From Above

Written 2007–2009.

The unrelenting sun scalded the crowd of worshipers that had gathered to listen to the Messengers. It was only once a week that anyone faced the intensity of midday; except for days of temple, citizens rested while the sun was highest in the sky. They would not complain of their personal ordeal — the poor with their bare feet blistering on the baked ground and the rich with sweat soaking their silk garments — for the wealthy and the poor served alike. On one day of every week they knelt outside the temple like equals.

It had been the Messengers who decided that fortune had no place in the sacraments. “The Gods reward those who follow their laws,” they said, “regardless of standing.” Those who were privileged enough to indulge in luxuries on any other day found no favor at the temple. They knelt outside on the ground next to the poor, albeit with palm fiber sandals to protect their feet and heavy veils covering porcelain skin.

They knelt in silence, every individual bowing their heads and remaining still. Enduring the steaming temperature, the still air, the blinding sun and the stinging sand, not one person so much as whimpered at their discomfort. All wore faces of stone as they awaited the ceremony.

A boy called Sajha knelt in the front row, staring down at his sun-stained toes. Like those around him, his face did not display the pain of sitting stiffly in an awkward position while the skin on the bottom of his feet baked beneath him. He tried not to think about his flesh cooking as if on a sun-heated stove, but images of thick, charred slabs of meat kept squirming into his head.

Instead of supporting him in his crouched position, his calloused hands were crossed over his chest. It was a struggle of the will to keep them there as his calves began to cramp. He had lived for sixteen years under the reign of the Messengers. If the Gods willed him to kneel in wait for an indeterminate amount of time without moving a muscle before each ceremony, then he would. But even the Gods and their Messengers could not prevent his bitterness. He was still human.

Sajha hoped that his thoughts were not reflected on his face. He had never been given any indication that the Gods could access to his mind, but if the Messengers saw his displeasure his family could lose their favor.

His family flanked him on both sides, a devout group of workers strong of body and of faith. They served the Gods and were rewarded for it. Sajha’s sister, Aalya, had recently been granted permission to study at the temple of the Messengers. It was an honor for their family, bringing them a scholarly status. Sajha had also benefitted personally from her elevation.

It was unheard of for a well-off young lady like Jade to speak with him, but Sajha had mustered up the courage to at Aalya’s acceptance ceremony. Jade was a daughter of one of the Messengers, and looking across the crowd at her now, Sajha felt that she was wrapped in mystery. Her hair had a red sheen to it, and her skin was a light cream, hardly touched by the sun. Her eyes did not wander the crowd as his did. She stared straight ahead to the dais at the foot of the temple, where the Messengers would stand, with a knowing look in her almond shaped eyes. Jade was not mystified by the Messengers, which made sense, being that she was the daughter of one. Her pride and confidence left him bewildered that she would converse with him.

Yet at Aalya’s acceptance ceremony, while the early guests waited in a shadowy alcove on the side of the courtyard, Sajha had made an effort to work his way toward her. She had looked regal and omniscient that day as well. He had searched his brain for something to say to her, but was speechless until she spoke.

“That is your sister. Your family must be proud.”

Sajha was surprised at her confidence and way of speaking. There was no questioning inflection in her voice, and he was put off guard, but eventually replied, “Yes, they are.”

“They have good reason. The Messengers choose few disciples.” She glanced into the bright courtyard to where Aalya was preparing for her initiation, a look of genuine concern in her eyes. “You will help her with her studies, I am sure? Some are unable to take the strain of being chosen by the Messengers.”

“I will.”

“She will do well then,” Jade replied. Then, as suddenly as the conversation had begun, she had picked up her skirts of un-dyed cotton and whisked away.

Remembering the conversation set Sajha’s heart pumping. He wished he had said something more intelligent or interesting, and he replayed the situation over again in his mind, imagining all the things he could have said to impress her. More than once he thought of what it would be like if he had been chosen to study with the Messengers.

The memory faded from his mind as the Messengers approached. The soft swish of robes and the plodding of leather-shod feet could be heard through the silence. Seven figures, clothed in simple white, took lengthy, measured strides towards the center of the crowd. Men and women alike wore their hair long and looked majestic despite modest garbs. They took in the crowd with steady gazes, faces impossible to read.

The Messengers spoke as one, their words unified eerily in a single voice made up of a variation in timbres and pitches, yet clear and distinctive. “Today the worshipping of the Gods must be delayed to contend with an issue that has come to their attention.” The voices were expressionless, revealing nothing, but Sajha’s breath caught in his chest at their words.

