Things Lost

Once again, my plate is overflowing the next morning. I can only eat half of it; my stomach is still used to small portions, and soon the sizzling bacon and crisp biscuits make me feel ill. When the kind lady comes to take my plate, I stand and follow her to the kitchens. It is small and steaming. There are only four others in the kitchen, all women. They look healthy and much happier than those at the mansion. I stand, waiting, in front of the large wooden table that is strewn with fruit and raw meat. A few ladies bump into me in their haste to do something or the other, and they quickly excuse themselves. After a while, a woman turns to me.

"Are you still hungry, Madam?"

Frowning slightly, I shake my head and look expectantly at the table. Where is the tray for Erik?

"Do you need something, Madam?" asks another woman.

"Yes," I finally say, placing a hand on the table. "I am wondering where the tray is."

"The tray?" she repeats.

"Yes, the tray," I say, growing slightly impatient. "The breakfast tray for my husband. I must deliver it to him."

They exchange quick glances, and one says hesitantly, "He never eats breakfast, Madam."

I feel a very quick irritation growing inside. "I do not care," I say. "I deliver his breakfast. That is what I do. Even if he doesn't eat it, I must give it to him." I don't know why I feel so strongly about this. Perhaps it is because this gives me some purpose other than my first one. I am good for something other than children. And so I wait restlessly while they fix up a tray, shooting anxious glances at me. When at last it is set before me, I pick it up and ask, "Where is he?"

"He is usually in the study," one woman says. I turn and make my way through the hall and up the stairs to the room. It is closed, and I knock quietly before pushing it open.

Erik is sitting by a large window, sunlight pouring over him and a book in his hands. He looks up when I enter. I see his eyebrow rise, and I swallow nervously.

"Where would you like this?" I ask.

He says nothing for a moment and merely stares at me. I move over to a small table and push aside a few books before hesitantly setting it down.

"What are you doing?" he finally says.

"I – bringing your breakfast," I say. When I glance down once again, my eye catches the books. They are small, and I touch one of them. These books are not those the Oligarchy delivers. The cover is different. A gasp jumps into my throat, and I pick up the red leather book, eagerly opening the pages. I cannot remember how many times I have droned over the toneless, lifeless words of the ten books. New words jump at me. The book smells good.

A slight noise brings me back, and I immediately set the book down, staring at the floor and saying, "I am sorry. It is not my place."

He stands and walks next to me, ignoring the breakfast and picking up the little red book. "Do you enjoy reading?" he asks.

"I did, but after reading and rereading the books by the Oligarchy, I must admit I have lost my fondness for it."

Erik seems to hesitate for a moment before placing the book in my hands. "You may read this, if you would like. It's a book of Shakespearean sonnets. I'm sure you will enjoy them."

When I refuse out of politeness, he takes it back, a note of coolness in his voice. "Very well," he says, setting it down. "I'm sure you must enjoy something else much more."

I stare at the book. My fingers touch its worn cover. I yearn to see what is hidden in its pages.

"Where did you get these?" I ask. "Who wrote them?"

Idly, he picks it back up and flips through the pages, torturing me. "Not all books have been lost. These are the ones we have been able to find and keep. I am sure I do not have to tell you that they are much more interesting than the drivel that families are allowed to keep."

The book he is holding is emblazoned with a small golden square. There are two brown books, each one worn, printed with the words HOLY BIBLE. Another one, large and black, is titled The Chymical Secrets. Another says Old English Plays, with the name Charles Wentworth Dilke beneath it; one is titled Odyssey; and a smaller book is called Paradise Lost. I want to hug all of these to my breast and never let them be taken away.

"Please," I say breathlessly, uncaring of the fact that I just refused to take them, "may I read one?"

For the first time, the corner of his mouth stretches a bit, as if he is going to smile. "Yes. Perhaps you should start with Shakespeare. He is, after all, the master of language, according to many. And I think you will enjoy him." He places the red book into my hands. I flip it open immediately and skim through the pages. My eyes instantly fall on a stanza.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak.

"I know this…" I murmur, looking over the rest. "It is a song."

