Published: 14 Nov 2016

Part IV

THREE WORLDS
Formerly Published as “0300 Books I, II, and III”

Chapter 11: Paul Stewart—Finding Danny

I was fourteen, and had just been promoted to commander. That was one step below captain, and captain was as far as I figured I could go without calling too much attention to myself. The boy I’d exchanged I love you with only a few weeks before had forgotten me, just like everyone forgets me. There was no one I could share my sorrow with, but there was somewhere I could go: The High One, Denali. I took a shuttlecraft from Geneva. No one questioned me. They never did.

When I reached the summit of the mountain, I landed the shuttle on the ice and stepped out. If I had not clipped on a safety line, the wind would have blown me away and I would have died. I held the line, faced the wind, and asked the mountain, “Please, please, let me find someone who won’t forget me. I just want a friend!” The mountain didn’t answer me. It never did.

The wind blew away my tears before they could freeze. I got back into the shuttle. An hour later, I landed at Sea-Tac, the Seattle-Tacoma spaceport. I wanted to be around people, even though I knew none of them would understand. They never did. I took the maglev downtown.

Without the grade insignia, my uniform was just a jumpsuit. A lot of Asian tourists wore jumpsuits. Theirs were usually garish; mine was a blue so dark it was almost black. Add my black hair and pale skin from a year in the Pluto Fleet, and I might be Goth. I thought for an instant about buying some eye shadow to enhance that image, but knew that no matter what I did, I wouldn’t fit in, even among them.

The maglev’s first stop was a shopping mall. There would be people there. I knew I would not be able to connect with anyone, but there would be people. I got off and followed a gaggle of kids my age, kids who seemed to know one another.

An hour later, I felt like Dagney Taggart at her debutant ball: the lights, the music, clothes, the things the stores sold, they were supposed to make us feel brilliant. But, like the people at Dagney’s ball, these people thought in reverse. First, we’re supposed to feel, and only then might we create a milieu of lights and brilliance. None of the kids around me felt brilliant; most of them seemed to feel nothing but avarice, gluttony, or lust. Like me, they were all chasing a nebulous hope, an empty dream. At least, I thought, we have that much in common.

Then, I felt something different. It was a feeling of weakness and fear. Where was it coming from? Why did I feel it? Who was it? My once random movements through the mall now had a purpose—to find the source of these feelings.

The feelings seemed to get stronger, but then they faded out as if the person were distracted—or dying. I still could not identify the source. Then, someone bumped into me, grabbed me around the waist to keep from falling, and looked up at me with wide eyes before he fainted. I felt his mind shutting down and grabbed him before he hit the floor.

He became conscious almost instantly, but in that instant I realized that it was he, and what was wrong: hypoglycemia, diabetes perhaps. I looked around. There, the snow cone place. I took the boy’s hand and stepped in front of the two girls who were standing in line. They didn’t object; no one ever did.

“Give me a half cup of cherry syrup, please,” I said, reinforcing my request with a push.

The guy behind the counter didn’t flinch, but did as I asked. “I’ll pay you in a moment,” I said, and moved aside.

“Here, drink this,” I said to the little boy whose hand I held. Even though I pushed, he hesitated.

“Your blood sugar is low,” I said. “If you don’t get some sugar in you soon, you’re going to pass out, go into a coma, and maybe die.”

That did it. He drank. I felt him getting stable.

I took out my card to pay for the syrup, but the guy waved me off. “My sister’s diabetic. I figured… anyway, I was glad to help.”

I thanked him, and turned my attention back to the boy. Looks like he’s about six. Not diabetic. At least, he doesn’t know it if he is.

“Danny, my name is Paul. How do you feel?”

The kid’s eyes widened. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Um, I’m the guy who just saved your life? And I heard you say your name.” I heard it in my mind, but I can’t tell you that, yet.

He pouted and furrowed his brow for a moment, but then nodded. “I feel better now,” he said. “What happened?”

“Are you diabetic?” I asked. “Do you take insulin or any kind of medicine regularly? Has this ever happened, before?”

He shook his head at each question. I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I looked. Nova sol! He’s starving!

“When’s the last time you ate, Danny?”

He didn’t want to say. I knew the answer, but I wanted him to tell me. “Danny? Please?” I put as much concern in that as I could. Something got through, but I had to push, hard.

“School lunch—Friday,” he whispered.

It’s Sunday afternoon, I thought. “Well,” I said. “That’s kind of good news. It means your tummy probably hasn’t shut down, and you can eat normal food. I was just about to have supper. Will you come with me, please?”

He trusted me enough to agree. He nodded his head, and then let me take his hand and lead him to a restaurant—one of those all-the-same-except-the-name chains that populate shopping malls.

He ordered a carbonated cola and a pizza. “Danny, I said your tummy was okay, but maybe you should start with a glass of milk? Just to get it ready?”

The waitress looked a little funny when I said that, but Danny agreed. I ordered lemonade and a Cobb salad. I liked Cobb salad, and it would be especially good after a year of freeze-dried. Supply tenders don’t reach the Pluto Fleet but once a year. They could do it more often, but it’s tradition. Pluto duty is supposed to be a hardship assignment.

There wasn’t much conversation over dinner other than me saying, “Slow down, it’s not going to run away,” a couple of times. Afterwards, I checked on how Danny’s tummy was doing, and suggested dessert. Danny thought seriously, and said that he wasn’t sure he could eat a whole dessert. I ordered cheesecake with fresh strawberries, and two forks. “You can eat what you want,” I said.

Over dessert, I continued prying. I knew most of the answers already, but I wanted Danny to say them. He answered, reluctantly, but he answered. I kept pushing trust toward him; I guess it made a difference.

Friday after school, Danny’s mother and stepfather had kicked him out of the house. No special reason. They did it a lot. Sometimes, it was so they could have a party; sometimes, just for privacy. Always before, he could go home the next morning. This time the door was locked and they hadn’t answered. Now, two days later, Danny was getting ready to spend his third night away from home and wondering what he would do tomorrow.

“Danny, would you spend the night with me?” I asked. It was an innocent offer, and I tried to convey that to him. It worked. He agreed. We walked to where the mall connected with a hotel. Registration was not a problem. They accepted my card and the veil obscured that a fourteen-year-old with a, eight-year-old in tow was taking a room at a five-star hotel.

“Um, Danny? You’ve been wearing those clothes for, what, three days now? They stink. How about letting me get them cleaned for you?

“You can shower, and then put on one of those robes,” I added.

That seemed to satisfy him. The concierge agreed to have Danny’s clothes cleaned, and returned by morning. A push and a transfer of funds to the concierge’s account brought a promise to have a second set of clothes from one of the mall stores brought in.

Danny came from the bathroom wearing a white terry robe that was about two feet too long for him. “Hey, Little Buddy,” I said. “How was your shower?”

“I’m not little!” he exclaimed. “I’m ten years old. Where are my clothes?”

Ten? He looks younger.

“I said I was going to get them cleaned. The concierge has them. He’ll return them tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Don’t you like the robe?”

Danny smiled. It was if the sun had come up.

“Yes, actually. It’s soft—and warm.

“I don’t get to be warm, much.” The sun went down.

Twenty minutes later, I had showered and put on the second robe. Danny was waiting with a question.

“How do you know my name?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure I never told you. And how do you make me tell you things? I felt you pushing.”

He’s becoming aware, I thought. I dare not lie to him, no matter what.

“I saw it in your mind. I saw your name. I told you in your mind that you could trust me.”

Danny’s mouth formed an “O” of astonishment. His eyes widened. “You saw in my mind?”

His eyes and mouth narrowed. “What else did you see?”

“I saw your mother and step-father send you out of the house. I saw you go home, and find the door locked. I saw you worrying because you didn’t have anything to eat. I saw you thinking how soft and warm the robe was. I didn’t see anything else, because you weren’t thinking about anything else.”

“Could you see other things if you looked hard enough?” His question was acute. I could answer only with the truth.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t do that unless you asked me to.”

“You’re telling the truth,” Danny said. “I can feel that, and I know it’s not you telling me.” He scampered across the room, nearly tripping in the terrycloth robe, and then put his arms around me. “Please, will you help me?”

It was a request I could not refuse, even if I wanted to. Danny was a quick study. With that request he pushedsuch a feeling of trust and hope, I could not refuse.

Neither of us had pajamas. I had summoned the concierge again, and turned my jumpsuit over to him for cleaning, so actually, neither of us had anything except the robes. Danny was shy, but not too much. Still, he jumped under the covers quickly after dropping the robe onto a chair. I slid into the large bed beside him. “Ready?” I asked, and sent an image of me as a famous cereal-box tiger turning off the light.

He giggled. “Ready!”

“Goodnight, Danny.”

“Goodnight, Paul.” I love you.

At least, I think that’s what I think I heard.

I lay awake, thinking.

I had asked Denali for a friend. I had found Danny. And, I think Danny had found me. I saw his panic, earlier. I saw him reaching out for help and I saw him trying to move toward something that was warm? strong? sweet? Sweet? Hmm. Never thought of myself that way. Must have been the hypoglycemia. Still, I think he felt me, and was moving toward me as I was trying to find him.

I knew I was different; Danny was different, too. But were we the same? Was he really like me? Would he remember me unlike the others? I allowed a small tendril of hope to take root in my heart. I focused on it, and then fell asleep.

Danny enjoyed room service breakfast in his robe, even though the valet had returned our stuff and delivered a bag from one of the kids’ clothing stores.

After my second cup of coffee, and Danny’s second cocoa, I convinced him that we needed to get dressed and do a check-it-out thing at his home. He was a little shy, and turned his back before discarding his robe. He opened the bag with his new clothes—khaki cargo shorts and a pullover shirt with a famous logo embroidered over the pocket, a leather belt, white socks and new trainers, a black windcheater—and looked at me. His eyes were moist. “These are new! I’ve never had new clothes before!” He scampered across the room, and hugged me. “Thank you, Paul.”

We stuffed Danny’s old clothes in the trash, and left. No checkout required. It was, as I said, a five-star hotel. Danny and I may be telepathic, but the concierges at five-star hotels have been reading minds for decades.

An hour later, we were about ten miles south of Tacoma in a neighborhood that was on the verge of becoming a slum. Most of the lots were vacant and overgrown. Many of the remaining houses were empty. There were “For Sale” and “Foreclosure” signs in some of the yards. I heard a sonic boom and saw one of the asteroid cargo ships crossing the sky. I understood. This property had been condemned to expand the spaceport; some people had refused to accept a buy-out or relocation.

Danny’s house was unremarkable except for the burglar bars on all the downstairs windows. I probed. There was no one inside. Danny checked; the door was still locked. Something was wrong. I probed harder and found death.

Nova sol. How do I tell him? I wondered.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Danny whispered.

“Did you see that in my mind?” I asked. Had I been careless? Or is he stronger than I thought?

“No. I don’t think,” he said. “I don’t know. I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Danny. There are two dead people inside. A woman and a man.”

Danny seemed strangely unaffected. I was worried. “Danny, may I go into your mind? I’m worried for you. I want to know—”

“Why I’m not sad?” His sharp retort was a challenge. “Maybe because they locked me out of the house? Maybe because they didn’t feed me; because they never hugged me? Because I never had new clothes before today?”

Then, his face changed. He closed his eyes tightly, but that didn’t stop the tears. His nose started running, his cheeks turned red, and sobs wracked his little body. I felt what he was thinking. The tears weren’t for his mother and stepfather, but for the injuries they had done to him. He held out his arms in an unspoken plea. I picked him up, and held him as tightly as I dared. He wrapped his legs around my waist, put his head on my shoulder, and cried.

Ten minutes later, his sobs turned to hiccoughs. That was when the police car pulled up.

The cop needed more than the veil. I pushed, hard, inventing a story and trying to get the cop to accept it. We lived down the street, my little brother wanted to visit his friend, Danny, but Danny wasn’t home. Something was wrong; the cop wasn’t buying it.

I had been focusing on controlling the cop, and hadn’t looked into his mind, so I was surprised when he attacked me. A knife jammed into my left eye, pushed through my brain, and cracked the back of my skull.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

Either my reflexes or luck saved Danny and me. I pushed back, hard, driving the pain in my head at the cop. He fell to the ground. The mind that had been controlling him tattered like a rag too-often washed. Before it disintegrated, I saw a few images: Danny at the mall, about to collapse; Danny and me at the snow-cone place; Danny and me at the hotel check-in desk. Someone knew about Danny! He had followed us, and taken the policeman as his tool. Who? Why?

Whoever it had been, he was dead, now. Who was he?

Danny had seen the cop fall to the ground. I stilled his curiosity, and carried him away, toward the maglev terminal. We took the maglev to Sea-Tac. The train was crowded. I was nervous. What if we were being followed? What if someone else…?

Most of my energy went into scanning for danger. I wasn’t sure what it would look like, though. I didn’t feel safe until we got off at the terminal and were in the tunnel leading to the Fleet area.

I led Danny toward the “Fleet Personnel, Only” entrance, bypassing the security that civilians faced. His eyes widened when I reached into a pocket and pulled out the pair of double-diamonds that belonged on my collar. “You’re Fleet? You’re uh… uh Commander? But you’re just fourteen!”

I hadn’t told him that, but he was starting to see my surface thoughts—and he was able to see my true age. I resolved to be very careful about what I thought. I didn’t want to overwhelm him, or frighten him.

“Um hum,” I said. “The youngest in history. And they don’t even know it. Hey, you could beat my record, though. Oh, and you’re a Cadet, j.g. Well, as soon as I get to a computer terminal you are. For now, just stick with me. No one will bother you.”

I was right. Danny and I walked to the shuttle port, and boarded my shuttle—well, the one I’d taken from Geneva. Nobody said anything. They never did. “Come on, if you’re going to be a cadet, you’ve got to learn how to fly this thing. Sit there, and strap in.”

I got on the comm. “Sea-Tac tower; shuttle Michael Faraday requests straight up and hot for Geneva.”

“Faraday, number three for takeoff. When approved, proceed subsonic heading 270 to 5,000 MSL. After DME 10, hot to Geneva confirmed.”

By the time I’d gotten Danny’s four-point harness sorted out and hooked up, we were cleared for takeoff. I kept it easy until we were ten miles by the instruments west of the port, and then punched it. The gravity compensators took care of all but about two Gs. We were pressed into our seats. Danny gasped. I thought I heard a giggle.

Straight up. And south. Heck, I hadn’t said I was going to take the shortest route to Geneva, and they hadn’t asked. I was going to take Danny for the ride of his life!

“You’ve been watching me. Do you think you can fly this thing?”

“Who, me?” Danny’s soprano squeaked on the second word.

“Yes, you. Unless you’ve got a mouse in your pocket,” I said. I looked at him when I said this. It was a reflex when he looked at his shorts—actually, we both did—and saw that he had an erection. He blushed. He was excited, all right. I looked. It was just the flying, though.

It didn’t take long before Danny was able to keep us on azimuth and at altitude; and not much time before he could handle a change in altitude or direction. Doing both at once? Well, that would come, later.

I set some waypoints, and let Danny take over. While he flew, I pulled out the keyboard, and started sending messages. My first was to Tobor. It took a while, but when I was finished, a certain Danny West, formerly of Tacoma, Washington, was a junior cadet, enrolled at Fleet School, Geneva, with detached duty to the staff of a certain Commander Paul Stewart.

Now, what did I want to do for the next year? I scanned the fleet TO&E, and found it. A science ship, the Robert Goddard, was due to leave in two days for Mars. The captain of a science ship didn’t have to be a captain; commander was sufficient. And, the Goddard just happened to need a captain. Well, it did after Tobor and I reassigned its current captain to the Fleet Nuclear Research Facility at Los Alamos. He wanted a shore assignment to see his daughter graduate high school, so it worked out okay for him. The daughter liked horses, and Los Alamos was “horse country,” so it worked out for her, too.

While I was doing this, Tobor found the police report. They had come looking for the guy I had killed, and entered the house. Danny’s mother and stepfather had killed themselves cooking a batch of meth. It was good that Danny hadn’t been able to get in the house; the fumes and loose chemicals might have killed him, too. Three policemen had been hospitalized. I debated telling all this to Danny, and decided to save it for another time, one that wasn’t quite so stressful.

I nearly bit off more than I could chew. We got to Geneva less than 40 hours before the Goddard‘s scheduled departure. In that time, I had to get uniforms and other stuff for Danny, get my stuff together and on board, and meet my crew to make sure none of them, especially the bridge crew and science staff, wondered why their captain was only fourteen years old. Before that, though, I had to pay my respects to Vice Admiral Davis, the G-3.

Admiral Davis was problematic. I’d met him twice before. The first time, I’d been six years old, and just selected to attend Fleet School Edmonton: he was the Commandant of the school. The second was when I served on the Science Ship Emile du Chatelet—right next to him on the bridge. I had to push hard to keep him from wondering about me. Taking command of a ship, my first, was a big step. I was sweating when I left his office. I’m still safe, I thought. But he’s a tough one. No wonder he’s Chief of Operations.

After the interview, I checked out of the visiting officers’ quarters. Everything I owned was in one small duffle bag. Fourteen years worth of everything. The bag held no family photos, no mementoes, no trophies, no trinkets from friends or lovers. It held nothing that would help anyone trace me back to the orphanage or the Fleet Schools I had attended. A few uniforms, underwear and handkerchiefs; a gun cleaning kit; a toothbrush; and an iPad that held only four books: Thomas Jefferson’s autobiography, Atlas Shrugged, and the Countess du Chatalet’s translation and commentary on Newton’s Principia Mathematica—and Newton’s work, itself. I wish I had known Jefferson or Rand or the Countess, or Newton, and wondered if they had been like me. I hoped someday I would be like them—someone who really made a difference.

Danny’s little duffle bag held even less: a couple of uniforms and his one set of civilian clothes. He looked cute as a button, and a little scared, in his utility jumpsuit. Although when I pinned on his Cadet (j.g.) insignia he smiled, and the sun came up. I figured he was going to be okay.

The shuttlecraft that took us to the Goddard was the captain’s lighter, and the passenger compartment was a bit more luxurious than the troop transport models. Danny and I were the only passengers on this trip. As soon as we were seated, and the steward had gone forward to make coffee and hot chocolate, Danny challenged me.

“Paul, did you kill that policeman?”

Nova sol! We never talked about that. No, that’s not right. I never took time to talk to him.

“Um, yes, Danny. He was a bad man, who was trying to kill us. I had to kill him to protect you and me.”

Danny put his arms around me. “Then I will protect you, too, always!”

It was a sweet, childish promise. It wasn’t until later that I realized how serious it was and what it would mean.

When we reached the Goddard, I explained to Danny that he would eat in the Junior Mess, a scaled-down version of the Officers Mess, and that he’d be living in a dormitory with other cadets as well as with midshipmen and ensigns. I promised, though, that I would find time for him every day, and that we’d be able to do things together. “It’s just like I have a job and you have school, and we’ll see each other after work and school, and on weekends.” He wasn’t entirely happy, but he seemed to understand.

There were good reasons for Danny to live with the other youngsters. First, if he’d lived with me, it would have seriously strained the veil. Second, he needed to interact with other boys. Most of the others were older and bigger than Danny, but he was a scrappy kid, and after a little bit of mine’s bigger than yours schoolboy posturing and jostling, he fit in well. The veil had something to do with that, but not everything. He really was a good kid.

Duty on the Goddard suited Danny. With good food and exercise, he filled out. He would always be small; he had suffered malnutrition all his life. However, he was healthy and other than size, there were no permanent effects.

I was able to keep my promise to find time for Danny every day. Sometimes, it would be talking over supper, served in the Captain’s Mess. Sometimes, we’d watch a movie, and the mess steward would bring us pizza. Sometimes, we’d just cuddle on the bed and talk. It was about a month into the assignment, and after one of the cuddle-talk sessions, that the first crisis arose.

Danny had stood on tiptoe for a goodnight kiss, and then opened the door to the passageway. “Paul, I found the police report. If you hadn’t taken me away from Seattle, I don’t know where I would be. Thank you.” He smiled, he was happy. I was not. I realized at that moment just what I had done.

I had kidnapped Danny. I hadn’t asked him if he wanted to go with me. I had kidnapped a child in a fleet shuttlecraft and taken him across nearly every international boundary left in the world. I hadn’t asked; I had taken. My sleep was restless that night.

The next morning, I summoned Danny into my ready room and told him. “Danny, I did a wrong thing when I took you from Seattle to Geneva and made you a junior cadet. I kidnapped you. Plain and simple, I kidnapped you. And I did it for a selfish reason. I’ve been alone all my life. You were the first and only person who I could talk to in my mind. I wanted a friend so badly that I stole you from your home, from your friends, from your life.

“The supply tender will land, tomorrow. I can arrange for it to take you back to Earth. I can arrange for you to go back to Seattle, to be fostered. I know you have no living relatives, I checked the computer for that. You can still have a normal childhood—”

I was hit by anguish so strong I almost passed out. I shook it off to see Danny scrambling over my desk and jumping into my lap. He squeezed me hard. He was crying. “Please don’t send me away! Please let me stay here! Please! I love you!”

I heard this with my ears and with my mind, and knew it was true, that he meant it. I also knew that when he said love he meant it innocently. He and the other youngsters had fooled around a little bit. I had learned that during one of our cuddle-talks. Some of the older boys were officially boyfriends. The others knew they had sex. Danny knew what that meant, but for him, “I love you” didn’t mean “and I want to do sex stuff with you.”

“Danny, I know you mean what you said. I heard it in my mind. But do you know what you said? You’re asking to stay for at least another three months—”

Danny shook his head. “No! No! No! No! No! I’m asking forever!”

He paused, and considered what he said. Then: “Forever.”

That settled it. I wasn’t quite sure what I was in for, but I accepted it.

The Fleet Council was still debating whether or not to terraform Mars. The engineering obstacles were formidable. The planet had no molten core, therefore no magnetic field, therefore, no protection from the solar radiation that Earth’s magnetic field diverted around it. The planet’s gravity wasn’t strong enough to hold a decent atmosphere, and the atmosphere it had was thin and unsuitable for human life. There was no moon large enough to stabilize its axis—although that probably wouldn’t be a problem for a few million years or so. The planet was cold. There was virtually no water. There were engineering solutions to all of these problems. The solutions would require some big projects, and some long trips to the Oort Cloud and beyond to round up comets with water and other materials to create an atmosphere and oceans.

The political question was whether there had ever been life on Mars. After more than forty years of robotic exploration, that question had not been answered to everyone’s satisfaction. We were the seventh in a series of expeditions sent to look for evidence.

The real problem, as I explained it to Danny, was that “absence of proof is not proof of absence,” and the fact that no one had found evidence of life on Mars didn’t mean there wasn’t or never had been.

In order to avoid contaminating the planet while we explored it, we wore pressure suits that integrated a force field on their outer surface, like the ones I’d worn in Pluto Fleet.

We could not enter or leave the ship, a shuttlecraft, or the ground station except through a wall of energy. That wall was inimical to life, including ours. Except we who were inside our own portable version of the energy wall, nothing living could pass through the shields.

The suits, themselves, were skin tight so that our blood would not boil in the low pressure. Atmospheric recycling equipment on our backs processed our exhalations, and made sure the bowl of energy that rose from our collars and covered our heads held breathable air. Communication equipment built into the collars kept us in touch with one another and the ship.

The running joke was that the suits were tight enough that you could tell if a guy were circumcised or not. It would have been funnier if we all hadn’t worn a cup with an integrated catheter. There was nothing funny about the catheter, and no one looked forward to putting on the suit each morning. I understand the suits the asteroid miners wore for days at a time also incorporate an anal catheter. I don’t even want to know how something like that would work.

Naturally, Danny wanted to walk on Mars. Under other circumstances, only the older boys would be allowed on the surface. If Danny went, the other cadets would have to, as well. I called it training, and sold the notion to the chief scientist.

It was one of Danny’s little friends from the junior mess who created the next crisis. Over pizza and a movie, the boy innocently asked, “If you’re Danny’s dad, why is his name different from yours?”

Danny had gained power but not learned control. He projected such a feeling of loss, of yearning, and of emptiness that I almost blacked out. Then, he ran from the room.

Danny’s little friend felt the fringes of what Danny had sent, and it took a lot of pushing on my part to keep him from running out the door. But, I did calm him down and went to find Danny.

He was in my bedroom, lying on the bed, face down on the pillow. He was shaking with sobs. I sat down beside him and put my hand on his back. Instantly he wrapped himself around me and buried his head in my shoulder.

It took more time to calm Danny than it had to calm Jimmy, and then Danny took a couple more minutes to wash his face in cold water before he came back to supper. Jimmy still felt like he’d done something wrong. “I’m sorry, Danny. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he said.

Danny smiled. It was a little smile, but it was a smile. “It’s okay, Jimmy. Thank you for saying you’re sorry. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He smiled, a big smile this time. I felt Danny’s push, and Jimmy’s acceptance.

After Jimmy had gone back to the dormitory, Danny and I talked. I told him how sorry I was for not thinking about his need for a daddy. He told me I was the best daddy a boy could have. I told him that being his buddy and feeding him pizza wasn’t the same as being a daddy, and that he knew it so stop trying to kid me. I asked him to show me how he felt and I showed him how I felt. We agreed. I would adopt him.

Actually, it was a smart move. Fleet members are encouraged to enroll qualified sons in the fleet schools, and then take them into space with them. It would strain the veil a lot less if Danny were “Danny Stewart.” It took nearly a half an hour at light speed for my request to reach Tobor, but he handled the paperwork and by the time we woke up the next morning, it was done. Danny was my son. I was a daddy. I couldn’t imagine being any happier than I was at that moment.

The Comm-O told me I had a coded message from Fleet, for captain’s eyes only. That was rare, during peacetime. I took it in my planetside office. It wasn’t from Fleet; it was from Tobor, and reminded me that the next day was Danny’s birthday. Nova sol! I’ve never been to a kid’s birthday party, I thought. I’ve never had a kid before. But, I was the captain, and I had a staff, and several of them had their kids with them. So, I delegated.

The party was a success. We held it in the officers’ mess, but invited all the kids from the junior mess and all their fathers who were part of the crew. The cooks made a round cake decorated to look like Mars, and served lemonade in a punch bowl. I didn’t even know we had a punch bowl. A couple of the fathers organized some silly kids’ games. At first, the older kids were reluctant to play, but when the XO, who was one of the fathers, put on a blindfold and stumbled around trying to pin a paper tail on a poster of a donkey, they relaxed and joined the fun.

I knew I had to get Danny a birthday present, but what do you get a kid when you’re on Mars, when your only source is Fleet stores? I flipped through the inventory, and found it: the issue multi-tool that is the key component of a gun cleaning kit. It’s a right handy gadget for other things, too, and has a knife blade, several screwdrivers, pliers, a file, and a tiny flashlight. They were normally issued only to sailors and marines who were armed; Danny was thrilled.

“Thank you for the party and my present,” Danny said. We were cuddling in my quarters after supper. It wasn’t a spend-the-night night; he had to be on duty at 2200 hours.

“You’re welcome, Son.”

“I like it when you call me that, Daddy.”

“And I like it a lot when you call me daddy.” I hugged him tightly. “I love you so much.”

“I never had a birthday party, before,” Danny whispered. “And I love you so much, too.”

I felt his sadness. “Don’t think about that; think about the fun you had today,” I said. I had never had a birthday party, either. They didn’t do them in the orphanage. And, except for a person’s close friends, they were ignored in Fleet School and aboard ship. I’d never had close friends. The veil.

“Daddy, when is your birthday?”

“In April,” I said. “April fifteenth.”

“Oh! We didn’t have a party for you; I didn’t give you anything!”

“That’s not important, Danny. Remember, think about the fun you had today; that’s what is important.”

Three days later, I gave Danny a sidearm: a standard issue, 9mm Glock pistol. He was about five years short of being old enough, but after the cop, I figured he would need to be trained in self-defense. I took him to the range with me, and taught him to shoot. By the end of the tour, he was better than I was. Actually, I was happy with that.

It was about two weeks after the party that Danny gave me a belated birthday gift. It was a figurine of a person in one of our exploration suits, carved in Martian rock. It wore commander’s insignia. Danny had pushed one of the scientists into sterilizing the rock, and then sweet-talked (or pushed) the Senior Chief in the machine shop into letting him use the laser-CAD/CAM to carve it. It was Danny’s own design, however. The best part was the inscription on the bottom: “I love you, Daddy—Your son, Danny”

Now, I had a memento to carry around.

Chapter 12: Hamish and Matthew—Centurion’s Beloved Boy-Servant

Each morning, as customary, Matthew and I sat in the room with the table and the Bible until Deacon Jerome entered.

He opened the Bible and looked at us. “You have had your first lesson. Here is the basis in scripture. Matthew, Chapter 8, Verses 1 through 13, tell the story of a Centurion’s beloved boy-servant who was healed by the Lord in the Person of his Son.”

He read, “But when Yeshua enter Kapermahum, a certain Centurion approached him and he prayed to him. And he said, ‘My Lord, my beloved boy-servant is lying in the house and is paralyzed and he is badly tormented.’ Yeshua said to him, ‘I will come and heal him.'”

My thoughts were in turmoil. Beloved boy-servant. That’s what Andrew called a catamite. And that is what we will become? Today, Deacon Jerome has given the Lord’s blessing to what we will become, to what we will do, and to what will be done to us. That was all I could think of. That, and my fear for Matthew. Oh, Matthew! That the story should be told by the Apostle whose name you bear!

Then, Deacon Jerome surprised us. “You will have your hair cut, today.”

While we were at lunch, I looked at the tables with the boys and girls. I looked at them through eyes opened to what had been done to them. I felt their fear, their hatred for the Reverends, and their curiosity about Matthew and me.

After lunch, we followed Deacon Jerome to a room where several men sat in a row of chairs. They all stood when the deacon entered. He seemed happy at that, and gestured for them to return to their seats. I think a couple of them frowned when they saw Matthew and me, but that happened so quickly, I wasn’t sure.

It was a long room, with mirrors on each of the long sides. In addition to the chairs in which the men sat, there were three larger chairs. Behind each of these stood a man in a green robe. They were cutting the hair of the men in the big chairs.

A man in a green robe cut our hair. He told Matthew to sit in a big chair and then wrapped a sheet around his neck. By now, Matthew’s hair reached half-way down his back. Deacon Jerome ran his hands through Matthew’s hair, and gave the man instructions. When the man finished, Matthew’s hair hung over his forehead nearly to his eyes. On the sides, it came about halfway down his ears; in the back, it hung about halfway down his neck.

Matthew saw himself in the mirror, looked at me, and smiled. I don’t think Deacon Jerome saw—but I’m pretty sure the man in green did. My gut tightened. Even smiling at another boy was dangerous, especially now.

When it was my turn, Deacon Jerome and the man in green had a long talk about my hair. It is unruly and curly, and was not going to hang straight like Matthew’s. The man in green suggested cutting it close to the head—like I remembered Andrew’s to be. Deacon Jerome raised his voice. “No! That hair is the fire of the Holy Spirit that has found a place in this boy.”

Oh, no! The Holy Spirit is in me? But that cannot happen without a laying-on of hands! What does he mean?

There had been a laying-on of hands at the Ranch, when one of the Deputies was ordained.

