A/N: This is a writing exercise. Characters portrayed within are entirely fictitious, as are the individual character beliefs systems and ideals. Obviously, I don't own Twilight, all rights and credit where they're due. Jezabella, Isaac & Judith, however, I do claim.

Reviews welcome.

Update (October 2016): I recently discovered that I had somehow failed to upload the original chapter 10 ("Black Clouds"). The chapters are all present now, and numbered properly, and the epilogue has also been extended. I think I fixed most of the typos in the piece; apologies for any I missed! I hope that you, dear reader, find this piece enjoyable!

Prologue

Death is not a thing to be feared. I learned this young. Had I known I would face it soon, would I have still gone? Her dark eyes were craven, the temptress plying her trade. Her wiles were terrible, and she looked at me.

1

Onyx Sunlight

"A city of vice and debauchery." The first words that left my mouth filled me with shame. The airport would take me far from here, to my mission in the town of Faux. I looked at her through the simpering rain. She was a whore, a traitor. She was my mother. I turned my back on her. I pretended not to notice her tears; her sin was great. My lack of forgiveness was worse. We both must repent. Time spent apart to atone.

My grandfather lived here once. My mother bore me out of wedlock, and was cast out. Rather than marry my father, she ran away to our relatives overseas. She tried to mend her ways, and I was raised outside of her shame. Now I was coming home.

I loved England. Its green hills and trees. It was everything Faux was not. Charles Jacob Cortez, my father, wrote inviting me. It was time I saw the land of my birth, my uncle said. He passed the day I left. It was my duty to make peace with my father for my mother's crimes.

The journey lasted through the night. I slept fitfully, waking every hour. I kept my nightly vigil, observing prayer for those I would meet, those I left behind. The drive to Faux was spent in silence. Driving on the wrong side of the road bothered many, but I knew I was protected. I observed the morning fast.

Charles greeted me with awkward affection, my clasped hands breaking to shake his. "Welcome, son. How was the flight?"

"Father." I replied, allowing him to take my suitcase as a courtesy. "God was good."

There was little else to be said. I straightened my jacket and collar, and tucked my bible under one arm. It was time to meet the good townsfolk of Faux.

"William Black Cortez has offered you the loan of his truck for as long as you are here."

I did not need an explanation and accepted the gift gratefully.

"It is modest, but serviceable."

"I am obliged. I must thank him for his generosity."

"Well now, I'm sure he'll be mighty pleased."

"I confess, Father, I know little of automobiles. I would be indebted if you would show me."

"She handles easy enough, lad." Charles clapped my shoulder. "Changin' the oil and water ain't hard."

"Thank you, Father."

We broke fast together at a roadside diner. For him, it was a predawn refreshment; for myself, it was supper. As an agent of peace and constable of the law, my father spent much of his day at what I believed was the sheriff's office. Times had progressed much beyond the English country side, but Faux shared some similarities in spite of the ocean that kept us apart. The spirit of the original colonists, puritans of the most God-fearing kind, had founded the school, local gaol and law office, town hall and of course the church.

The latter was our first stop. I intended to introduce myself to the local minister and hand over my letters of introduction. As a guest in another parish, my own pastor insisted that I observe propriety. My understanding was he requested my tuition continue, lest I stray and fall to the same path as my mother. Charles assured him in his letter that I would be afforded every courtesy. My pastor pledged I was hard working, honest, and I would not be a hindrance. I could not disgrace him, or my uncle.

The minister was one Isaac Carlyle Cortez. He introduced himself with reserve befitting such an esteemed personage; I instantly took a liking to his calmed, reasoned manner. He was, in every way, a true alderman of the church, and I was honoured to make his acquaintance. After a short tour, he explained the pews were a more recent addition, and the church had come close to falling into Catholic hands shortly after the original settlers arrived. After explaining a little about the history of Faux, and his own, he bid me good day. I was welcome to come and sup with him and join him for evensong and dusk prayer.

"A fine fellow," Charles spoke up when leaving the church. The morning had yet to reach dawn.

I inclined my head. I found myself reflecting upon the preacher's words: Carlisle, of Cumbria was where the man's ancestry hailed from. Carlyle must have been a more recent deviation. I was pleased and surprised to find so ardent a historian in such a crooked town. I was under no illusions of Faux's vice; the pulpit was clean, but the church was lacking. It was obvious how much contempt she was held in.

Our house was larger than I expected, and older too. A wooden affair of struts and creaky floorboards, it was carpeted in dusty, faded colours. Reds and greens were the order of the day, and the mantel above the cast iron fire was stone. Two photo frames held my mother and I in brass; the other, my grandfather, Charles Isaac Cortez. The brown and yellow photo revealed a trim man, neat in every way without being fussy. I admired his suit and pocket watch, then admonished myself for coveting such vanity. The Lord would forgive me, but I must begin my mission with the right heart. I would repent over prayer.

