloves?” you parrot
>The Bishop nods in affirmation, slow and deliberate
>He takes another draw on his pipe and exhales slowly from the sides of his mouth
>”The gloves tipped me off to what you really are. Call it experience for me; bad luck for you. Years ago, there was a mutant who tried to become a Foxer. She turned out to be a telepath who couldn’t touch you with her bare hands, otherwise she’d feel… how do I say it…”
“What that other person feels — the dreams left inside of them?”
>Edward nods slowly, his lips curling up into that devil’s smirk
>”Something like that, that’s right… somehow she felt ‘thoughts’ and ‘emotions’ through her hands. Well, we finally caught her during her board exams — just weeks from graduation.”
>”Now what does she do? She works for us. She sniffs out others like her… others… like you?” the Bishop says as he leans in close
>He raises a dark eyebrow
>”How about you? Telepath? Can you tell what I’m thinking?”
“I’m no telepath, sir,” you say as you retreat in your seat
>The Bishop recoils a bit
>”No? That’s a shame then. God tends to find a home for those types in the Church rather quickly. It’s always useful to have a telepath who can read minds. Telekinetic? Can you move things without touching them?” he probes again
>Smoke curls around his jaw
>Echo rattles nervously in his cage
>You bow your head because you know this is it
>This is where they determine how useful you are to them
>And you know how this ends
>Your ‘secret’ — your mutation — isn’t anything useful, like being able to throw things with your minding, or read the minds of others
>Floating
>Setting things on fire
>The Bishop is going to have you exiled for heresy because you’re a useless fucking freak. He’s going to have you and what remains of your family walked outside the walls, told ‘good luck, and don’t come back’
>Because you’re a freak
>Abomination
>”I’m guessing by your silence you’re not a telekinetic either.”
>The Bishop reclines easily in his seat, as if you’re already on your way to the gates
“That’s a shame, really. How about pyrokinesis? Or, can you levitate?”
>Slowly, you shake your head left to right
>You gather yourself up as much as possible in a situation like this
>Might as well get this over with and face God an honest man
>Your only chance to save those you love
“Dream walker. I’m… I’m a dream walker. At least, that’s what mom and dad always said about me growing up,” you whisper. “I don’t know if there’s an actual name for what I… am.”
>Your sister jerks her head around to face you, as if she can’t believe you just shared that information with THESE people
>At that you hang your head, trying to avoid the glares of disappointment from… everyone
>You brace
>And brace
>The Bishop raises an eyebrow and takes a long, thoughtful draw on his draws on his pipe
>”A dream walker huh?” he parrots, the gears of his mind spinning. “Now that’s something.”
>He pops his pipe back in his mouth, curled up in a coy smile
>Doctor Mueller’s reaction is a lot less subtle
>At the mention of the word ‘dream walker’ she grows tall in her seat
>Her eyes widen, every muscle in her knuckles tenses
>”Did you say you were a dream walker?” she says, leaning forward, barely able to contain herself
>For a forty-something-year-old woman, she certainly squeals a lot when she’s excited
“I… yes. I don’t know. Like I said, that’s what mom and dad called me when they were around. It’s just what I do-”
>“Enter people’s dreams?” she says, leaning hard on her seat towards you, a wide smile plastered across her face
>”Try to control yourself Anna-” the Bishop starts
“Yeah. If a person is sleeping, I can touch them, and enter their dreams. Puts me right to sleep, too.”
>”My God,” Anna leans back in disbelief, “A real-life dream walker. The answer to our prayers right in front of us”
>She runs a shocked hand through the golden spools of her hair, laughing a little
>“Ed, I think I’ve already found a use for him,”
>The Bishop stares directly at you, a half-smile baked onto his features as he gums at his pipe
>A smile that knows something you don’t
>”So have I,” he says. “So have I.”
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall