By the Light Divided

>You still get nightmares

>In fact, as exams came and exams went?

>As the last semester of your six years in Kiba’s Foxing Academy draws to a close?

>The nightmares got worse

>Violent, thrashing nightmares; hour-long scenes where you’re stripped of control, thrust naked into your own subconscious without a torch

>Something — or someone — is always pursuing you

>Or, you’re forced to do terrible… awful things to people you’ve never met but are certain you love

>If you’re… certain you know what love is, of course

>Sometimes you wonder…

>…as Echo’s sharp little fangs dig into your gloved fingers…

>…as a scream of pain boils in your lungs…

>…sometimes, you wonder…

>…if the nightmare has you so completely

>That you can’t tell

>What’s real and what’s fake

>You pull your finger free of Echo’s jaws, then wipe the saliva from your gloves onto your rented ceremonial robe

>Reality settles in like a bullet lodged between your rib fat

>Uncomfortably, to say the least

“Listen, Echo, I’ll feed you after the ceremony, okay?” you say in a hush tone, tempered with a slight edge of frustration

>Echo — your gray and white service fox — turns his little head up towards you

>He blinks his ghostly-blue eyes twice in measured response

>You get the sense that you just got your last warning for the… morning… (boring!)

>Your brow furrows into a scowl, and you enter a glare-off with Echo, the animal you’re supposed to have ‘mastered’

“I promise, alright? Be good for just a little while longer and I’ll get you a nice sausage roll. You love sausage rolls, don’tcha?”

>At that, the small mammal settles back into your arms, his tail flicking like an alarm clock waiting to go off

>Or a grenade

>One of the two

“I’ swear, you’re worse than a house cat when you’re hungry.”

>Maybe you shouldn’t have slept through his breakfast?

>That little stunt made you late for your scarfing ceremony today

>No time to feed Echo

“That dream last night was something else,” you mutter after a barely stifled yawn, trying to snap into focus for your literal scarfing ceremony

>Your nervous hands stroke back Echo’s fur as you struggle to recall the finite details of reality around you

>Like you would if you were in a dream

>It’s… harder than you expect to escape the fine veneer of un-reality glossing over everything, especially after that nightmare you had

>The dream last night stretched its legs in your subconscious; broke your legs with hammers and made you watch as it sprinted laps around you during physical conditioning

>Normally, in nightmares or dreams you’ve got a certain level of control over your faculties

>But not last night — last night you fought for control, and woke up feeling concussed

>Not even your sister could rouse you

>Apparently the neighbors heard her screaming

>Echo stuck his tongue in your ear, and that was enough to do the trick

>The scary part is, you remember little of last night’s dream — not like your normal dreams. Those you remember (and journal) with immense clarity and detail

>The nightmare seemed to have just…

>Poofed away

>Gone in a cloud of alchemical smoke, against a high north-eastern breeze, holding onto its memory like shaping water

>You woke up, grabbed your dream journal, eager to jot down what you experienced, and drew an almost total blank

>All that came back to you was… sensory details; the kinds of things with no mass or shape, but a definite feeling; an outline of a sketch

>Like anxiety

>Like Terror

>Like love?

>Yes — you think. You’ve never… really been in love

>Crushes on girls, sure

>Love, though?

>Not really

>BUT

>The feeling that you did something terrible to someone you think you love rips you up like birdshot

>And that’s enough to make what you felt so real to you

>Part of why you were late, actually, was trying to clean up your face

>You woke up in tears

>Headmaster — and Bishop — Edward Neelan, stays busy at the front of the cathedral, standing on a raised stone platform arranging burnt-orange scarves on the marble altar

>Neelan always gave you the yips

>Here he is, a man with an immense amount of power over your life — or rather, he was — dressed to the nines in his ceremonial regalia; seemingly at his most potent

>No dice if you fuck this up; safety’s off in front of the crowd of families and students watching you all

>’Shotgun for a mouth’ isn’t the right word to describe the Bishop — his is more like a marksman’s rifle

