Chapter 42

Crowds milled around the tracks as the train came to an abrupt halt next to a small wooden platform. Men and women jumped from the passenger cars with their belongings firmly in one hand, their children in the other. A small table was being set up on the wooden stage by several men in similarly-styled blue suits. A middle-aged man in a slightly darker blue uniform sat down at the table, spreading several books and writing utensils across its wooden surface. He was joined by two much larger and younger men who stood on either side projecting an air of malice and distrust. A line formed in front of the table and the man in the darkest blue suit waved the first passengers forward.
Several yards behind the table Edward and Witticker, now dressed in floor length, hooded black robes, had joined the line as inconspicuously as possible. Edward had decided on their apparel for the trip. His reasoning had been that, while it was unlikely they would be recognized; the extra precaution would not hurt.
The line snaked slowly across the train yard as the afternoon sun arced across the sky like a pole-vaulter in suspended animation. Little children ran up and down the line selling refreshments to the travelers. Several motorbikes zoomed past the motionless train, sailing past the crowds and down the tracks. The locals cheered as the bikes sped by and the riders raised their fists in the air to reciprocate the enthusiasm. The drivers were drifters and vagrants, hired by the train conductors to ride ahead, checking for disruptions or breaks in the track. People familiar with the line of work, considered by most to be a particularly dangerous occupation, felt a certain inclination to support the vandal riders who they only knew as selfless surveyors of the countryside.
As the line crawled across the wasteland of train tracks a makeshift marketplace sprang up around the captive consumers. Vendors dropped quilts on the ground and unloaded their goods for the public’s viewing eye. Witticker was amazed at the persistence and resiliency of the merchants, shouting and gesturing at every passerby regardless of their show of interest. At one point he was nearly drawn into one of the stands himself after a pocket watch that lay among a pile of like shiny trinkets, but was quickly torn away by Edward who reminded him of their unique situation. He snapped at Witticker with a quiet hiss, instructing him to keep his face to the ground and under the hood.
After an hour and a half the two men found themselves only a few places from the front of the line. The man in the dark blue suit seemed to be questioning each passenger in a similar manner, asking each their intended destination and reason for travel.
“When we get up there,” whispered Edward, his face to the ground, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of everything. Just make sure to agree with whatever I say.”
“Alright.”
“Good start.”
The two men stepped forward and waited for the man in the dark blue suit to call them to the table. Out of the corner of his eye Edward could see the crowds of people moving all around the train, swarming in and around its various cable cars. Some were employed to inspect and repair the trains many moving parts and others were helping recent arrivals still exiting the train with their luggage which, in some cases with traveling families, was ample.
As he scanned the mechanical landscape a familiar image suddenly caught Edward’s attention. At the back of the train Edward could see the outline of a lanky man raking a brush through an unkempt beard. The old man threw a satchel onto the train and leapt up onto one of the many cleared platforms.
“Next.”
Edward quickly snapped his head back to the ground and stepped forward. Witticker followed Edward’s lead and stood slightly behind his guide. Up close the man in the blue suit appeared to be a slightly portly gentleman with a large handlebar mustache and considerable oval eyes. Upon his blue lapel stuck a rectangular pin with the words ‘CONDUCTOR’ visible through the smudge lathered onto it.