“There has been a violation of the will of the Gods that must be dealt with swiftly and effectively. A third child has been born to a family, in direct disobedience to the Gods’ will. The parents of that child must be executed to make room for this growth in population. Their children will be raised by the Messengers of the Gods. This is a place of honor for them, but penitence must be paid by their antecedents. The execution will be carried out presently.”

They turned as one towards the temple and motioned for the crowd to look upon the lawbreakers, a pair of married merchants, who were escorted by one unarmed guard. Fear was evident in their faces but they did not try to escape. They walked bravely to the dais and knelt before the Messengers.

Their obedience was surprising to Sajha, who felt that he would fight dearly for his life, even if he had broken the rules. He understood that the Gods’ laws were for the benefit of their society, but as he imagined himself before that dais all he could envision was a fight for survival. He would scream and beg for mercy, for the crowd around him to rise against the force that would end his life.

Yet he had seen many executions in his lifetime, and never had the victim pleaded. They accepted their fate peacefully. Most said it was the will of the Gods, or the power of the Messengers, that strengthened people as they faced their punishment. The couple now knelt with careworn faces raised, dignified, toward to sky.

The Messengers spoke in their unnatural harmony, “It is the Gods’ wish that you receive this punishment and restore the order that your actions have corrupted. Your sacrifice will be remembered.”

The pair before them stiffened and fell to the ground, faces completely relaxed. They did not utter a sound suggesting pain or fear, and the cause of death was not evident. The crowd was just as still, for they had seen this occur hundreds of times. Sajha was young enough to wonder what strange magic the Messengers possessed and whether they could use it however they wished. Fearfully, he imagined the Messengers disobeying the Gods and using their powers to control his people.
The continuation of the ceremony drew Sajha’s mind from its fantastical scenarios. Even as the corpses were being dragged away, the children were brought through the crowd, the eldest carrying a newborn infant. The Messengers hid nothing, it seemed. Or perhaps, as Sajha thought bitterly, they paraded certain atrocities to keep others hidden in plain sight.

Though their skin was tanned and cracked from hard outdoor labor, the two elder children wore faces as pale as fresh milk. They bore their fate as stoically as had their parents. Their eyes were fixed on the Messengers without flinching. What sorcery kept the children from mourning the loss of their mother and father? Sajha remained in a shocked daze through the rest of the proceedings. He watched as the children were initiated into the Messengers’ service, and as the eldest publicly accepted their offer of care. But Sajha was not watching what occurred in reality; he saw the events of his mind’s eye unfold before him.

He imagined the boy call out in a rage that transcended his humanity, his arms swinging wildly to beckon the crowd to join him in his vengeance before streaking towards his parents’ murderers. While one hand struck out at the closest Messenger, the other searched the prophet’s robes until it found a sacrificial knife and plunged the blade into the feebly protesting man’s chest. But then, surely, the sky would darken as the sun would be blocked out by the Messengers’ shadow magic and the Gods themselves would arrive, surfing gales of wind or appearing in clusters of exploding sparks, and, assuredly, all would be punished. Perhaps, Sajha thought as he returned to the reality, the boy was as afraid of the consequences as he.

Similar ideas played their way through his inner vision even after the children took their places kneeling. The weekly ritual of Curing followed the punishments.

Citizens who were sick came forth in an orderly queue and were fed strange concoctions which usually healed them instantaneously. The mixtures were a secret from the Gods. Only occasionally did people get violently ill, and in that event the Curing occurred only partly in public. Injuries were also dealt with out of sight, and few knew how the more serious wounds were healed.

When the last were cured, the ceremony turned to meaningless rituals that bored Sajha. Prayers, repeated by the masses, were followed by handholding throughout the crowd, the lighting of a single candle and its dousing by a few gentle drops of water. Finally, there was an admonition from the Messengers to lead auspicious, good lives, following the laws of the Gods. Sajha supposed that the Messengers were symbolized by the healing rain, and a disobedient citizen, the flame of destruction. A similar fire burned in his gut.

His unease was extinguished by relief as soon as he was allowed to stand. He stretched his muscles and headed along with the crowd to the water trough.