“Witness the fire of the Holy Spirit!” the Sheriff cried from the pulpit.

“We are witness to the fire of the Holy Spirit!” a thousand boys’ voices echoed.

“Witness the fire of the Holy Spirit!” the Sheriff cried, again.

“We are witness to the fire of the Holy Sprit,” we answered.

The litany continued. Several Deputies stood around the Deputy who was being ordained. They all held their hands toward Heaven. The Sheriff cried his call again; we responded. And again. Over and over. Then, the Sheriff said, “Here is the fire of the Holy Spirit!”

The Deputies surrounding that one to be ordained dropped their hands upon his head. There was a long silence.

I didn’t see anything, but a couple of the boys said they could see fire coming from Heaven when it happened. Should I ask Deacon Jerome about that? I wondered, and decided not.

The man in green cut my hair so that my head was covered with a mass of red curls. Actually, I thought when I saw myself in the mirror, this looks pretty good. I didn’t look at Matthew, because I was afraid he’d smile again.

That evening, the lesson in fellatio was repeated with different boys. “You must not become attached to anyone,” Andrew said. “It will be used against you.”

I remembered that Matthew and I had been told we would take this journey together. Was that over? Were Matthew and I to be separated? I was afraid.

“But Matthew and I—we were told we would be together!” I said.

Andrew looked at me. I felt his pity. “I’m sorry, Hamish, but that was an empty promise,” he said, and then turned away.

Later, while we washed down the taste of the boys’ seed with lemonade and salty crackers, Matthew told Andrew, “I don’t like the fat men. I don’t like it when they touch my genitals in the bath, and I don’t like the way they look at me. Who are they, and how come they get to do that?”

“They’re the castrati… men who had their testicles cut off when they were boys.”

Matthew paled; I suspect I did, as well. Matthew’s mouth opened in an O.

“They don’t ever grow beards, and they can’t get an erection,” Andrew said. “And if you don’t like what they’re doing, tell them to stop. They’re supposed to obey us. If they don’t, tell me, and I’ll tell a Reverend, and they’ll be punished.”

“Are we going to be like them?” I asked.

“No. Well, not unless you’re found to be imperfect,” Andrew said.

“Imperfect? What does that mean?”

Andrew shrugged. “Only the Reverends know. To protect yourself, you must obey, you must smile, and you must make them want you.”

Over the next few weeks, Andrew and the other boys showed us many ways to make the Reverends want us.

There were different boys in the group each evening. The boys we met, the boys who trained us, were the ones not chosen to be servants to the Reverends that night. On one evening when Andrew was there, I asked, “When will Matthew and I…” I couldn’t complete the question, but Andrew understood.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It is unusual for you to be separate for so long. It is unusual for Deacon Jerome to teach you. It is unusual for you to be bathed every day by the eunuchs—the castrati.”

He paused as if in thought. “I expect that it will not be until I say you are ready, unless one of the Reverends sees you and asks for you sooner.”

My stomach felt icy. “Or a Deacon?” I asked.

“Deacon Jerome,” Andrew said. I simply nodded.

“Maybe,” was all Andrew could offer.

I think it was then that my hatred of Deacon Jerome solidified. He was the reason we were being treated differently. He wanted Matthew; I could feel it. But Matthew was so much younger than any of the other boys. Even I, at ten, was younger than the others. I hated Deacon Jerome, but I also feared him.

I will not describe what happened the next few evenings except to say that we were shown how to clean ourselves. Then began the preparation to accept the penis of a Reverend in our bottom. The preparation, we were told, would take weeks. Our anuses were to be stretched to accommodate a man’s penis—one even larger than Andrew’s. No, even now, I cannot easily talk about it.

The boys’ comments, afterward, did not help.

“Some boys like having a penis inserted into their bottom. They find the feeling soothing and in some cases exciting. They may get an erection. They may even come to orgasm. This is natural, and is permitted by most of the Reverends. Sometimes, however, a Reverend will not like the boy to become excited or experience pleasure,” Andrew said.

“Most of the Reverends like to fuck you from the back, while you’re on your knees. That’s best for you, because it usually hurts less, and they’re less likely to see if you get an erection, yourself,” one of the boys explained.

“Always let the Reverend decide what he wants and how he wants it,” another said. “Most want you to start out sucking them, then most of them want to fuck you. They feel more like they’re in control, then.”

In control? They’re completely in control, I thought. We have no choice except not to suck them too much, and we’ve been warned about that!

“Some of them want you to have an orgasm, to cum. Some don’t. The ones that don’t will punish you of you do. The ones that do, will punish you if you don’t.”

“How do we know—” I tried to ask, but Andrew shushed me.

“There is no way to tell—at least, none we’ve found out,” he said. “It’s another thing to remember, and to tell the others. Maybe, this understanding will spare one of the boys from being whipped.”

Another of the boys continued. “A few of them will take our seed into themselves to purify. It is a great sacrifice on their part, and a great honor. If a Reverend wants to take your seed, of course you will let him. And, you will thank him.”

“Some of the younger Reverends will want to kiss you. The older ones usually, not. We’ll start lessons on kissing, tomorrow.”

“The only persons with whom you will do these things are the Reverends. Except now, while you are in training. It is still death if you are found doing them with another boy. Except while you are in training.”

That night, I heard Matthew crying. I crossed to his bed and sat on the edge. “Matthew? What’s the matter?”

He sat up and wrapped his arms around me. “Hamish! I love you! I want to do those things with you to show you how much I love you, but we must not!”

Love? I wondered. Matthew says he loves me. What is love, and how can we love here? I knew about love from Service.

There is no fear in love, for perfect love casteth out fear. I remembered that. But Matthew and I could not love one another without fear.

Love not the world neither the things that are in the world. I remembered that one, too. Matthew was in and of the world. I could not love him.

That’s what I remembered. However, something else seemed to take over my mind and my tongue. “Matthew, I love you. I know that is proscribed, and that we must not show that love, but know forever that I do love you.”

Our declaration, coming as it did from two different ways of expression, gave us little consolation. Matthew wanted to do sex things with me, and convinced Andrew that we should practice together, at least occasionally. I did not object; however, when Matthew wanted to go beyond this, I was adamant. He pouted; he cried. I remained adamant. That we stayed in love despite this surely meant that our love was real.

In the morning, Deacon Jerome continued our religious education. He read from the Bible.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he read. “That is from Exodus 22:18.” He flipped the pages to another bookmark, and read again.