>Neelan taught ‘The Philosophies of Foxing,’ and ‘Foxing: A Storied History.’ Back when he taught your dumb ass, he could have passed as an ordinary professor or Den Master with the clothes he work

>Now, dressed in orange-gold-trim robes, the sunbeams from the Goddamn skylight nailing him, setting him aglow, you’re forced to avert your gaze

>Too splendorous

>Charles, the Bishop’s service fox, displays a little more subtlety. His collar studded, scattershot, with small rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and precious opals

>No dangling tags; like all service foxes, his identification is likely etched into the collar

>The fox licks his paws, his patient green eyes flickering over to you and Echo for a brief second, as if he’s caught the scent of something

>Echo stirs in your grasp, like he’s aware he’s suddenly become the target of a very accurate marksman

>Or maybe Charles

>You squeeze the fox like a doll and point your gaze upwards, an evasive maneuver you learned to deploy against your uncle at home

>Above you, clean white banners trimmed with orange and gold lace hang like captured ghosts

>At the center of the banners sits the lace-outline of a fox, embossed in orange thread

>A slight draft gives the banners life as it wafts through the vaulted stone ceilings of The House of Penance

>Kiba’s ONE claim to fame, and only Cathedral, mind you

>The excited chatter from Kiba’s next generation Foxers does not subside as Edward readies for the scarfing

>More pious than God, Neelan carries on by mouthing a prayer, sprinkling the assembled scarves with oil

>He sets the glass bowl full of sacred oil on the altar

>Charles paces circles around the scarves on the altar, impatient for yet another scarfing to be over with

>With the rites finished, the Bishop clears his throat to a booming report, a report that carries in throughout the cathedral like a shockwave

>Do all of Enclave’s cathedrals have this much echo?

>You’ve never really been outside Kiba, which is embarrassing for a man your age

>Too scared to admit that you’re afraid to ride on the night trains required to get you Vigil proper

>Like dogs tuned to a feeding bell, all attention in the cathedral snaps forwards, centering on the altar

>From your position in the front you can make out the Bishop’s firm expression as he surveys his graduates, like a general inspecting his troops before battle

>Echo shifts with nervous energy when Neelan’s eyes sweep the two of you, penetrating your thin shell of a rented ceremonial robe

>Seeing you for who you really are perha-

>He pauses, gaze fixed on you for a split second

>-He moves onwards, gaze passing clean over you towards the back row

>Apparently satisfied, the Bishop gathers himself up, and speaks

>”Thirty years ago I once stood where you all stand now — at the precipice of a dark plunge…”

>He allows silence to follow, his flinty voice lingering like a ghost in the rafters

>”Thirty years ago, I was one of one-hundred fresh-faced graduates, like you all, standing before my Headmaster in The House of Penance.”

>”Twenty-six are remain with us today, alive. But there are fates worse than death outside the walls, friends. Drunkenness. Illness. Assisting out-wallers. Heresy. Rebellion. Vagrancy. Those are but some pitfalls those twenty-six Foxers have fallen into. At best, they may reform themselves and spew platitudes before a classroom.”

>There’s a light giggle in the crowd

>He then turns his chin up towards the skylight, as if addressing God

>“I stood with my service fox Zephyr for two hours before the other graduates arrived — and I prayed a coward’s prayer. I prayed for the grace necessary to make it through my first week outside the walls of Purgatory.”

>”For the courage to take the lives of heretics.”

>”For the strength to protect those I loved most inside Enclave’s walls.”

>The Bishop turns his gaze down, his blue eyes momentarily lingering over you and your gloved hands, right there in the front row

>He pauses, like he’s about to say something to you…

>As if something peculiar caught him off guard just now

>And then, with a sudden conviction, he turns his attention back towards the graduates and their gathered families

>”But it was not strength, nor skill, that saw me through my time as a Foxer. No. It was my first service fox, Zephyr.”