He was met there by a familiar face. Upon seeing Aalya, his thirst was forgotten. Sajha pushed through the crowd to the girl, a slightly more feminine and shapely reflection of himself. Her hair now grew past her shoulders, a think mass of ebony, and a change since the days when she had worked the fields with it cropped well above her stubborn chin. They shared the same heavily lashed, inquisitive eyes. As they embraced, the tension in Sajha’s grip betrayed his agitation to his perceptive sister.

Her eyes became concerned as they drew apart. “My brother, what troubles you?”

Sajha looked around the crowd of thirsty worshippers and wondered whether this was a safe place to speak freely. No one was paying them any mind and it would be less suspicious to stay here than to sneak off. Drawing close enough to Aalya to speak softly into her ear, he was unsure of what to say even to someone he could trust completely. Perhaps his suspicious thoughts should not be vocalized at all.

Slowly and deliberately, he finally managed to intone, “I feel . . . unsettled by the execution today.” He was appreciative that Aalya kept her face as smooth as still water.

She did not look up at him and replied while hardly moving her lips. “We all doubt the Messengers sometimes, but they always work for the greater good.”

“I know why they did it, but there is something so . . . inhuman about it.”

“The Messengers serve a higher power, one that is not human but has our best interests in mind. The deaths here today were in service of a greater purpose, one which we cannot understand. The mystery in their ceremonies comes from this benevolent force. You would do well not to question it.”

Sajha had never heard anyone talk like this about the Gods, as if they were entirely unlike human people and impossible to understand. Something Aalya had learned since becoming a disciple must have changed her perspective. “There is something you are not telling me,” he accused.

“No, I mean it. The Messengers work for something no one can comprehend. This became clear when I first stepped inside the temple. There is more to their magic than we see. I’m not certain I can describe it.”

“Please try,” Sajha said. “I need your reassurance.”

Aalya hesitated. “Well, the inside of the private chambers is like nothing I have ever imagined. I don’t mean ceremonial decorations and great treasures; it’s not like that. It’s like nothing you’d see in the village, the marketplace, the farming houses, or even the richest homes. A cold light illuminates the classrooms, and there’s nothing there made of wood, stone, cloth. They make things out of glass that’s never burnt, and so clear there’s never a trace of color. And everything is perfectly clean without a single grain of sand or smudge of dirt. In some of the rooms there are strange things that work on their own, like magic, even when no Messengers are there.”

In her fervor, she’d regressed from learned scholar to excited farm-girl. Sajha could tell that this had been bothering her for some time. “We’re not supposed to talk about any of this, not even to our families — as if they could understand it.” She drew closer to him and whispered, “They teach us to make the Curing potions, but we don’t know what they’re for. I think some aren’t for healing sickness at all.”

Sajha’s eyes grew wide. “What do you suppose they’re for?”

“I don’t know, but they only bring a few types to the Curing ceremony. The rest go to the Messengers’ private inner sanctum. There were rumors today that the man and woman who were executed were brought from there. It is not the first such rumor.”

“You were telling me how this all came from a benevolent force acting for the good of humanity,” he said.

Aalya’s shocked expression told him that, in trying to prove her point, she had talked herself out of it. She shook her head as if to dislodge those ridiculous notions. “You’re right. Forget what I’ve said. We can’t understand the Messengers or the Gods. But their actions improve our society.”

Sajha was impressed at how quickly Aalya had talked herself back into her safe beliefs. Perhaps, he realized, the Messengers had not chosen her as a disciple for her hunger for knowledge, but her naivety. He let his disappointment with her play across his face as he turned and walked away. The Messengers were not the only ones capable of manipulation. Even if Aalya convinced herself that all was well, Sajha knew that this would gnaw at her. For the next week, Sajha would be unable to do anything, while Aalya would decide where her loyalties lay.

*

Another sizzling day held the next week’s ceremony. Sajha knelt in the front row, his muscles locked and unwavering. A week of grueling labor and steady routine had quelled his rebellious spirit. Now the only thing bothering him was his uncomfortable stance. He took deep breaths and tried to clear his mind, but he had never been good at that. Rogue thoughts darted out of the shadows when he least expected it, such as a musing as to what effect his glare had had on his sister.

He also could not keep his mind off his family. With Aalya living in the temple, Sajha was an only child. He was growing out of a difficult youth, and learning to take over his family’s land was causing him to become like his kind and noble father, Rahka. Kneeling beside him, Rahka’s face was sun-stained and ragged, stretched like thinning leather. It was deeply wrinkled around eyes that once may have gleamed inquisitively, but that light had long since faded. Rahka worked hard to remain in the Gods’ favor, teach his children right from wrong, and protect his family from the Messengers.