I was afraid. Does he know I am a witch? Does he know I can hear with others think?

” ‘Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them.’ That is from Leviticus 19:31.

” ‘A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall be stoned with stones, their blood shall be upon them.’ We are told this in Leviticus 20:27.”

I was afraid, but I had to know the answer. I raised my hand. When he nodded, I spoke. “Deacon Jerome, please sir, what is a witch? What is a wizard? What is a familiar spirit?”

I thought I’d asked too much, because Deacon Jerome frowned. Then, he said, “You are not the first boys I have taught; you are the first to ask questions.”

He seemed to think for a minute before he answered. “A witch is a woman; a wizard is a man. Both have turned their faces away from the Lord God, and sought the power of the Devil—Lucifer. In return for the promise of their immortal souls, Lucifer will give them powers: the power to curse and the power to see into the minds of the godly.”

He paused, and then continued. “A familiar spirit is usually a cat, sometimes an owl, that accompanies the witch or wizard. It is inhabited by a demon who aids the witch or wizard, but who also watches them on behalf of Lucifer.”

He stopped talking. I waited, but it seemed as if he were finished. “Thank you, Deacon Jerome,” I ventured. He nodded.

I was afraid. I knew I could see into the minds of others. Matthew was the easiest, but his thoughts were also the strongest. And, we were closely bonded. Deacon Jerome was easy to see into, too. He thought so hard about what he wanted. He wanted Matthew. He wanted to do sex things with Matthew. But he knew he couldn’t, at least not yet. I could not see deeply enough to know why not.

That night on the televisor we watched as a man was tied to a post. Men, serfs by their dress, stacked wood around the man and the post until the pile of wood reached the man’s knees. A serf poured liquid onto the wood. It was then that my memory returned. I had seen this, before. I had seen and asked my father why they would pour water onto the wood. My father had simply told me to hush, to watch, and to learn.

The liquid wasn’t water. It was probably naphtha, like we used in lamps. I remembered watching when a torch was put to the pile of wood; I remembered the man’s screams as the flames crawled quickly toward him. I remembered. I turned the televisor off.

“What? Why did you—” Matthew began.

“Because I don’t want your dreams to be as dark as mine,” I said. “They’re going to burn him alive. You should know that, in case Deacon Jerome asks. But you should not have to see it.”

The next morning, Deacon Jerome asked if we had any questions about the punishment on the televisor. I knew better than to ask, but was afraid for Matthew. Please don’t ask! Please say nothing! I begged. Matthew must have heard me, for he was silent.

When neither of us spoke, Jerome opened the Bible and read, “If a man abide not with God and the Reverends, he is cast forth as a branch, and men gather them and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.”

He closed the Bible. “That lesson comes to us from John 15:6. John was the gentle disciple. The soft one. The one who would tolerate more sin than the others. Yet he says that the Lord through His Son said that unbelievers would be burned.

“The man on the televisor last night was burned because he would not abide with God and the Reverends. He was burned as a witness to his disobedience to the Word of God. He was burned to send him to Hell where he will burn forever.”

I wondered what would be the punishment for a wizard.

The teachings seemed to be all about punishment. On the next morning, Deacon Jerome read, “Jehoiakim son of Josiah King of Judah shall be buried with the burial of an ass, drawn and cast forth beyond the gates of Jerusalem.” He closed the Bible. “That is the Prophet Nehemiah’s warning in Chapter 22.”

He looked at me. “Yes, Hamish?”

“Sir, what’s drawn?”

“A punishment greatly to be feared,” Jerome said. “To have the genitals cut off and then the entrails removed, as is done for the Sin of Gluttony. Surely, you have seen that.”

I’d seen on the televisor people whose stomach were cut, and their intestines pulled out, to be burned. I knew what he meant. I wanted to upchuck, but I managed to say, “Yes, Deacon Jerome. Thank you.”

Fortunately, that was enough.

“And those who do not live as the Reverends say shall go away into eternal punishment, but those who serve the Reverends shall enter into life eternal.” Deacon Jerome looked up from the Bible. “The Lord in the person of His Son said these words, which are written in Matthew 25:46. The lesson is obedience.”

That afternoon, the man in green—the castrati—who had given us the secret about “branch” really being water, began new lessons in how to speak properly to a Reverend, the right words to use and words not to use. I felt his concern for us. He wanted to protect us. Emboldened by this knowledge, I asked him, “Sir, may we know your name?”

I read his surprise and also a feeling of warmth. “My name is John,” he said. “I was named for the John of Patmos, who wrote the book of Revelation.”

Matthew and I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “It is the book of the Bible that tells of the End Times, of the things that will happen when the Lord in the Person of His Son returns to destroy evil and rule the Earth for Eternity, with the Reverends as his co-rulers. It is not something usually taught to serfs.”

He then said, “Please do not be offended by that word—serfs. You were, but you have risen above that station. I was, and I rose above that station.”

“What is station?” Matthew asked.

“Station is where we stand on the Great Chain of Being,” he said. “That, too, is not part of the training of serfs except that they are lower than Deputies and Sheriffs, and that Reverends are the closest to God. I am a Doctor and a Teacher, which is below Deputy but above Serf.”

“What station are we?” I asked.

“You are Holy Vessels. Once you begin your duties, you will be higher than anyone save Sheriffs and Reverends.”

“And Deacons?” I asked.

“Deacon Jerome,” he said.

I nodded.

“Deacon Jerome stands with the Reverends. That is all I can say.”

I felt the man’s fear, and did not try to force him to speak.

Our lesson the next morning was also about punishment—and retribution. ” ‘The days of punishment are come, the days of retribution are come. Let all realize it. The man who would say otherwise is a fool; the man who denies it is mad,’ ” Deacon Jerome said, “That is from the Prophet Hosea, Chapter 9, verse 7.”

Deacon Jerome said little about that verse. I wondered, What are the days of punishment and retribution? Is he speaking to Matthew and me?

In the afternoons, different men in green taught us to sing. We started with the songs from service. Then, they taught us new songs. They were mostly songs of praise to the Reverends, but some had words we did not understand. As time passed, it seemed to me that the songs became more and more—aggressive, was the best word, I thought. “Onward Scudder’s Soldiers,” made me think of my dream to be in the Army—and Andrew’s belief that he would soon be a soldier. “A Mighty Fortress” made me wonder against whom the Reverends—or God—would need to build a fortress. I thought about the songs I’d learned at home: songs about God’s love, about the Reverend’s protection, and about how we were all part of the Family of God. I wondered why we were being taught something different.

