He woke in the morning to a wet mat and a doused fire, a theme he was not fond of being considered normal. After he wrung out his clothes and mat, a quick investigation found the source of the water. The camp had been set on top of a slight incline and the roof pulled tight to ensure the water flowed off into the sides of the rise. The canopy of trees was supposed to make sure the rain didn’t come at full force and during the winter season would make sure the snow didn’t pile up directly on the lean-to. All of these had worked as intended if it hadn’t been for the small slits that had been punctured into the tarp right over John's feet and the firepit overhang. The cuts were thin and were clearly made by a knife, a thin curved knife like the one Fisher used to clean his catch. He assumed Fisher had meant to have holes punctured over John's head to keep him from sleeping but hadn’t been able to figure out which side he would sleep. John had to laugh at the simple man, he would have slit holes on both sides of the lean-to if he were the one doing the sabotaging. Just another example of the difference between the brute and the young man; intelligence and forethought. He collected the rest of his items and searched through the fire pit, all the charcoal which had accumulated over his many visits to the site was a ruined black mess. A good thing he hadn’t brought meat with him.

He left the sabotaged campsite behind him in the first rays of the morning, much earlier than he had hoped. If he finished early with Preacher, he could have enough time to repair the lean-to on his way back. He had meant to reinforce the structure anyways with more branches and place stones around the pit to better keep in heat during the winter. In a way, Fisher had only helped John find the flaws in his design. A fact he would cheerfully tell the burly man next time he got the chance.

That chance came much sooner than John had expected as he reached the edge of the ruins around the village. Fisher sat on the opposite bank with two other faithful, Cook and Builder, who were helping to untangle a net, the flush redness of Fisher's cheeks showing his growing frustration with the task. Cook looked up as he took a step back from the net and spotted John as he walked, waving at him from the bank.

“Morning Gov!” he called, a cheeriness in voice. “Lord be with you!” Fisher and Builder both looked up from their work, Builder waving at John as the Gov approached a curve at the narrow end of the river.

John waved back halfheartedly, the cheerfulness grinding against his nerves. “And with you Cook. Fisher, has you working this early huh?” He asked the thin balding man, not addressing the redheaded brute who hid a scowl behind him.

“It isn’t ever too early to help another of the lords blessed, dear Gov. I do so with a kind heart. Right Builder?” He turned to the dark-skinned man.

“True, Cook. It’s an honor to serve the community. Preacher told us so from the word of the almighty himself.” He stated with conviction as he joined the thin man on the bank. Builder dwarfed Cook by at least a foot, his thick muscles stretching the fabric of shirt around his arms. Whereas Fisher was a big man, Builder was a large man. John had seen the man lift a thick log by himself and carry it up a hill, a feat which no other man in the village could have done, let alone any machine John had built. The redness in Fisher’s cheeks returned as he was being ignored and left by himself with the net.

“Well Gov we all do what we can round here.” Fisher said pointedly without joining the two men, his words were friendly, but his eyes flashed the same hate they did the day before in the barn. “That was quite a bit of rain last night, I hope you managed to stay dry on your journey in.” He feigned concern with a smirk as he slid a thin curved knife into a sheath on his hip and gave it a pat.

“As a matter of fact, a rat had gotten into my camp and tore some holes in my shelter. It was quite a shock this morning I admit.” Fisher’s eyes twitched as the young man spoke. “But now I have a reason to build something far better to keep me dry.” John called from his side of the river, which flowed quickly between them in a rush. “I was thinking of turning it into a cabin so that the faithful had a place to stay when they travelled on pilgrimages. I was going to ask Preacher for permission to start after my business was concluded. All for the community, wouldn’t you say Fisher? The lord works wonders in the smallest of ways.” John truly had no intention of asking Preacher, the faithful wouldn’t use anything the man built anyways no matter how much it did for the community. Builder nodded in thought as Fisher’s cheeks and eyes flared at John, barely hiding the scowl behind the tangled mess of red hair. A splendid idea Gov.” Fisher lied between his teeth; the word dripped with resentment. “Though you ain’t need to worry about the labor, I’d be more than happy to build it.” Builder nodded in agreement.

“No offense to you Gov,” Builder called, the obvious tone of offense in his voice. “But I think it would be better if I built it, if you’re meeting Preacher then it could be a while before it could be done.” John knew the man didn’t think Preacher would give him permission and Builder certainly didn’t want John to take the credit for the idea. In truth John didn’t want to build something Fisher was just going to burn down or try to sabotage again.

“No offense taken Builder; it would be much better if it were built by your hands.” John conceded. “I’m sorry to leave, but I have to answer Preacher’s summons.” He waved at the men before turning around, the friendly faces turned into knives in his back as he walked away.