Once, when Sajha was a boy, he and a few other children sneaked into the temple, and Rahka had talked the Messengers out of punishing him. Sajha didn’t know what had happened, but he was sure he had been old enough to remember. He could see the outer hall in his mind’s eye: a shadowy entranceway into dark catacomb passages. There was a feeling attached to the perception. They had been young and adventurous, loud and boisterous, but upon entering the temple they were filled with awe and a tingle of fear that brought silence. Everything about marching up those sunlit stone steps was clear in his mind — the excitement and curiosity, the heat on his skin before the relief of cool darkness, and even the packed sand under his fingernails — but past those doors he could form only a single picture. The entrance hall was dimly-lit with an unidentifiable light source, ancient and imposing. Age-old artifacts hung from the walls. He felt he must have been there a long time; more than long enough to run through the catacombs with his friends, but all that remained for him was a single frozen image.

Then he was out in the sun again, his father’s farmer arms defending him. He had never heard the man speak so desperately. “Please don’t take my son,” Rahka had pleaded. “We are servants of the Gods. We exalt them. We teach our children to serve, O Prophets of the Infinite. It will not happen again. Please do not take him from us.”

Sajha could remember all of that clearly. His father’s arms had shook and one tear ran down his stone face as he bowed to the ground.

Finally giving up on his meditation, Sajha decided that focusing on something else would keep the bodily pain at bay. His concentration was unwavering as he mentally recited the lessons. “Barley and wheat are planted before the rain season. They are harvested in the spring and offered to the Gods. Barley can stand harsher conditions. We are lucky to have enough rainfall to cultivate wheat; we trade surplus with nearby communities. When there is drought in summer the yield is low. We use irrigation from the diverted Gadi Whazza stream to help the vegetables and legumes. We must make sure that the stream can replenish itself faster than we use it up.” Then there was something about renewable sources and returning nutrients to the soil. That part made so little sense to him that he could not memorize it, and it seemed like there were holes in the teachings.

Luckily his break in concentration did not lead to more pain, for just as he gave up struggling to remember something about nitrogen-fixing or salinity, the Messengers arrived. Their communal voice rarely conveyed any emotion, but today they sounded sorrowful.

“There has been another transgression. We are disappointed that so many crimes have been committed in recent weeks. To prevent further breaking of the Gods’ laws we wish to remind all citizens that while crimes against individuals can often be resolved peacefully, crimes against the state require justice against the guilty. Disobeying any of the Gods’ laws, therefore, is punishable by death.

“The law restricts dangerous research and development by unlicensed parties. Those with a technological studies license are subject to the limitations imposed by the Gods.

“Yesterday a group of researchers was discovered in the outer sanctum of the temple. They were using the tools provided for peaceful, sustainable development to construct weapons far too malevolent to be permitted. Such weapons could be used to wage war and kill hundreds of people who are simply trying to live harmoniously with us, destroying the planet’s beauty at the same time.

“To prevent this dangerous advancement in technology, the Gods have ordered that we, their Messengers, pay retribution to those who have threatened our way of life.”

As the offenders reached the dais in the center of the crowd their dead eyes made Sajha think of Aalya’s speculations about strange medicine and a mysterious inner sanctum. Had the men before him come from the Messengers’ private room? Their helpless, gaunt faces suggested so.

The Messengers conducted a sort of simplified trial before the people of Gaza. “Do you admit to researching dangerous weapons?”

The men responded in a chorus similar to that of the Messengers. “I do,” they all said calmly.

“Do you understand the necessity for your execution, and recognize the infinite Gods as your lawmakers and judges?”

Again they replied uniformly, “I do.”

“Do you submit yourself now to their judgment?”

“I do.”

The words made it effortlessly from their mouths. They did not even choke. Each fell to the ground with truly dead eyes.

Sajha found that he was calmer after this execution. If the men accepted that they deserved to die, then so be it. They had admitted freely to committing the crime. Hadn’t they? Again Sajha’s imagination ran off with him. He had seen that the Messengers had the power to kill and to heal; perhaps they could also control people. But if the Gods were truly benevolent, they would not give such powers to their governors. Perhaps it was the potions, then. Perhaps the Messengers had learned how to make concoctions for purposes other than those intended by the Gods. If that were so, it would mean that the Messengers could kill whoever they wanted without the Gods’ approval. Going against the Gods in this way would surely bring trouble to Sajha’s people.