Sweat dripped from underneath the conductor’s hat and rolled down the length of his face, falling onto the pages of the book laid out before him.
“Destination?”
“New York,” growled Edward in a gruff tone much unlike his normal speaking voice.
“City or upstate?”
“City.”
The man in the blue suit took a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the length of his forehead. Replacing the handkerchief, he grabbed a pen and jotted a few notes in the next open margin in the book laid out before him.
“Reason for travel?”
“To further spread the word.”
“And which word would that be?” asked the conductor without a hint of interest.
“The word of the Region,” replied Edward, not missing a beat, “the most forward-thinking ideal, ever-expanding in an effort to show the people of the world the harmony and comfort of living in a united community. Have you heard the word?”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” murmured the conductor, “Your friend is awfully quiet. Doesn’t he feel the need to spread the word?”
“My friend and I are on route to see a very important official in the New York area. He has been commissioned to speak to no one before a meeting of this magnitude so that his thoughts might remain unfettered and on the task at hand. Isn’t that right?”
Witticker nodded under his robe and raised his hand slightly.
“Fine. You do understand the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior en route to your destination, correct?”
Edward nodded.
“Alright, you and your mute friend are in car eight, room thirteen.”
Edward and Witticker both nodded and shuffled towards the train. As they reached the platform on the eighth car Witticker pulled Edward aside.
“What is the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior on this thing?”
“Oh, they toss your ass from the train. Come on, we need to see who we’re riding with.”
Edward jumped up onto the train and slid through the thin door into the passenger car. Witticker turned and scanned the sea of travelers still in line behind the table. They shuffled in their places as he had only moments before, kicking dirt up into the air which seemed to engulf the mass in a hazy fog. The dusty mist clutched the line, snaring it into place. It never seemed to move. It was simply there, stuck in one place. Faceless bodies shuffling endlessly under the noon-day sun.
A whistle blew from the front of the train signaling an imminent departure. Witticker quickly jumped up to the platform and disappeared into car number eight. The line of people dispersed along with the blue-suited conductor and his table. The dust began to settle back to the earth. Everything became silent again.
The train whistle blew again and the hulking engine roared to life. The train crept forward hurling loose earth back into the air. The massive machine picked up speed and flew out of town, leaving clouds of smoke and dirt swirling in its wake.

Chapter 41

Witticker sat in a very tight and shady alleyway between two thatch houses in the outer distrip. He and Edward had run from the heart of the market after their most recent encounter, ducking into the empty space to wait until the air cleared from the altercation. Witticker sat watching Edward who had been trying for the past several minutes to catch water dripping from the gutter of the house in his canteen.
“They’ve followed us pretty far,” grunted Witticker. “How did they know we were here?”
Edward continued his precarious attempts at seizing water, shifting his weight from foot to foot just slightly in order to catch each precious drop.
“They don’t operate on chance,” Edward answered dryly, “the same amount of men were in every distrip in a hundred mile radius from here.”
Edward put the canteen down at his feet and held his head towards the ground down, rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
“Dammit! The sun is just high enough in the sky to be right in my eyes. It’s hard as hell to see those drops until it’s almost too late. Better than buying a bottle from those crooks out there, I suppose.”
Edward looked over at Witticker who seemed to be more interested in the dirt at his feet than their diminishing water supply.
“What’s wrong? Is it about what happened back there? You shouldn’t worry about those guys. Really.”
Witticker kicked his feet, sending small motes of dirt floating through the air around them.
“If it’s any consolation, they weren’t here for you.”
Finally catching his attention, Witticker turned his gaze to Edward.
“Alright, explain it to me.”
Edward picked up the canteen and continued his balancing act.
“Well, it’s complicated.”

*~~*

A Brief Lecture on World History
Delivered orally by Edward St. Cavalier
Recorded in 2208
Archive NYPL

“The War of the Golden Sheet began in the year 2200 with an announcement from the Perceptionist group the Golden Acolytes to the remaining inhabitants of North America. Before relating this announcement or its bearing on continental affairs there must be a discussion on the origins of the Golden Acolytes.”

“The Golden Acolytes were founded by a group of mathematicians who based their personal philosophies and daily rituals on the Golden Ratio. This Golden Ratio, or phi, is an arithmetic proportion that can be traced through history as being, in the perspective of several different cultures, a particularly aesthetic measurement.”

“Let us consider three variables. We will call our first variable, the smaller of the three, A. The next variable, slightly larger, B. The final variable, the sum of A and B, C. The golden ratio is found when the division of C/B equals the division of B/A. For example:

A farmer has a herd of thirty-four sheep. When he stands them in a straight line, as farmers are not generally wont to do, but will for the purposes of this experiment, he observes an amazing phenomenon. The farmer, having stamped F’s on the legs of his female sheep, of which there are thirteen, and M’s on his male sheep, of which there are twenty-one, discovers that the sheep are lined up in two distinct groups with respect to their gender. The result is as follows:

FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

From this distribution of sheep we can infer the following:

FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
or…
34/21 = 1.61904…

will equal

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
FFFFFFFFFFFFF
or…
21/13 = 1.61538

In short, what the farmer was surprised to see was a stunningly beautiful arrangement of sheep.”