My chamber was modestly furnished and spacious. The décor was dated, but it suited my purposes well. I set my wooden cross against the wall, and placed my bible inside the bedside drawer. I found my gaze drawn to the shutters, and for a few moments I watched life on the street go by.

It soon became clear to me that the house across the street was one of ill disrepute. Resisting the impulse to shake my head, I sank to my knees and began to pray.

Three hours on, my father returned from his shift. He was surprised to find me still in prayer, and said he thought I had been resting. The jetlag left me groggy, but I rose unsteadily to my feet. It was time for introductions at the local school.

The rusting, once proud iron fencing was the first thing I noticed, followed by the old schoolhouse's bricks. Pastor Carlyle explained that the first schoolhouse had burnt down, and the settlers had rebuilt it from brick, fashioned in the likeness of their former homeland. It was a small taste of home, and one that strengthened my resolve. I steeled myself, and stepped inside. I heard my father drive off in the background.

A red-headed lady caught my eye seconds after I walked in. The plaques on the wall and inscriptions of war heroes, the honoured dead, and those who studied here were all up there. They threatened to steal my attention, but I came to my senses, and offered her a tight, earnest smile. "Ma'am," I began, but she cut me short as she stood.

"You're Charles' lad." Looking me up and down, I endured her inspection without fidgeting. It seemed I passed to her satisfaction. "You're from England? Speak up lad, don't be shy."

I couldn't place her accent, so instead I answered, "I am Isaac." I didn't quite hesitate on my surname. I was so used to using my mother's, I had to catch myself. "Charles Jacob Cortez is my father. Might I have the pleasure of knowing whom I address, if I may be so bold?"

Puffing out her cheeks, she smiled, "Not many ask that. You've got manners, I see. Not from your mother."

I ignored the slur, but the shame my mother caused still stung. I tried to relax my shoulders.

"Don't look so stiff. I meant no harm by it. Your father's a respected man round these parts."

Where was she from? I nodded.

"No need to be shy." Perhaps she thought I had not heard her the first time. Then I saw the bell chime. "Best be off. Your first lesson is English, with, let's see, Mr. Manson Cortez. Room 2b. Corridor's just down your left."

I thanked her, and quickened my step.

After the surge of other children had filed in in a most disorderly fashion, I stepped over the threshold and tapped on the door. "Mr. Manson?"

I waited while the class settled under his strict bellow for quiet. I waited to catch his attention, and he fixed me a sidelong look, then growled me inside. Making my way to his desk, I offered my hand. "Mr. Manson? I am Isaac Jacobs. I was led to believe I was attending your class?"

After a moment, he shook my hand briskly, then barked at the class, "We've a guest from England. Perhaps you'd care to introduce yourself, Mr. Jacobs."

"Thank you." I turned to my classmates. A mass of faces piqued with curiosity and disdain met me. I hadn't thought to prepare a speech. I wasn't sure where to begin, so I started simply. "Hello." A roar of laughter followed. I smiled tightly. "As Mr. Manson said, I have flown over from England, though as I'm sure many of you know, I was born here. My desire is to see the land of my father and grandfather, and to come home after so many years. I know little of your ways, and I would count myself indebted to all of you if you extend your patience while we get to know one another. My thanks again for your welcome. It is a privilege to be here amongst you."

I hadn't expected applause, but I certainly hadn't expected the ridicule and fascination that followed. One very rude young man called out something I cared not to hear, and another young lady at the front made a most disdainful remark. I put it down to a lack of cultural understanding. Perhaps I had offended them? Mr. Manson soon settled them, and showed me my seat at the front near the door. It was a most satisfactory view, and he had sat me beside a lovely tawny haired young lady. She had freckles and a pretty smile, which she most graciously showed to me. After that, Mr. Manson's chalk began to scratch unerringly on the board. It was not a class of discussion, nor participation, but one of note taking and silent observation. I found it most satisfactory, although the lack of 'u's and substituted 'i's for 'y's struck me as quite bizarre. I had been warned of the shift in dialect, but seeing it written down was very different to hearing about it.

I decided during that class, that I would attempt to teach my fellows cricket when the opportunity arose. As long as it was not used for chance, nor profanities uttered, it should be a good, clean way of establishing relationships. I was quite sure we had much to learn from each other, and a cultural exchange seemed to be the best way to begin. I would keep an open mind, and hopefully, so would they.

As class drew to a close, I packed away my things and offered my hand to the girl beside me. Judith was her name; Gloria had been the one who had tried to bait me earlier, but I forgave her the misunderstanding. No doubt she meant nothing by it. I offered Judith a hand up. She looked at me quizzically. "Ma'am."