As always, the ceremony went on as the bodies were dragged away. It was time for the weekly Curing. Not a step was missed in the routine. The Messengers called up the citizens in line, questioned them about their ailments, took some strange measurements with instruments that were inserted into mouths and ears, and administered the medicine with a blessing. When they were all done, a blessing was said for the health and benefit of all.

Then it was over again. Again Sajha was parched, but he knew he would not drink until he had spoken with his sister.

This time his parents had spotted Aalya first and were greeting her excitedly. Their mother wanted to know all about her lessons, what could be revealed at least, and their father made sure she had everything she needed. His chest swelled visibly with pride.

While she was with their parents, Sajha felt a firm arm ushering him away from his family. Jade led him to a bustling part of the crowd. Even surrounded by sweaty peasants he could make out the rich fragrance of spices trailing after her.

As she stopped, he found that she made an effort to stand next to him, rather than facing him. “Your sister does not wish to speak of it, but she conveyed your sentiments to me.”

She spoke at a perfectly audible volume so that he did not have to watch her lips. In return, he avoided looking at her, but he thought that must look even more obvious. His eyes were drawn to her and it was to be expected that a boy of his age gawk and stare at her beauty.

When he did not answer she continued. “Aalya will not tell you, but she saw the men who concern you going into the inner sanctum. And I saw one more leaving. Rumors also only counted four researchers, yet five were executed. I think someone was killed for a crime they did not commit.”

Sajha’s eyes were wide at this point, and before she could continue he was calling for action. “The Messengers have gone too far if they are covering up the true reason for an execution. That is murder. We have to expose them.”

“We must be cautious. If I am to go against my own father, I must be sure.”

“There’s no time,” Sajha protested. Plans were formulating and playing out before his eyes, and the best plan, albeit the most reckless, would not even involve Jade. If all went well, anyways. “I will take care of it. You will not have to betray your family.” Before she could say anything else he was wading through the sea of people, back toward the dais. His heart was pumping madly and he knew his plan was just as mad. But something had to be done. He would turn around the evils of the Messengers and lead his people to a new way.

Gathering up all of his courage, he began to yell at the top of his voice. “It is just meant to control us all! It is not real. Do not trust them!” His thoughts tumbled out over a thick, parched tongue and quickly gained in volume. Before he realized what he was doing, various theories of deceit and treachery were spewed from his mouth. The crowd around him spread out to clear themselves of any blame and many fell to their knees facing the Messengers.

Some of the Messengers turned towards him. Oddly, he did not feel as though he were any peril, but more like a child about to be punished for shouting the truth when the truth was not appropriate. Like such a child, he stood defiantly with hands on hips. A guard grabbed him from behind and put him in such a tight hold that he could not struggle in the least, and the leader of the Messengers revealed himself by speaking alone.

“This boy has shown disrespect to the Gods and their prophets. However, it is evident that he is quite mad. We will confer directly with the Gods to determine, with their counsel, whether we must take his life as punishment for treason.” Without his chorus, the man’s voice was sharp as a knife and far more threatening.

*

Sajha sat blindfolded with little room to stretch his legs, as he had for the past seven days. He knew how much time had passed only because a rough voice had barked that today was his execution day. Only, he did not plan to die. His plan was a simple act of will, requiring only that he refuse to stand acquiescently before the Messengers while they brought about his untimely demise. Whatever they did to make the others abandon themselves in their final moments would not work on him. His will was strong.

It was also strong enough to block out ideas of all of the things that could go wrong. Sitting in that cramped position in the complete dark for so many days, he had had plenty of time to construct scenarios, most of them involving his own death. But today he would not waver.

The door creaked open. One pair of hands reached for his blindfold while another took Sajha’s hands and pulled him up. The blindfold was off. His enemies surrounded him on all sides. And there was that cold, alien light Aalya had described. He was deep inside the temple, perhaps in the inner sanctum.

The Messengers wore solemn faces that suggested disappointment, but Sahja met their deceitful eyes with an unruly glare. After a week living in a cupboard, his glower was probably not as fierce as he imagined it to be, but gaunt and bony. The image weakened his resolve a little bit, and as if sensing the shift, the Messengers chose that moment to move him to the center of the room. They sat him down on an armchair, and metal cuffs snapped shut over his wrists to hold him securely. Aalya had not been lying when she said that everything was unnatural, from the lights to the shiny greenish material that coated his chair.