“The equality in the proportion is deemed to be the foundation of the beauty and while it is not always found to be perfect, as in our model of sheep, it is usually pretty darn close. So close, in fact, that it inspired the physical structure of the Parthenon, several paintings by Salvador Dali, and at least one cult.”

“And so, having bridged the historical gap, we return to the announcement made by the Golden Acolytes in 2200. They, not content with imposing the Golden Ratio solely upon the lifestyle of its own members, announced their intent to reduce the number of earth’s inhabitants to an ‘aesthetic’ proportion. They termed their task the ‘Cleansing Subtraction’ and while it is not known what the final count was to be it is well-documented how the members of this cult planned and carried out their ‘Subtraction’ method.”

“In the year 2202 the War of the Golden Sheet, as it had been termed, reached a fever pitch. The Golden Acolytes had amassed a considerable number of followers and were the predominant force in the eastern part of the Americas. The resistance force to the Acolytes had dwindled significantly in the course of the ware and, in a final effort, had resolved to cripple the organization by striking at its core, the leading members of the Golden Acolytes known only as the Perfect Circle. The operation was green-lit by resistance commanders and a small contingent, led by one Cpt. St. Cavalier, was able to break through and speak to the Perfect Circle. It has never been revealed what business was conducted in that time, but after the meeting the armies of the Golden Acolytes were disbanded and the cult quietly retreated out of the public sphere.”

*~~*

“It was just some group of people I pissed off a while back. They have a habit of dressing in black and since those guys were dressed in black it is a fair assumption that it was them. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Witticker slung his head back down, his sight line aimed at the tip of shoes.
“Fine, whatever. What’s our next move?”
“Well,” said Edward, dodging left and right with the canteen, “now that we’ve been spotted again it won’t be long until we’ve got more tag-alongs. There’s no point in avoiding a faster way to travel if we’re hunted either way. We might as well just grab a train and keep a low profile. The only safe place now is where we’re going.”
Witticker stood up as Edward put the cap back on his canteen.
“Just where are we going?”
Edward placed the canteen into his satchel and began walking out of the alleyway.
“New York. Now hurry, we’ve got to catch the next train out of here or we’re going to have more than just four guys to deal with.”
Witticker hurried after Edward into the crowded street of the distrip feeling as if he were jumping into yet another foreign ocean without any semblance of a life preserver.

Chapter 40

He could hear the bell. It rang softly from the next room as it had twenty times before. However, this dinner had gone on much longer than he had ever anticipated and Arnold Cavenstein felt little motivation left inside. His limbs began to move out of habit; directing him towards the stove to retrieve the final course for his guests.
Each course had lasted two hours bringing the affair to a staggering forty hour siege. He had managed to sleep one half-hour at a time between courses, but became troubled in his rest by the distinct possibility that the bell would ring and that he would miss his window to introduce the next meal. His guests were not entirely forgiving and Mr. Cavenstein envisioned their castigation for such an oversight would be swift and horrifyingly permanent.
He stood, rather haggard and wobbly, over the stove preparing the petit four that had been keeping warm inside the lightly heated oven. As he moved the small cakes into an aesthetically pleasing pattern his mind wandered to the events of the evening. For the past several hours his guests had become very quiet, keeping their conversational volume to a whisper tone and spending most of their time in silence. The only aspect remotely reassuring to Arnold Cavenstein was that it seemed the events of the evening had been as taxing on his guests as they were on him. They were becoming restless. It was as if they were waiting for something, a phone call or a telegram, but nothing had come. Nothing had come.
Mr. Cavenstein, as he had done so many times in the past two days, checked himself in the mirror before making his entrance. Finally, ready to serve, he opened the door, armed with the vast array of miniature deserts. His guests occupied their very familiar positions in front of empty plates. As he gathered their dirty receptacles they broke their collective silence.
“Well,” began Roland, “it seems that Jehovah is finding his match with our escapee.”
“You should have let me after him in the first place,” whispered Simon with his head bowed towards the table.
Roland turned his head sharply and glared at the giant hunched over the small table.
“With how you handled the last delicate job you were assigned you should be thankful that you’re even sitting at this table.”
Simon kicked the chair out from under him and stood up swiftly, towering only inches from the ceiling. He turned towards Roland, raising his arm to strike.
“Simon, please,” hissed the lone woman at the end of the table, “your theatrics might be entertaining to the company you keep outside these walls, but in here it’s ultimately pointless. You know as well as the rest of us the consequences of engaging a fellow Party member. Your death would benefit no one.”
Simon took a step to the side and regained his composure, sliding his meaty hands through his hair. After a moment he replaced the chair he had kicked out to its original position and resumed his place at the table, falling into the seat with a heavier than normal pressure. As he continued to adjust himself Ms. J produced a small compact from her purse and began to check her complexion in its faint reflection. She lightly powdered her nose and placed the compact neatly back into her petite bag.
“Now, as Roland was proposing, we may need to contact an alternate source in locating our man. Jehovah is reliable, but he may be working on a larger timetable than was recommended. I believe we should consider notifying the authorities in the immediate area, warning them of a significant threat on the loose. With the proper description we could have this issue tackled within a matter of hours.”
“That is hasty decision-making,” wheezed the old man, “The release to the general public will threaten the isolation of information. The dreamer has undoubtedly infected enough citizens already. His capture by civilian authorities could result in much larger implications than you realize.”
“Yes,” answered Ms. J, “but our legs are being cut out from under us. As you say, he is infecting more people with every passing hour and he isn’t even aware of his condition. Imagine if he finds out.”