“God protect you, Gov.” Came Fisher’s shout, less of a blessing and more of a threat.

The rest of the walk to the village took him through the ruins of an old-world town, long since purged of its heretical devices. John knew that some remained hidden or inactive, but they were too close to Preacher’s watchful eyes for him to retrieve. He imagined what wonderous things he could find and how far they could help him progress to the level his forefathers were at. The reward for obtaining those relics would be great, though he knew it could never come close to outweighing the risks. Preacher had kept him safe since his mother died and kept a watchful eye on him when his father left three summers ago on another of his salvage trips. Ensuring that even the spiteful Fisher couldn’t do more than harass him so long as John answered the holy man’s summons and refrained from repairing the more corrupt of the dark times machines. This wasn’t out of the goodness of Preacher’s heart or based in the words he taught to his faithful. It was the final request of John’s own mother. Her dying wish was for Preacher to keep her son safe and try to bring him the light of hope this new world offered. A hope that John was regularly excluded from being a part of.

The buildings that once marked the town grew more decayed and destroyed the closer he came to the village, signs of demolition and vandalism were more apparent in this side of town. Windows had their glass shattered, remnants of machines his father called cars were only charred husks of their past glory, and places that used to store electronic components were all but ash in between buildings. An old board laid toppled in the road ahead, a picture of an insect with a red slashed circle over it. The writing was faded but still legible. Pest problem? Call the pros for a better bug free home. A series of numbers lined the bottom of the board in black blocky text. The only places that were spared this disrespectful treatment were the religious buildings, the only thing that were replaced were the symbols of the faith they once represented. Stone crosses, stars, and moons were smashed in the streets, replaced by an arch carved from wood or stone. He didn’t know what it was supposed to represent but his father would scoff every time he saw one. “It’s funny how they replace those symbols of salvation for a symbol of despair.” John heard him mumble under his breath when he was young. He stood in front of the building for a moment and studied the statue, a round curve at the top with short feet at either end of the arch like a base. He had read about similar larger symbols constructed in other parts of the world from books his father had collected on his journeys. Though both the world and the books were lost to John, a memory engulfed in fire.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

The ruins fell away as he entered the fields of the village, lush greens of grass and yellow stalks of food grew tall around him. The valley, unlike much of the lands past the mountains, was fertile and had been lucky enough to be shielded from the plague that marked the end of the old world. In fact, the valley flourished and produced far more than the elders had ever seen before. Crops that once only grew in other places took root in the soil and the plants had less need for water. John took in the sight and felt the high grass at the tips of his fingers. Though it wasn’t the world of his dreams, this world was still a wonderful place; an oasis amid decay.

“Mornin’ Gov!” The words snapped John out of his pleasant thoughts back into the grim reality of his life. The word rang in his head. The man who called out to him waved and smiled, the cheerful tone ground in his mind again. A chorus of the same words called from all directions as he walked, young voices, older voices, weak ones and strong ones, high ones and low ones, all with the same tone in their voice and a smile on their face. John instinctively kept his eyes on the ground. The happy farmers of the field followed him into the village, knives staring into his back as he walked.

The transition from grass and dirt to clay and loose pebbles told him he had reached the edge of the central round. He lifted his head for the first time since entering the village as he heard the voices of villagers gathered in front of the large building that sat in the middle of the round. It seemed to him that most everyone in the village had gathered here, save for the procession of farmers who followed him into the village, tools gripped tightly in their hands. They smiled and nodded as they joined the rest of their faithful kin, questioning their family and neighbors as they joined the mob. One man, Planter, tapped the shoulder of a man in front of him and pointed at john. Both men stepped away and the chain continued until there was a clear path for John to be at the front. Again, his instincts brought his eyes to the ground and barely lifted them as he passed through the group of faithful, smiles turned to pins as he passed. He felt the knife through his jacket in his hidden pocket and kept his hand over it, the false security it gave helped calm him.

The gap closed as he reached the front and stood before another stone arch, its round peak standing two feet above John's head. Three other people stood before the statue, two people had their backs to him, the other man knelt on the ground before the arch. John’s gaze drifted up as he followed the kneeling man’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at the statue he realized, but at the pulpit that sat on a balcony just above it, and more importantly at the man who sat behind it.

“You are accused of hoarding food dear child; do you have anything to say against these two who give testament?” The man asked from upon high. There was a smoothness to his voice, like greased gears that freely turned in their housings.

“Preacher, I do not lie. I did keep food for my father who is laid sick. I only kept it for when he regained his hunger. The cold draws near and if there is none for him, he could die. I ask for mercy and swear on the light of the word that I didn’t keep it for myself.” he exclaimed, a tremble in his voice. He was not much younger than John, smaller framed but not as skinny as cook was. Preacher watched from his balcony as the boy spoke, his eyes drifting towards the crowd. John heard a shifting behind him and saw the large man motion with his hand still at his side.