The Messengers had been watching him take in his surroundings. He refused to ask them a single question, certain that they would feed off his insecurity. He must be unwavering. Finally the leader from the last ceremony stood in front of the white wall and spoke.

“We have hoped that in the past few days you have had time to reflect on what you have done. Only that can prepare you for what we are about to show you.”

Reflect on what he had done? Had there been any moisture in his mouth Sajha would have worked up every bit of precious saliva and spewed it across the man’s face. Instead he spoke through a parched throat. “I have done nothing but speak the truth.”

“It was my daughter who informed us that your faith was wavering. Jade is very good at ferreting out those who doubt our ways, so that they may be brought back to the truth.”

Jade. The name cut deeply. His heart bled for the betrayal. The man must have seen Sajha grimacing, for he added, “You must forgive her. You see, one day she will replace me. Currently, it is her job to ensure peace and stability in our world.”

But Sajha could not forgive her for fooling him. He had been so certain of her good character, her integrity, but he had forgotten that he barely knew her. He had imagined her to be brave, strong, and virtuous, and she had used this fantasy to earn his trust, then betray him. This, he would not forgive.

“You are here for the truth to be revealed,” said the lead Messenger. Sajha nearly snorted with disdain before the Messengers walked behind him, and was left to deal with Jade’s duplicity.

The lights faded out completely. In the middle of the floor before Sajha, a fire sprang up without apparent cause or sustaining fuel. Only it was not exactly a fire, but an orangey ball caked with grey smoke that had been preceded by a thunderous boom. Had he not been strapped down, Sajha would have leapt from his seat and ran, all thoughts of Jade abandoned. But then he realized that while the combustion was only a few feet away from him, he had felt no heat. Somehow the Messengers had conjured up an image of an explosion.

The first boom was followed by many others, some with a backdrop of a blue sky and impossibly tall structures crumbling over an impossible number of people who were tiny and scattering like ants. At first this supplemented his feelings of anger and pain. One ball of fire enveloped a sea of green trees. Three dimensional images showed the impact of a bomb throwing a crowd of people helter-skelter in all directions, or a building coming down on top of its occupants, many of them rushing down flights of stairs to get out. Such violence and death Sajha had never encountered, and it dwarfed the evils of the Messengers. But he supposed that must be the point.

Next there was an image of a village quite like Sajha’s own. Adobe buildings a few stories high were surrounded by sandy roads. The chaos in the streets drew Sajha’s attention. An explosion demolished half of a mud brick home, but the men surrounding it were preoccupied. They were fighting, hiding behind whatever shelter they could find and loud bangs preceded many of their deaths. They fell to the ground, clutching hearts, arms, legs, and spewing blood from wounds that appeared from nowhere. Every man in the street fight fell.

Next he saw a young woman who looked more like what he expected to see in his village, only she spoke in a language he could not understand. She was talking in an animated voice as if to herself. Large white letters appeared before his face, he assumed to translate her speech.

“We cannot resort to mass weaponry. This is not our fight. They say we should attack while they are weak, but this will only lead to a war we cannot win.” Her eyes were pleading.

They were replaced by determined and hateful eyes set in a pale face that surely had never seen the light of day. “We must take back our country, whether by expulsion or extermination, so that we may focus on our family lives and personal livelihoods. This has gone on far too long. Racial mixing is weakening the gene pool and undoing the Gods’ work of ethnic division. The inferior and the sinful are infesting our lands. A pestilence is upon us, and soon too will the Gods’ wrath be.”

Then another man appeared. His skin was much darker than any Sajha had seen or thought possible. “The death toll has risen to seven million dead in this civil war. Reports claim that the terrorist attack today was unprovoked. Retribution will be had against the so-called Nationalists.”

The man was replaced by more images of fire, explosions so big they were enveloping entire cities, smoke raising high into the sky. Piles of human bodies wearing blood-soaked clothes sprawled on the floor before him. With one final boom it was over and he saw the barren land he was so familiar with. No green, no sea of trees, no anthills full of people. Just desert. Everywhere.

Then it was gone. When the lights returned, Sajha realized he was shaking. He blinked away tears and wiped a stray one from his face before the Messengers had made it around the chair to see him. Again one spoke alone.

“Now you see our past, what we are trying to prevent. History is doomed to repeat itself, they used to say — but not if history is erased. Not if no one remembers.