*~~*

Thirty years earlier…

A man and woman sit in a dim and crowded restaurant. They are surrounded by dining parties of a considerably higher social standing, complete with top hats and evening gowns. The nearby tables are boisterous and carefree, spectacles of excessive wealth and privilege.
The man and woman stand out in the restaurant not by appearance, but by their cold and silent demeanor. They pick at their food sparingly and only rarely glance at one another, quickly turning their attention back to the table top. They are a sore thumb, a burning building in a neighborhood of fine townhouses.
“So, when are you leaving to play house?” asks the woman sharply.
The man looks up from his plate, places his silverware on the plate, and reclines against the back of his chair.
“You know I don’t know,” responds the man begrudgingly. “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if this was never going to happen. I always told you that if I was called I would have to leave. You used to say that it added ‘spice’ to our exotic lifestyle.”
“I used to say a lot of things that weren’t true,” spits the woman as she pulls out her compact, “and you always spoke of this ‘call’ as some kind of long shot. As if it would never happen.”
“It is happening, Victoria. I can’t stop it and I can’t avoid it.”
The two sit silently again. The woman powders her nose and replaces the compact in her purse. The man sips at his wine as he stares curiously at his dining partner. Laughter erupts from the surrounding tables, highlighting the heightened tension.
“You know,” he says, suddenly standing up from the table, “I’ve explained this too many times already. I’m not sure why I expected you to respond any differently tonight. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’m leaving now.”
The man takes his suit jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over his arm.
“Don’t worry about my things. I’ve already packed what I need.”
The man takes a silver ring off his fourth finger and places it next to the plate in front of the woman.
“I hope someday you’ll understand.”
As the man turns to leave the woman puts her hand over the ring left on the plate.
“Brisby,” says the woman, her voice shaking, “at least tell me why."
The woman doesn't mover her focus from the plate on the table, her hand covering the catalyst.
“What mission is so pressing, so urgent, that it need break up a marriage?”
The man turns his face just slightly towards the woman, his features masked by the shadows of the room.
“Do you remember the stories I told you about my childhood? How I would shake and shiver in my sleep? The doctors said it was a stress reaction. A symptom of a larger problem. I never told anyone this, but I saw things then. Visions of other worlds, images of fantastic places in that sleep. They put me on medication and the visions went away, the shaking stopped. I’ve never been sure, even to this day, if I really wanted them to stop. Now they’ve found another case of this shaking and they want to take care of him, to teach him. They want a pure case intact, no medication, just in case. In the event that it might be useful. I have so many questions and this may very well be the only chance I ever get to have any answers. They took something from me and I’m going there to get it back.”
The woman turns herself in the chair to face the man covered in shadows.
“Brisby, just…”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts the man as he turns away, “but I have to do this.”
The man leaves the woman alone in the crowded restaurant. She takes the silver ring left by the man and slides it on her fourth finger. A single tear slides down her face as she sits staring at the silver band, now a mixed symbol of unity and heartbreak.