A tall man limped past John, a branch that had been whittled down to the white flesh was the only thing keeping him from falling over. His eyes were sunken, and his skin was tight against his face revealing the shape of his jaw and collar bones. The skin was pale and thin, cuts and deep red splotches covered his face, chest, and arms. John instinctively tugged his sleeves down. The skeletal man walked past the two guarding the courtyard, the larger man who gave the signal was Watcher, he recognized, as he turned his head to address the man.

“Preacher, I have brought the boys farther as a testament.” Watcher declared, his voice was loud and deep, not that many people would have ever known. Watcher spoke very little and when he did it was usually two- or three-word commands that were barked from his post. This had been the most John had ever heard of his voice. Watcher urged the man forward without another word. The man stepped behind the boy who reluctantly turned his head to address the testament. Shock crossed his face, and his mouth was left aghast; his eyes welled with tears.

“Father!” his voice cracked, “Why are you out of bed? It isn’t safe for you to be here!” The boy exclaimed, pushing himself off the ground to run towards him. He stopped halfway off the ground when his father refused to look at him and gazed up at the holy man on the balcony, a look of confusion in the boy’s eyes as he stared incredulously between his father and Preacher.

“Beloved speaker of truth,” the withered man began weakly, “I am well enough to eat if I so desire, well enough to walk and stand on my own. Despite this boy’s words, I never once saw a piece of food kept for me.” His son’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I have eaten little in the past two moons, but I do eat. If he had food, it was not for me. It is true that if I don’t eat more I could die in the winter, but if the Lord needs my death, then I humbly accept. This boy is no son I’ve raised. This is the testament I give.” The man bowed his head and left back into the crowd without even a glance at the boy. John caught the man’s eyes as he limped past, his eyes dripped with sorrow and regret. The eyes of a man who knew the wrongness of his words.

“Father please, tell them the truth! Father!” The boy cried into the crowd. John saw the eyes swell and finally darken before he faded into the crowd. He caught the man’s eyes just before he disappeared, a spark of hatred aimed at the Gov. The boy continued to cry out sobbing into the dirt. Watcher stood over the boy, waiting for him to run. He didn’t. Instead, the boy turned towards preacher and stood looking up at the stone symbol.

“One has accused you, and two have given testament.” Preacher started from his pulpit, waving a hand at the woman with tanned skin and broad shoulders. He didn’t recognize her but assumed by the nature of her clothes and tan that she was a farmer or at least a farmer’s wife. She stood silent at preacher and gave only a nod as a response. Preacher nodded his head in confirmation, “Then it is proven that you have committed the crimes of greed, pride, and gluttony. Each one is punished by a lashing of seven for each sin, the punishment in whole will be three sets of seven lashings.” He stated dryly as he gave his verdict.

The boy reared his head back and quickly brought it forward. In a flash Watcher had slammed his face into the gravel, almost too fast for any of the faithful to see, a loud confused commotion echoed from the crowd. But John's eyes saw everything, the speed of Watchers rage and fist as he struck the boy down; and the large ball of snot the boy spit at the stone arch that instigated it. He was confused, the lashes were the lightest punishment he could receive, but to desecrate a holy symbol…

“Silence!'' The preacher commanded from his pulpit, a shaking rage in his voice. The crowd immediately fell silent. John’s muscles tensed; he knew firsthand the pain that man’s anger could bring. “You had been shown mercy in your sins and were to be lashed for them. Now you will suffer the wrath of the almighty for your sins against god.” His voice trembled with fury. “For your crime against the lord by defiling his holy symbol you are to be lashed seventy-seven times, branded, and banished. You will never enter the graces of God's court!” The crowd remained eerily silent, not a cough or a whisper came from a single of the faithful standing in the square. John had never witnessed a display of discipline like this before, he had come across the branded remains of faithful before in ruined buildings and in the forest around the village but had never seen it carried out. The wave of hatred was palpable, but it wasn’t directed where he expected it to. He turned his head slightly and realized it was pointed at him. The death glares of dozens of faithful, all with a smile on their face.

“Gov,” Preacher called, realizing he had been in the crowd. “This is not something meant for you to be a part of. Wait inside.” Helper appeared beside him like a snake ready to strike. The wide smile on his face was disconcerting, Johns’ hand still around the blade in his coat. He knew that while he was in Preacher’s village, he was safe, at least safer than most other places. He followed Helper into the bottom floor of the large building, ignoring the screams of the boy in the courtyard.