“The means are important too. Nuclear weaponry is a dangerous tool that killed millions at once, and it was a double-edge sword. Everyone involved suffered. From the moment of its creation, mass destruction was inevitable. So we, the survivors, prevented it from being reinvented. Any technology that could yield information toward nuclear power will never be permitted. And we slowed down development altogether. Now do you understand, Sajha?”

Chastened, the boy nodded. The world he had seen was far worse than the one he lived in. He submitted. Then he sought some answers. “Who was that angry man, the pale one?”

“He was the inspiration on how to implement peace. It was his belief that conflict could be avoided if people who were different from one another were kept separate. If each group kept to their own territory, they could have their own rules without interfering with each other.”

It made sense, keeping different peoples divided. “I understand,” he said.

“I knew you would. You are an intelligent boy, and our forefathers knew what was best for our people.”

“Forefathers? I thought the Gods knew best.”

The Messengers exchanged glances. Then words were exchanged.

“It’s too late for him anyways,” said one.

“Let him hear the truth first,” agreed a second.

The leader conceded and turned back to Sajha. “It is time you knew. Before I tell you the truth, think of everything we do for the benefit of our society. Think of how we control technology, consumption of resources, the population, crime — even small things like greed, violence, disorder. You see how it is crucial to name the Gods our lawmakers. In truth, it has been over a thousand years since the Gods have spoken to a Messenger. They do not guide us day to day, but we follow their teachings and have faith that we are doing what is best.”

“The Gods do not speak to you? They did not tell you to kill anyone who finds out the truth?”

“They guide us only with their principles, laid down before all of this chaos. But no, they do not give us direct orders. We make the decisions and use the people’s beliefs for order. Can you blame us, Sajha? The people are more receptive to our laws if they come from an omniscient being.”

“If the Gods have not spoken to anyone in a thousand years, how do you know they exist? That their principles are still valid?”

“We have faith.” The man stepped forward, knelt before Sajha, looked into his eyes as if they were those of a child. “Extreme measures must be put into place to maintain peace. One of those measures is the pretence of the Gods’ guidance. To keep up this illusion, you must be punished publicly for treason. There is no other way.”

Sajha nodded again. They were right. This was beyond his individual desire for survival.

He did not object when one of the Messengers came forward with a long, thin needle and injected him with some unknown potion. Normally such a foreign, threatening object would have frightened Sajha, but he was deep in thought.

“Sajha, in one hour you will be brought before your people and you will die to protect them. The poison already courses through your veins. You cannot fight it now. If you are ready, we will escort you to a place where you may come to terms with your decision privately.”

Again the boy nodded, berated by having been so certain he was right, only to find out he had been wrong. And it had cost him his life.

Sajha stood in that same dark chamber from his childhood. The one of which he could only remember a single picture from one precise angle. Now he had plenty of time to look around and create a memory. The mud brick walls were carved with thick symbols that meant nothing to him. He had learned to read, but these must be an ancient script. It was here that they left him to think.

The decision was his. He could still follow his plan and defy them openly. But who was he to decide the fate of his people? The Messengers claimed to know the history of the world. He knew only the brief glimpses that they allowed him, and even that was enough to see. Those who had died before him must have agreed. There is far less death this way.

His people would develop slowly with the Messenger’s ideology in mind. They would live a peaceful life without pain and violence. The Messengers were right. A lie covered the past and protected the future from its taint.

The fires and bombs were etched on his eyelids so that each time he even blinked he saw the horror. He envisioned the bodies of his family and friends strewn on dusty streets, covered in scorch-marks and abrasions. He saw his father lying face-up on a pile of corpses. Dead eye sockets haunted him. This was the repeated history the Messengers were preventing.

No longer did Sajha see himself fighting the Messengers for his survival. He would accept his death as a tribute to the world he had known. He would bow his head before them and submit. For the greater good.

The longer they left him alone in that room, the more he justified his decision. Many objections occurred to him, but he brushed them aside as the selfish desire to live. He deserved to die for attempting to disrupt the Messenger’s peace. He would die with his head held high like so many before him. They had all realized the good of their sacrifice too.

The objections slowed and his mind calmed. Going back to examining his surroundings, he felt a new peace within himself. His eyes traced the shapes in the wall. Calmed now, his youthful curiosity took hold of him and he stepped down the corridor. The dark passageway beckoned him, and any fear was easily overcome. In less than an hour he would be dead.