*~~*

“Yes, we must think of the overall containment,” said Roland, taking a small sip of the wine in front of him. “Notifying all the authorities is a bit risky, but as long as they think he is a common criminal there is less of a threat in there being a leak.”
Arnold Cavenstein had finished putting the deserts in front of his guests and, after topping off each of their glasses with his finest wine, turned back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the door he half-expected to be stopped by his guests for another request, but, being fully enamored with their fresh assortment of cakes, they were silent again. He pushed through the door into the tiny kitchen and promptly started a fifteen minute timer. He would surely be out to see them again, but not before a moments rest.

Chapter 39

The native distrip burst forth with life, a quick and blooming oasis in an arid desert. Shop owners hung their wares from tree branches and erected small stands on the earthen floor. The bazaar centered on a small log building from which several armed men kept watch, presumably the only semblance of law and order in the market. People bustled from one stand to next keeping their heads low and their hands in their pockets, tightly clutching any or all of their currency. The market was in full swing.
Two men entered the distrip from one of the several pathways leading in from the forest. They began to mill about the market, joining the busy throng. The crowd walked in silence, only speaking at stands and, even then, only of business. Of the two men recently arrived one stopped to observe an older gentleman attempting to barter a live chicken for solar panels as the other haggled with a shopkeeper over the price of eggs.
A single shot was fired into the air.
The distrip cleared.
The two men stood next to the now-abandoned stand as a cluster of four men dressed entirely in black approached them. The street was quiet and dusty, hearkening back to an overused cliché. The man who had been haggling the expense of eggs gestured to his observing friend, inferring that he should step to the side.
After his companion withdrew, the other man approached the four clad in black in the middle of the road and drew his sword. The four men drew their pistols, each barrel aimed at a single target.

*~~*

The advantage that a person with a handgun has over an unarmed opponent is undeniably paramount. This singular concept has changed the course of history on multiple occasions and has proven to be the defining characteristic in man’s domination of subservient cultures. Cortes and his Aztecs. Pizarro and his Incans. Etcetera ad Nauseum.

It is, however, just a device. A tool with which there are advantages and disadvantages. Still affected by the laws of physics and still held to the dynamic tenets of chance. These four men felt solidly grounded in their advantage over the man with little more than a stick of steel. Their arrogance was to be their undoing.

*~~*

At first, just one step.
A verbal warning.
The handle rests loosely in the palm of his hand.
He turns the blade just slightly to catch the sun in its surface.
One more step.
A shot is fired and the man dodges to the right.
Eight quick steps and he’s right behind you.
Three where there were four.
Two shots fired at a moving target.
Missed.
Two where there were three.
A quick spin.
One. Just one.
Four shots fired in succession.
The gun falls to the ground with its owner.

*~~*

The man sheathed his sword and walked back towards his companion waiting at the side of the road. Shopkeepers ran from the forest and begin to pillage the remains of the fallen assailants. The people slowly reappeared and the market began to rumble again. The two men disappeared into the sea of the distrip, swallowed by the shuffling feet and downcast faces.