>”More appropriately, it was my faith in Zephyr that helped me survive. The very foundation of Foxing is faith in one’s service animal; we simply call it trust to make it more palatable. To strip away the very particulates of God that are innate to Foxing.”

>“Rewards come to those with faith,” Edward booms. “Faith begets victory.”

>”Faith in your fox, faith in the paths they may walk, will lead you to Enclave’s gates.”

>Echo tries scrambling from your arms like a fussy toddler, causing you to panic

>You have a lot of faith that Echo is capable of great stupidity — especially when it matters most

>You smash the fox against the breast of your ceremonial robes (again, rented, so you better not fuck ‘em up)

>Other graduates with their well-behaved foxes turn their heads to watch as you wrestle with your service fox

>The Bishop bends his lanky body over the altar

>Rising slowly, he looks to the rafters, listening for God’s words in the echo

>”Scripture says we are a ‘city by the light divided,’ Book of Creation, chapter fifteen, verses one and two. As always, Scripture rings true.”

>A stray sunbeam pours in from the stained glass window behind you, like a spotlight striking altar. He points a crooked finger at the banner hanging from the ceilings, squinting in the light

>”Between the light and dark — in this city divided — there is a single sliver of orange and white thread bracing Enclave against all evil.”

>His gaze then drops like a fifty-ton weight onto all of you…

>…lingering on your gloves

>”You, Foxers, are that thread now,” he says, his cold, flinty voice rattling up your spine

>”You are the tip of the spear; the very projection of Enclave’s military might given flesh and form. Your scarves represent your responsibility as such.”

>He then lifts one garment off the altar, holding it up to the sunbeams, which now cascade in from the stained glass windows to baptize the rest of the scarves on the altar

>He holds the scarf like a bird with broken wings, as if it was ready to lift from his outstretched hands and flutter back to the sky

>”Let these blessed scarves be a symbol of your new rank in the Church; a symbol of your oath to humanity. Wear your scarf with pride; tend to your fox with care; and brace Enclave against all evil.”

>He then sets the scarf down on the altar and turns to address the crowd

>”According to the Kiba’s Foxing Acadmey, you have shown you are all capable Foxers now; proven it in your board exams. Well done.”

>He’s about to go on when there’s an enthusiastic round of applause from someone in the crowd behind the graduates

>And now there’s a whistle

>And a “Woo-hoo!” that sounds irritatingly like your sister, Natalie

>After a few LONG seconds, the lone applauseman (woman) is silenced. The Bishop carries on with a dissatisfied grunt

>“Should you not feel worthy of your scarf, and new rank in the Church, remain standing when your name is called.”

>Silence booms in the cathedral

>Nobody dares recuse themselves

>If you try real hard, you can almost hear your sister Natalie, somewhere in the audience, holding back her excited screams

>The speeches, the ceremony, the solemnity of it all must be whittling away at her feeble attention span

>Or, maybe it’s like the woodpecker of boredom slamming its beak into the bark of Natalie, until she’s all but hollow

>Boredom is torture for someone like her

>Above all, she promised she’d be good — a promise she’s kept so far, at least as far as you can confirm

>You have some suspicions about the whistling and clapping though

>”When I call your name, step forward with your fox to receive your scarf and anointment,” the Bishop says

>He retrieves a scarf from the altar

>Your heart skips in your chest. Given your position in the front row, you’re fir-

>”Anton, E. Mouse,” the Bishop says as his heavy eyes fall on you

>Yep

>Anton’s the name, though most people call you ‘Anon’ or ‘Anonymous’ when they’re being formal

>Just a nickname that stuck like a glue trap when you were a child

>A nickname you could never shake

>You gather Echo tight against your chest and step into the aisle

>The procession to the front is short, your boots clicking off the polished stone floors

>A woman’s voice, to your right, breaks the solemn march to the altar

>”Yay Anon!” Natalie — your sister — screams, her bright falsetto echoing proudly around the huge cathedral. “Woo-hoo! FAMILY’S FIRST FOXER EVERYONE!”

