The World to Come
by Eildon Rhymer
What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.
Three parts today, to get to the end of part one. As ever, feedback is always cherished.
Part one: chapter eleven
Seekers of truth
"Oh, very good, Barney." Mr Thomas paused behind Barney's easel. "That's excellent. Truly excellent."
Barney could not stop grinning. A fourteen year-old boy, his friends kept on telling him, did not looked overjoyed when a teacher praised them. Teachers were the enemy, and lessons were boring. Most of the boys worked hard, but it did not do to work hard quite so obviously. They had an image to keep up, after all. Think what you like inside, but feign boredom and indifference when asked.
Barney had never been able to do that, and, strangely, even the nastiest of boys in his classes had ended up accepting that. When Barney was happy, he showed it. When he was sad, he cried. He was no leader, but he was not the victim his brother had been. He knew the teachers liked him, and he thought many of the boys did, too. "I wish I was as brave as you," one of them had confessed to him, just the day before. "It must be so much easier, being you."
"Then try it yourself," Barney had suggested, but the other boy had hunched in on himself, shaking his head. It was too late, he said, and too much was at stake. In a few years, he would be out. School didn't last forever.
"You have such a powerful vision, Barney," Mr Thomas said, "and such wonderful execution. But so dark..."
Barney's grin faded. "The world is dark. My father went missing in the Rising, and they've never found his body. Did you know that, sir?"
"I did." Mr Thomas patted his shoulder briefly. "And I'm sorry, Barney. But don't you think the purpose of art is to..."
"To awaken man's heart to the truth of things," Barney said, quoting back Mr Thomas's own words from an earlier lesson. "To show him the truth, and stir him to act."
"It is," Mr Thomas said, "but the way to the truth is not always through darkness. Don't always try to shock. Oh, I know, you're young. It is a young man's game to try to shock his elders. When I was your age, my art was a horrible thing to see. But sometimes, men can be taught the truth through gentleness and beauty. There are more ways to understanding than cold, harsh truth."
Barney circled his brush in the pool of black ink, round and around and around. "I don't want to create chocolate box pictures. That's not art."
Mr Thomas crouched beside him. "Show them beauty, Barney. Show them how the world should be. An image of a cornfield in all its summer glory can move a man to tears, and make him take steps to fight those who would destroy such things. A picture of a beautiful childhood can make a man wonder what happened to such days. Gentleness and beauty can be as much a cry to war than any garish, martial sound."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm your teacher." Mr Thomas stood up, smiling sadly. "It's my job to tell you things. And you have a rare gift."
"In painting?"
"In seeing the truth," Mr Thomas said, "and reacting to it with unfettered mind." He began to walk away, but turned and said, with a chuckle, "And, yes, at painting, too."
Barney stared at his picture. Was it true? He brought his brush up, dripping black, then jabbed it into the pot of water, swirling it around until the water turned as black as the brush had been. He looked at the light colours in his paint set, seldom used. He looked at other easels, belonging to other boys, and saw them all painting much the same as he had been painting. But flowers and meadows are trite, he thought. Aren't they?
The door opened, and Barney and all the other boys turned to see the Headmaster, accompanied by a man in a suit, and several more in military uniform. The Headmaster looked stern and angry. But he's miserable, too, Barney realised, looking at him with his painter's eye, that saw through facades and missed nothing. He hates this. He wishes he were far away.
"Edward Thomas?" the suited man demanded crisply.
Mr Thomas had frozen, fists clenched loosely at his sides, head slightly bowed. Barney watched as his arm came up. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he thought. It was a familiar gesture.
"Edward Thomas. We would like you to come with us."
Mr Thomas' head came up again, and he turned round slowly. "On what charge are you arresting me?"
"No, Edward, no, it's not like that," protested the Headmaster. Yes, it is! his body proclaimed. "They just want to... You'll come quietly, won't you? We don't want anything... Not in front of the boys."
"No, I think the boys should see this," Mr Thomas said. His eyes seemed to find Barney, as he said, "It is the burden of the artist to always seek the truth."
"Very well." The man in the suit nodded. Barney thought he was pleased to be allowed to do it this way. "Edward Thomas. You are arrested on the charge of sedition, and the possession and propagation of illegal images. You are arrested on the charge of corrupting minors, abusing the position of trust that you are in as their teacher."
"Corrupting?" Mr Thomas raised his eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
"You are a dissident," the man said coldly. "You are a recruiter for the Resistance. Fortunately, your colleagues have assured us that they knew nothing of your double life, and have promised to assist us in every way with bringing you to justice. If not, we would have been forced to closed down the school."
"There is no law against art." Mr Thomas' head was high, but Barney could see how his hands were trembling. He was terrified, but surely the jury would find him innocent, and even if it did not, it would only be a fine, or something.
"There is now," the man said. He nodded to the soldiers. "Take him." Barney saw his teacher look desperately from side to side, before realising that there was no escape. The soldiers grabbed him, one by each arm.
The other boys were frozen, staring at the ground, pretending not to be there at all. You should do something, Barney willed at them. If we all get up all at the same time...
"I trust we came in time to stop his poison spreading," the man said, falsely gentle. "Tell me, boy." He pointed at a boy to Barney's right. "Did this man try to corrupt you to his false cause? Did he try to touch you? Do you renounce him and all his ways?"
The boy nodded eagerly. Just don't hurt me, his body said. Just leave me alone.
"That's not true!" Barney was on his feet before he knew it, scattering his easel, scattering his paints. "He never tried to touch us. That's a shocking thing to say, and only someone with a dirty mind would think it. He's a teacher. He taught us art. That's all. He taught us to seek the truth. That's been the goal of artists for as long as there's been art."
"Ah, so we have a little traitor in our midst, do we?" The man turned towards Barney, and pulled out a gun. "Would you repeat what you just said, boy?"
"No!" The Headmaster fluttered into life. "I must protest. No weapons, you said. No violence. It would be clean. No-one would know."
"Barney!" Mr Thomas shouted, but one of the soldiers dispassionately punched him in the stomach. "Barney," he gasped, as the other kicked him in the face as he was doubled over in pain. "Don't. Please, don't."
Barney tried to reach towards him. "But you didn't..."
"And it means everything, that you said it. But don't..."
They struck him again, and he fell to the floor, and again, and then there was blood.
Barney clenched his fists at his sides, so tightly that they trembled. Don't, said his teacher's dying eyes. Not yet. Not now. But Barney could not lie. He had never been able to entirely lie.
"He did not touch us," he told the man. "I don't know what he's done outside school, but he never did anything in any of our lessons that he could be reproached for."
"Oh, but I think he did." The man turned his gun on Mr Thomas, and shot him, without the faintest flicker on his mask-like face. "And I will spare you now, boy, but I will remember you, and you, I am sure, will remember this lesson for as long as you live, and will, I trust, learn from it."
The other boys were screaming, scrabbling to the far end of the room. Barney just stood there, though dark wings of panic were beating in his chest. I will, he swore. I will learn from it well.
But he clenched his fists tightly, kept his eyes clear, and said nothing.
End of chapter eleven