Chapter 38

Edward walked slightly ahead of Witticker, reminiscent of a samurai being followed by his servant. However, the roles in this case had become slightly reversed. Edward had saved Witticker from several complications already with no mention of restitution or compensation and while Witticker found this to be a rather curious circumstance he did not dare to look the gift horse directly in its mouth.
The two men found a worn pathway leading into the forest in the direction of the native distrip and took it in opposition of hiking over open fields. The heat of the day beat through the light-filtering trees as they wound through the forest pathway, flanked by wild undergrowth. As they began their descent into the valley of the distrip they spotted a small clearing in a grove on the valley’s edge. As they reached the clearing they spied a man alone in the grove, curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and groaning in pain.
“Are you alright, sir?” asked Edward cautiously.
The man looked up at his new visitors with eyes brimming with wild fear and despair. His face was stretched and pulled in agony.
“I’ve got…I’ve got’em in me. Nobody will tell me the truth, but I know…I know they’re there. I can feel’em crawling, calculating. I just need to find one…can you see one?”
Upon saying this, the man released his fetal lock, showcasing his gut, unrecognizable through the red of the blood. His body appeared to have been sliced open at the waist in a most gruesome fashion.
Witticker jumped back as Edward moved closer to the man.
“Who did this to you? Were did they go?”
The man stared madly into Edward’s eyes as he pulled a blade from the ground next to him.
“It wasn’t no one else. I’m gonna find one. I know there’s one inside of me…somewhere. I just have to find it.”
“One what? What is inside of you?”
“A robot! They’re real small…and can look just like all the other stuff in there. It’s a big scam, you see…the doctors put’em in there and the lawyers…the lawyers just cover it up, but I figured’em out. I’ve just gotta find one and then everyone will believe. Everyone will…everyone.”
At this the man opened himself up again and began poking through his wounds savagely, clawing through his own body like an open suitcase. Edward took a step back, removing himself from the man’s activity. He watched as the man dug and screamed in alternation, a horrific self-inflicted torture. Edward took a revolver from his side-holster and aimed it at the man. The gun discharged and the man fell limp to the ground, his extremities idly drawn to the forest floor.

*~~*


Witticker walked back on the path a short way and, after the shot rang through the valley, fell on his hands and knees, heaving in disgust. Edward approached him from the grove and waited in silence.
“What…why did that man do that to himself?”
Edward stood reloading his gun and polishing its metal frame.
“Don’t quite know. Every person reacts to knowledge in a different way.”
Witticker stood up and leaned against a tree, using it for support.
“What does knowledge have to do with what that man was doing to himself?”
Edward slipped the revolver back into his side-holster, concealed beneath his brown vest.
“Imagine it like this. You grow up your entire life with an active imagination. The possibilities are endless. You learn and achieve and acquire and at the end of the tunnel someone tells you that reality isn’t what you learned about all those years. It’s what’s in your head.
“For some people it’s like a new lease on life. They love the control. For some,” said Edward as he pointed towards the grove, “it’s like throwing a brick through a glass window. People just don’t know what to believe and in the breakdown that means they really have no reality. Long story short, Perceptionism isn’t for everyone.”
Witticker leaned against the tree for a long time. He couldn’t get the image of the man’s face out of his head. The way his eyes had communicated such despair. The way his face had stretched out in earnest agony.
Edward waited and, after a time, Witticker moved again. The two men passed through the grove and down the valley, drawing nearer to the distrip.

Side Two

Side Two









“If you’re behind the times, they won’t notice you. If you’re right in tune with them, you’re no better than they are, so they won’t care much for you. Be just a little ahead of them.”

Shel Silverstein
1930-1999
Poet, Musician, Cartoonist, and Author

The Beguiling Story of Edward and the Broken Sword

At the age of nearly four hours old a boy identified only as Edward was found crying on the floor of an abandoned Methodist Temple in the inner district of the ancient city of Chicago. The savior of the boy was Ricard Touso, a man sent to the temple on business that had nothing to do with collecting a new born infant. However, upon being alerted to Edward’s presence, the good Mr. Touso felt obligated to, at the very least, find a suitable home for the boy. He completed the work he had been sent to do and returned with Edward from whence he had come, which would be the Sanctuary of the Broken Sword.

The Brotherhood of the Broken Sword consists of an elite group of men who were gathered in the wake of the Great Decline and were trained as highly-educated citizen warriors. The organization was begun by the last Pinkerton Agent from the former United States with the intention to maintain a private outlet that could hold a neutral sway in a large scale conflict. While their existence has remained largely unknown to the general public they have been involved in every major event since the Great Decline.

Since its formation more than a century and a half ago the brotherhood has evolved from a professional membership into a spiritual sect. Members are only accepted if found worthy by trial and, pending approval, are educated in all the arts in order to eventually reach the level of warrior philosophers or, in other words, the modern samurai.

Edward, having been brought to the temple by a member, was permitted to be raised by Brother Ricard until the age of twelve. The following is Edward’s account of his twelfth year:

I was not afraid when they took me. My father had told me they would come. As they stole me from my bed I fell limp as I had been instructed. Fighting back would have proved fruitless and shameful. They placed me inside a small dark box where I would remain for nine months. My father explained to me that I was to be reborn inside the brotherhood.