"Yes," he says, now sounding disgusted as he goes back to his own book. "The Oligarchy stole his work and crafted it as their own. As you read, you will find things that you recognize. It is the authors' work; not that of those brainless men."

Clutching the book fervently, I make to leave the room.

"Christine," he calls out, "do not lose that. It is a particular favorite of mine."

----

I am content for days and days. It is hard for me to believe myself that I can sit nearly all day and simply read, but I do, devouring words and phrases and ideas as if I have never been educated before. And, indeed, I haven't.

When I come back, having finished Homer's Odyssey, I find Erik looking over papers with two other men. The second is dark-haired and handsome, and the third is Khan. Quietly, I set the book down and pick up the thickest one titled HOLY BIBLE. None of the men pay attention to me, and I go back to my room, stretching before settling down to read for the night. It is a most peculiar-looking book, and I open interestedly to the first chapter, entitled Genesis.

In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

Memories stir as I remember that God was mentioned in previous books I read. Now intrigued by the story and character of God, I read on as God creates the plants and the animals.

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

Instantly, I put the book down, feeling anger rush to my head. Even God pushes for the one purpose of my being, the purpose I cannot fulfill. After a quick dinner, I take the book back. As I set it down and pick up Paradise Lost, Erik enters and watches me exchange the books.

"Have you finished the Bible already? I didn't know you read that quickly."

I shake my head. "The man's ideas made me upset. I am not interested in reading about his life."

He takes a step forward. "The man? Adam?"

"No. God."

"I – " Erik sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "Sit down," he says. When I do, he looks at me. "Christine, do you know who God is?"

I shake my head. His eyes flash slightly, and he sits down heavily, running his hand over his masked face.

"I'm sorry," I say instantly. "I will read the book if you wish me to."

"No – no," he says quickly, picking up the HOLY BIBLE and staring at it for a moment. "Listen to me, Christine. You have – no, I must go further back." He is silent for a few moments, staring at the book. I watch him, almost nervous as he begins to speak. "When the Oligarchy fell into decay, the men realized that if they were to have total control, religion had to be eradicated. Religion is a belief in something, a following of a divine leader. The Oligarchy could not have people turning to God instead of them. And so they took away the Bibles and churches. These past few generations have grown up without hearing of God or His Son."

"Who is God?" I ask, confused.

"God is…well, God. He is the creator of all things, the spiritual leader of all life. He lives in His Heaven and watches us."

This serves to do nothing but confuse me more, and I ask slowly, "And…you believe this…and want others to believe it?"

Now tense and irritated, he stands and begins to pace. "No, Christine, that isn't the point! The problem is that the Oligarchy took away the people's right to believe in a God of all things. They took away a fundamental part of history and culture. It is not their say to tell people in what to believe. If they do not want to believe, it is their decision, not mine! It is not my right to say that you must or must not believe in God!"

"Believe in God?" I press. "I thought he was a fictional character."

"No, Christine. God is a deity, a spiritual being who created us and commands us. That is, if you choose to believe He is."

My head is swimming, and I look blankly at my hands that lie limply on my knees. "How much do I not know?" I ask, more to myself than to him. "How much has been kept from me?"

Erik places the book in my hands. "Do you understand?" he says, his voice quiet. "This is why I am pulling down the hierarchy."

"May I ask you one more question?" I say after another minute of silence. He gives the smallest inclination of his head, so I quickly ask, "How do you know this? Did you grow up outside the Oligarchy's reign? Who taught you all these ideas?" I then realize I have asked three questions instead of one and I blush slightly.

"Surely they taught you to count?" he says, but his voice is not harsh. For the first time in a very long time, a genuine smile comes to my lips – small, but it is real. Erik then sighs. "It is not something to tell." After another moment, he says, "You must go to your room. It's late."

Accepting his dismissal, I clutch the HOLY BIBLE and return. He has not come to my room since the first night. As I lay there, I think and wonder. Is it no longer required or permitted? Does Raoul's life keep him away? Blushing slightly, I cannot help but think that I would not mind so much if he came. Perhaps he is the one who finds it boring. But it does not matter right now. He has not come back, and I do not think he ever will.