>You recognize that voice

>A FIERCE blush scours your pale skin, brightening your cheeks to a ruddy red

>CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

>That’s lovely

>A round of applause from your sister

>And your sister alone

>Natalie’s cheers follow you up the steps to the altar

>God, are there more steps than you remember?

>Flushing red, you cast out a silent prayer for a lone gunman to pick you off clean from the rafters

>To put you down clean, take you away from your sister, this cathedral, the nightmares…

>Your prayer falls on deaf ears

>You step forward, towards the Bishop, trying your absolute best to remain penitent and solemn, as instructed

>Okay, Anon

>Put it all aside

>Be one with the moment

>You learned about this concept in Academy — giving in to ‘the dream,’ like an actor on a stage performing his lines

>They say it’s automatic in Purgatory, out in the field

>You bow your head and slam your eyes shut, embracing the pinks of your eyelids

>BAM

>BAM

>Do you hear drums?

>Shit, maybe you’ll become the first in Kiba’s history to get this far, and then trip at the proverbial finish line

>BAM

>BAM

>BAM

>BAM

>You’re so lost in the tangled circuitry of your overdriven nervous system that you audibly gasp when you feel the touch of coarse fabric grace the nape of your neck

>When you open your eyes, you find a burnt-orange Foxer’s scarf draped around your neck

>It’s… heavier than you expected it to be

>Your new Foxer’s scarf is a tough, yet quality strip of professionally stitched, bronze-orange fabric, the same russet, earthy-red comprising a red fox’s coat

>Its fringes are tempered white, giving your scarf the impression of fox tails on each end of the fabric

>Its length stretches almost down to your waistline

>You hold up the tip of your scarf, which bears one horizontal white stripe, stitched onto the fabric

>A sign of your new station as a Foxer — first-rank

>In a tired whisper, you hear the Bishop say, “Present your fox, son.”

>You snap to attention; too busy admiring the new threads

>What happens next should partially be your responsibility

>In a haste you thrust Echo towards the Bishop, letting your fox dangle in your grasp like a gray sock filled with yogurt

>The entire cathedral can see your gloves, unbeknownst to you

>The Bishop dips his thumb in a small glass bowl of sacred oil

>Echo’s eyes widened with excitement at this sight, squirming in your hands

>Maybe it was forgetting to feed him breakfast that could have prevented all of this from happening?

>Maybe it was the smell of the oil — some meager calories at best — that caused Echo to do what he did that crisp, early autumn morning?

>It doesn’t matter. You have no control over things, a constant theme in your life

>As the Bishop brings his thumb towards Echo’s forehead, your ‘trained’ service fox unhinges his dumb little jaws…

>The Bishop presses his wet finger against Echo’s forehead and smears the oil into the fox’s coat

>…And snaps at the Bishop’s finger

>There’s a pained yelp from the Bishop as Echo’s fangs socket onto his finger

>A gasp goes up from the assembled graduates and their families

>The Bishop’s own service fox leaps down off the altar and bolts towards his master, aiming to use the Bishop like a squirrel uses a tree trunk

>Oh no

>No no no no

>You don’t need to get the other fox involved now

>You wrap your gloved hands around Echo’s jaw and pry the Bishop’s finger free, just in time for Charles to leap into the fray

>The orange fox scurries up Neelan’s ceremonial robes and mounts his shoulder, ushering a fiercely protective growl, as if about to take a lunge at your neck

>The Bishop yanks his hand away in pain as his other arm moves to contain his own fox; an instinctual response to contain his animal

>Echo thrashes in your grasp, still hungry and tasting sacred oil rich on his tongue

>But you’re not focused on containing Echo

>You can only look on in horror as you see the Bishop’s eyes turn away from the small spot of blood now blossoming on his pale thumb

>See, the Bishop’s steely glare doesn’t fall upon your face, to study in anguish and anger

>His gaze turns down to your hands, where you hold Echo

>And he asks something that at first seems innocuous, but in hindsight should have told you everything

>”Why are you wearing those gloves?”

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