The box was never opened. No sound was heard. Light became a faint memory. I learned to find comfort in the quite place, this forgotten corner. They would pour water through the cracks of the box and slip bread and leaves through in moderation. I listened to my heartbeat, a consistent reminder that I was still alive. I re-lived every moment of my childhood over and over again. Every memory remembered and repeated until they blurred into one consciousness. When the darkness overtook me I chanted the mantra spoken to me from my father. Move forward. Constantly Move Forward.

The days grew darker, but I could feel my mind growing stronger. Stronger against the resolve of a constant darkness. Move forward. As time passed the pails of water through the cracks turned to drips. The bread and leaves were fragmentary, only a bare minimum. Move forward. The final days were spent in drought. Biting fingernails. Holding every ounce of water. Licking the wooden box for any hint of moisture. Move forward.

On the final day the box was lifted and taken before the Master. My box was opened among a sea of like boxes. I stood from the wrecked shell only to find a handful of others rise from the myriad of boxes surrounding us. We few stood shaking, nearly lifeless from the ordeal we had endured. The box on my right housed a boy my same age who had succumbed to the trial. His body had wasted into nothing, gray and lifeless. His arms and legs were extraordinarily long and his joints had swelled from the great pressure of being trapped inside the box. His face was clenched in fear, covered in the shadow of the box. I have never forgotten this expression.

I could not see, for the light was much too bright, but I heard the Master speak. This is what he said:

Brothers, you have arisen from the deepest darkness. You are reborn into this Brotherhood. Do not weep for those around you who have not risen to the task. They have received nothing more or less than what you yourself have undertaken. It was simply their will, their strength of mind that failed.
Never forget what you lost here. The fear. What you have gained is tremendously more valuable and will never be taken from you. Your trial is over Brothers. Now you begin your training.

I would never hear the master speak again. This audience was a gift and was, for most, the only one they would ever receive in their lifetime.

In the following months I was given back to my father. He fed me with food and knowledge, both of which I dipped heavily from. He revealed the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, their history, their mission, and, most importantly, their moral code. We followed the ancient samurai in practice, word, and deed. The tenets of honor, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, rectitude, and loyalty were shown to me daily in the observation of my father with his affairs.

In my eighteenth year I was taken again. The Brotherhood sent word and I was collected from my father for the final training. In our final days together he gave me my first and last sword. When the day came and I was retrieved he cried. His face was clenched in sadness as I had seen once before. I did not cry, but I felt a heaviness, a sadness I could not describe.

Upon our collection my brothers and I began our final training. The first day we were lined up in a large hall and, after waiting for several hours, were approached by a single man. He possessed no weapons save for his hands and his words. One by one we were all challenged by the disarmed fellow. Those who refused to fight were broken and cast out, the rest of us were merely broken.

We were all housed together in a small barrack with one bed for every three men. We cut the mattresses and made hammocks so that every man could rest without resentment from the next. The next day we were taken to an open field in which the same man who had beaten us the day before instructed us upon our individual weaknesses. We became stronger and able to surpass our own inadequacies. Once a week we were challenged. We were allowed any weapon and were promised that if we were ever to strike our instructor we would be awarded a high place within the order of the Brotherhood. Our teacher was never touched.

In the midst of training we were each given a letter. We were instructed to keep its contents secret from the other brothers with the penalty of sharing the information being death. My letter detailed how my fellow brothers had been plotting against me, fearing my potential and talent. My following weeks were spent in silence; my waking moments spent watching the others. All the brothers seemed to creep in the shadows, hiding from one another.

Weeks later we were informed that the same letter had been sent to every man. This was meant to be our instruction in how to hide when the enemy is all around. How to camouflage our emotions to our closest of comrades.

In the end we were all sent to different places. I do not know what will become of those I trained with. I am to be sent to moderate a faction that has become overly concerned with balance and numbers. This record is my final task before becoming a full Brother.

It will soon be unimportant to continue contact with the Brotherhood. My presence is my purpose. If I fail others will take my place. My life is just begun.

~Edward St. Cavalier