The carvings began to change as he walked along the corridor. No longer meaningless symbols, they were now shaped like naked, faceless men standing with arms and legs spread wide, heads sideways in profile. They were all carved figures the color of the sandy walls. But then there was a little man painted with red dye, and a few columns over, a yellow one. Several rows up a carving had been filled in with dark brown paint. Still most of the figures were the color of sand. He was walking beyond the candlelight now and darkness hid their color. When it became light again, he found that more and more of the carvings were painted. The corridor ended. The wall at the far end was covered with the little dark brown man-shapes, and no others. They reminded Sajha of the man from the Messenger’s illusion, the one whose skin was darker than he had thought possible by the sun. Idly, he wondered why he had never met anyone like that.

He should have had a feeling as if he had been here, at the end of this corridor, before. Nothing was familiar but it should have been. A memory had slipped out of him somehow, and he did not know why. Seeing the place again should have brought it back.

In search of his lost memory, he took another desperate look around. He peered more closely at the carved and painted men, ran a finger along the grooves in the stone, stood on his toes to inspect the highest corner and crouched to look at the lower. There at the bottom of the outer wall he found writing that he could understand in a square that looked as if it had been drawn in wet sand by a thick finger. In the box were four little men, one of each color that appeared on the wall. Words were written next to each. It was a symbol legend, indicating that each little man stood for one thousand of each color. At one end there were hundreds of different colored figures, and at the other, only sand.

Just as he had every week of his life, Sajha knelt in the noon day sun before the Messengers. There were only a few differences today. For one, it had been years since Sajha had been so full of faith and trust in his leaders. For another, his pulse was slowing and he knew that they had killed him.

He had passed Jade on his way out, and merely nodded at her. After the horrors of the hologram, her crime seemed quite trivial.

The Messengers were informing the crowd of the Gods’ decision. Sajha would be struck down by their power as punishment for heresy. Across from him, Sajha’s family knelt. They were remaining calm and held together. His death would save them.

But his father did not look as if he wanted to be saved. Rahka’s eyes were darting between his son and the Messengers as if seeking resolution.

Sajha decided not to look at him. As the Messengers delivered a speech about the Gods’ goodness, he let his eyes wander the crowd. At least dying in this way he would be surrounded by everyone he had ever known and loved, and knew that they were safe.

He paid little attention to the speech, but the words hummed in the back of his head: “This boy has spoken ill of the Gods. He submits today to their will. He understands his mistake.”

The people Sajha loved so much, descendants of a terrible past, looked upon him impassively. Every golden-brown face was framed by straight, dark hair, while the rich spattering the crowd wore veils to cover fair cheeks and curls of every color, both natural and unnatural. Some of them shared the Messengers’ creamy skin.

It was something Sajha had never paid any mind to, but now the gathering of worshippers resembled the countless unpainted men on the brown temple walls, and he wondered again why there were no men with skin as dark as the man on the hologram.

“His mortal sacrifice is an act of faith in the Gods’ ways.”

And what did the other colors mean? It looked as if the only survivors of the Messengers’ war had been pale skinned. And the lightest were the most privileged today. He had always thought the poor were darkest because they spent the most time working in the sun. Now it seemed to Sajha that perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps they were poor, and spent the most time working in the sun, because they did not have fair hair and skin.

It certainly fit the pattern that Sajha looked out upon. And the pattern shown on the temple wall. The Messengers were counting how many of each color remained. Then they divided the survivors among those they deemed superior and inferior.

Sajha’s breaths were coming difficultly now. “This boy repents for what he has done,” the Messengers were saying. It was difficult to concentrate on the words. The outer temple filled his mind, the absent memory, the needle that had sent a timed poison into his veins, the painted men.

“Now you see his faith has been restored. His brave acceptance of the punishment for heresy shows that he believes in the Gods and their wishes.” The executed had all been darker of skin. He had never seen a man so dark as on the holograph. The darkly painted men were all gone. Realization crashed on him in the final moments of his life and he was overcome by fanaticism.

“He kneels here with no binding chains, no knife at his throat, ready for the Gods’ magic to take him.”

He did kneel before the Messengers unbound, head held high, but he had one last weapon to use. He looked past the Messengers to his father. Rahka was breaking, his deepest fears unfolding before his eyes. Sajha spoke loudly, breathlessly. “I’ve been poisoned. And deceived.” It was all he could get out. Pleading eyes begged his father to understand and to act. Just before they went dark, Sajha saw his father stand. The threat of the Messengers’ power gone, a wave spread across the crowd and as the oppressed got to their feet and crashed upon their oppressors.