"Judith." She graced me with that smile again. Behind me, a lad Mr. Manson referred to as 'Earnest' scowled. Because of this, I did not return Judith's smile but merely inclined my head. I would not forge friendships by stepping on toes.

The next class was Trigonometry with Mr. Vaughn Cortez. Judith led the way with Earnest a step behind her. Some swarmed around me, and others rushed past. Most of the pestering was good natured, and it was good they were so inquisitive, though some tried to trap me with their wordplay. I answered as best I could, and as honestly. Sowing lies was the Devil's work.

As it so happened, we were put into groups. A register was called, and I immediately undertook the decision to commit every face and name to memory. Once again, I shook hands with the tutor, and quietly introduced myself to him. He bade me sit with Judith and Earnest, to which I was quite pleased to. Earnest still glowered, but I trusted I could win him over. The exercises were interesting, though mediocre, but it was good to learn of the practical applications the science brought.

With most of the morning spent, the bell rang for lunch. I had lost track of time, and my own internal clock was not sure whether to eat or rest; I was flagging and I looked forward to a hearty lunch and perhaps even a nice cup of tea. I did not hold my hopes they would possess such a thing, but I had already planned for such an eventuality. In the refectory, I stood at a table and looked at my classmates. Some had already moved to assume their seats, and others waited to see what would happen. There were two other classes besides, and it was nice that in even such a small school, everyone could gather together and dine. I set my satchel on the table and cleared my throat. I announced myself, and asked for representatives of each class to step forth. I then handed them a gift of our most precious commodity, tea, enough for each of them for two weeks. I urged that they be distributed evenly, and it was but a small token on my behalf. The reactions were, of course, mixed, but generally favourable. It was not my intention to cause a stir, but nevertheless, a stir was indeed caused. It saddened and shocked me that so many did not know how to treat such gifts, and more than one ration ended up being trampled underfoot. I answered many questions about life at home, more than one inquiring of the weather, and I sensed my opportunity to suggest cricket. To my delight, many accepted and the promise of an afterschool meeting was made.

Privately I approached the teachers' table, and introduced myself to each one in turn. The head of the school, much to my surprise, was not in attendance. I handed each of them tea, and made a gift to the rest of the staff. This, I found, was greeted with smiles and clipped nods.

With so many faces, I barely noticed the dark eyed young lady who watched from afar. She headed a table with several other girls, each more beautiful in turn. It was appalling, then, that they should have their cloth cut in such a suggestive manner. Indeed, it was not that they were scantily clad, but rather the way they held themselves. Some folds too loose, others too tight; it was a sight to stun even the most righteous of folk. And so, as any good Christian should, I averted my eyes. I prayed for strength, wisdom, guidance, courage and above all patience. I vowed anew to rid the town of such deplorable behaviour. I soon found myself caught up in a stream of questions, but her eyes never left me. Later, it struck me that they were almost a coffee glazed shade of amber. I found that most odd.

After lunch, we headed towards the playing field. Gym seemed an odd choice so soon after dining, but a spot of sport, fair weather and even better company sounded like a fine idea. Much to my horror, I discovered that it was biology that was supposed to follow lunch, but the tutors were so taken with the idea of cricket, they thought the novelty well worthwhile. I found that I had two classes of schoolchildren and several teachers. Expressions varied from mildly curious, to mocking, to those who wanted to see where it would go. More than a few were eager, if uncertain, and I decided I would begin by organising teams. I asked for volunteers, and Michael, a chap who had handed out the tea, called out first. I asked that people raise their hands, and much to my surprise, I could not hear myself speak. I tried again, and this time, the teachers helped calm the noise. I decided on a simple one-two-three order, and with Michael's help, arranged three teams. It was a fine start.

I explained about batters and runs, but the concept of 'innings' seemed a little exotic, so I kept things simple. For now, it was enough to get everyone throwing and catching in circuits. Much to my surprise, there was already a sport similar in drill to the one I described. However, it had never reached any sort of popularity in Faux, and so I had little to compare cricket with. In a way, it was both a blessing and a curse.

For half an hour, we ran through basic team exercises, while I struggled to work out how we would acquire replacement bats. I had only brought the one, a set of stumps and two balls, and no protective gear at all. Even so, it went down well, and everyone got at least one turn at bowling and batting. The girl with dark eyes watched, and later, as I was packing things away, she again caught my eye, turned and sauntered away. I had to stop myself from staring.

"Jazebella," Michael remarked as he helped me pack. He didn't get a chance to say more, for those teachers that had not walked away congratulated me.

Charles collected me, and I was able to make it home exhausted, but satisfied. Before I stumbled into bed, I took the time to thank God, but my prayers were shamefully hurried.