Deacon Jerome looked sad. He was reading from Lamentations—the sad book. ” ‘Your fathers have sinned, and are no more; therefore, we bear the burden of their iniquities.’ That is from Lamentations 5:7. You understand, don’t you, that since Adam sinned, and since Eve sinned, we are all, male and female, cursed?”

We’d been hammered with original sin since we were children. Matthew and I nodded. He seemed to want an answer. “Yes, Deacon Jerome,” we both said.

” ‘Thy own ways and thy own doings also have brought punishment onto you. This is thy wickedness—it is bitter, and reaches into thine heart.’ So said Jeremiah in Chapter 4, Verse 18. The Holy Ghost, and the Reverends through the Gift of the Spirit, can see your sins.”

He’s not a Reverend, so he can’t see our sin, our sin of loving one another, I thought as Matthew and I both shivered. Why were we learning these things? I wondered.

That night, in a dream, it came to me. I woke, shivering, and sat up in the darkness. The Reverends know the story of the centurion’s catamite. But it was about a loving relationship. But, they use it to justify rape, for what they do to the boys and girls is surely rape. There’s no love in it. They don’t think we’ll figure out the lie but in case we do, they make sure we know all about punishment!

Chapter 13: Hamish and Matthew—The First Battle for Las Vegas

Almost every night I turned on the televisor in our room. I did that more from habit than from wanting to know what the Scudder would say, or from wanting to know what crisis somewhere else meant my family would have to go hungry. Tonight, there was something new. I was pretty sure it was what had made Deacon Jerome nervous this morning.

The pictures were from a battlefield. I had seen battlefields, before, when the Reverends told us that our Army had defeated someone—usually Godless Muslims or Heathen Pan-Asians who were trying to overrun our European Territories. I didn’t know then where Europe was, but I really wanted to be in the Army. They looked sharp in their uniforms, and they had guns and tanks and aeroplanes. Yes, aeroplanes that flew above the battlefield and dropped explosives on the enemy.

This battle was different: it was in our own country, and not far from Las Vegas. I remembered the sign I’d read when we were brought here. We were in Las Vegas. The battle was nearby! It was easy for me to understand that was probably what made Deacon Jerome afraid.

The battle was between the Army and forces of Evil. I saw boys, some not much older than me, wearing dark uniforms and carrying rifles. They were being crushed by Army tanks and shot by our soldiers. Then, the film stopped, and the screen showed only pictures. There was some sort of boxy aeroplane, but without wings. The pictures were hard to see, but the numbers painted on the aeroplanes were clear: 666, the Number of the Beast.

“The Army of Righteousness was attacked not just by men, but by the demons of Satan. These demons were destroyed, and descended back into Hell where all those who oppose Righteousness shall dwell in eternal fire.” They didn’t show any pictures of the demons being destroyed, though.

“Our Army, while victorious, suffered some losses. Recruiters will visit towns in the next days and weeks to enroll eligible boys for the Army. Victory is promised by the Scudder and the Lord God!”

Why would Deacon Jerome have been afraid, I wondered. He, more than anybody, must know the power of the Lord God! And why didn’t they show any of these demons being destroyed? I had been afraid to ask Deacon Jerome, though. I didn’t even think of asking him if I could join the Army. I thought about that, and decided it was because I had a responsibility to Matthew.

On Saturdays, one of the men in green would lead us to breakfast, and then take us back to our room. Before he left, he would turn on the televisor.

At home, there was nothing on the televisor except in the evenings. At this place and on this day, the televisor showed morality plays, the story of the First Scudder, and something called entertainments. They were like the morality plays, but even more confusing.

Everything the Deacon said was wrapped in mystery and scripture. At first, I believed it all. The more he said, however, the more I saw the pattern: everything pointed to the Scudder and the Reverends. I started wondering what was true and what was false. After a while, I realized that there was one thing that lay under all he said: God, the Scudder, and the Reverends worked in mysterious ways, and we were not expected to understand, but only to obey. That was almost as frightening as the feeling I got whenever Deacon Jerome looked at Matthew or me.

If we failed to answer properly or quickly enough, Deacon Jerome would punish us. He made us pull up our robe to expose our bottoms, and then made us lie across his legs while he paddled us. But only with his hand, never with a whip, never with Gabriel’s hand. I wondered why, until I realized that neither Matthew nor I had scars from punishment: we’d never been beaten that severely, even at the Ranch. Matthew probably because he’d only been there a couple of months. Me? I wondered about that. But it was clear that we were not to be marked in any way. I remembered times when I had barely escaped punishment that I truly deserved, but which I didn’t receive. Why?

And why did I feel the way I did when Deacon Jerome paddled me? My penis felt tingly, and I knew my erection was pressing against the deacon’s leg. I was afraid that if he felt it, or saw it, I’d be punished more severely, and was careful to let my robe fall before I turned to face him.

Matthew had failed to recite properly a long passage about obedience, the one from Deuteronomy about how an unruly child should be stoned to death. I knew it, but the deacon wanted Matthew to say it.

“If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, and that, when they have chastened him, will not hearken to them: Then shall his father and the Reverend lay hold on him and bring him out to the gates of the city; and all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die. So shalt thou put evil away from among you.” Deuteronomy 21:18—21

The deacon was furious when Matthew failed the third time. He sat, and demanded, “Matthew! Assume the position for punishment.”

Matthew walked to where the deacon was sitting, stood to the right of the deacon’s legs, lifted his robe, and lay across the deacon’s lap. The deacon raised his hand. Before he struck, however, I felt the same tingling feeling in my tummy and penis I felt when the deacon paddled me. What is happening? Why do I feel this way?

Then, I felt something else. It was Matthew’s fear. I realized, then, that I was feeling both what the deacon felt, and what Matthew felt. I was afraid. How can I feel what someone else is feeling? How can I know what Matthew fears and what the deacon relishes? The only answer was that I was a witch, and witches were not allowed to live. I became even more afraid.

I had tried to count the days, but found I forgot easily. I think we had been in this place for about a hundred days when, one Sabbath evening, I turned off the televisor just as the lock snapped and the door opened. Deacon Jerome stood in the doorway. “You.” He pointed to Matthew. “Come with me.”

As always, please let David know what you think of his story: david.mcleod@castleroland.net