Father of Lights

by A.J. Bernhagen

            When the war was over, he thought back, and this is what his mind’s eye saw.

            “Twenty-three!”

            Johnny jerked his head up from the slick desk and stared at the teacher standing in front of the liquid screen. His eyes were wide, as though he were still waiting for the question. The teacher frowned, and the lines on his face tightened. He removed his finger from the screen, and it rippled out like so many waves when a pebble disturbs a still pond.

            “In your syllabus, Twenty-three, the first order of conduct is to be attentive to any and all instructions and/or queries of the instructor. Do you feel in our present situation that you have achieved the set criteria?”

            Johnny blinked and thought on it a moment, but when he sensed the changes in the instructor’s demeanor, he abruptly responded, “No, sir. I was––”

            “Correct, Twenty-three,” the teacher interrupted, loudly.

            The other students in the symmetrical classroom were all gazing nervously at the boy whose eyes leaked raw fear. None laughed, as would have been customary in the barbaric days, but they regarded him with no pity either.

            The instructor took three steps toward the front row and removed a slender steel rod from the inside of his white coat. To the ordinary eye, it appeared to be good for nothing more than perhaps propping up a flimsy table or bludgeoning someone’s head; however, when the poor light reflected into Johnny’s brown eyes, he knew better.

            It wasn’t entirely his fault, he rationalized, though it didn’t matter now. The musings of a reformed ex-patriot from the Age of Chaos did not exactly stir his spirit to the point of song and dance.

            One of the many foolish notions from the Age of Chaos that holds a surprising amount of sway in certain rebellious factions to this day was the strength of the family unit, the concept of extracting ideals on an individual basis by means of patriarchal and matriarchal influence. Of course, this is all a lot of sheer nonsense, as the screens you viewed for today illustrated.

            “Is this necessary, Twenty-three?” the instructor asked. “Do we need another reminder?”

            “No, sir,” Johnny’s voice quivered. Silace, the boy on his left, was letting out several small gasps of relief. Natural, of course, for he was only one seat over from the cruel display that would have unfolded.

            The teacher replaced the rod inside his jacket, and a small smile spread across his tanned, aging face. “I agree. I would hope not after last week. Pay attention.”

            Then a lot of small breaths of relief rose in a silent chorus. But they were a small trifle compared to the pleasant cold sweep that was now flushing out the last of the hot nervous fire that had been simmering in his belly. He had been shown a good deal of mercy.

            Instructor Mills continued his lecture, and all the Level Three’s focused their attention on him as if their very souls would evaporate if they did not. When Mills dismissed the class forty minutes later, Johnny rushed down the white corridor with his screen tucked under his arm and barged through the bathroom door. As soon as he was sure it was empty, he threw open the last stall and locked it behind him. For a moment he sat silently on the stool with his hands trembling and his breath going in and out in sharp blasts. Then he cried.

The next period was similar to the first. Johnny, still disoriented and wiping away the last droplets from his puffy eyes, stumbled into the classroom and assumed his seat number, this time Seventeen. Should another question be posed to him, the instructor would call him by the new number and expect that he had the answer. In fact, he must have the answer––always.

            “Good morning, Level Threes,” Instructor Spritzer said, removing a slender wooden stick from his pocket. The liquid screen descended and Mills inserted the tool. Gravity held the water in the square, and it rippled and the lights beamed out, turning the colors blue, orange, and green before settling on a more purplish tint.

            Johnny slid his screen underneath the desk in the slot when he noticed it was coming to life as well.

            “As you will notice, I have compiled an update of your requirements, and deleted those which you have completed. Of course, I trust that you have been keeping avid track yourselves.”

            Johnny scanned the red letters.

            1. Complete your thesis on Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

            2. Research the forms of Greek grammar prior to our undertaking of The Odyssey.

            3. Six book reports must be finished before the cessation of this quarter; you shall choose your classic works this week.

            The list went on like that. Thankfully Spritzer had halved the amount of book reports due this time around. Johnny began to mentally break down his schedule. He could devote this week to the Shakespeare thesis, and that would leave room for the Greek grammar over the next few weeks. He should probably space the book reports, but God, that still left numbers four through nine.

            “We ended our discussion last time with a brief word about the alarming effects that literature has had in the past when left uncensored. French, Italian, and especially American literature were demonstrated all to have adverse effects both on the government and culture, though the more totalitarian a particular government was, the greater the damage. Of course, the current censorship program does not inhibit free thought.” Mills smiled broadly and continued: “We respect diversity. But to return to today’s material, if you will all look down at your desks, you will find the course objectives outlined––”

            The glass door slid open with a familiar whoosh, and a slender man in a navy-blue collared shirt stretched across his chest stepped into the room with a young boy at his heels. His muscular figure was clothed in the traditional student white, and a shaggy blondish-brown mane hung in his eyes.

            The instructors exchanged quiet words while the boy scanned the room. His blue eyes moved from desk to desk, taking in the reactions of the silent students, until they hooked Johnny, who could not force himself to look away.

            “Class, this is Apollos, and this is his first day. He was recently civilized and has tested into the third level. I trust you will welcome him.”

            Some snickers floated from the back. Johnny didn’t need to turn to see who it was or why they were laughing.

            “Look at his hair,” one of the boys said. “It looks like he took it off a stray dog.”

            “I wonder if they all look like that in his cave,” another responded, and more boys snickered, and a few girls, though most of them were noticing the certain attractive charm of his fierce blue eyes.

            “You boys sedate yourselves back there,” Spritzer said as the fellow instructor made his exit. “Apollos, you may take a seat in the back corner for today. I will have you permanently assigned by tomorrow.

            The boy took the seat just three behind Johnny. He did not say a word or so much as notice the glares coming from the other boys (or the fluttering eyebrows of the girls). He kept his attention on the liquid screen and waited patiently.

            “To get you caught up, Apollos, we were just discussing historical and modern censorship, how in olden times it served as a deterrent to peaceful expression, but now in its perfected form is only to the benefit of the common people.”

            Apollos raised his hand immediately, a gesture that brought outright laughter from his classmates. The instructor looked him with a slight smile and said, “Yes? Oh, for future reference, if you wish to speak you may press the green orb on the top of your desk.”

            Sure enough when Apollos looked down he found the small green button amongst the drifting purple-blue hue. Satisfied, he turned his eyes on the instructor again and asked, “What is the benefit of modern censorship? Perfected censorship, as you call it?”

            The instructor’s faced reddened slightly and his smile broadened.

            “I’m afraid that is something we cannot devote time to this morning, young man. It is in your text and you may read it at your leisure. There is simply not time.”

            A pause, then: “Why?”

            The simple question simultaneously caused every head in the classroom to turn as well as the instructor, who had faced the liquid screen again and was just about to begin dictating. This time when he faced Apollos, the smile was a distant memory, and a pronounced scowl the new reality.

            “Come again?” Spritzer said, as though forcing the boy to repeat himself would frighten him to silence.

            Apollos responded unafraid. “I want to know why we can’t take the time. You say censorship is a benefit––even go so far as to call it perfect. Surely you can spend five minutes explaining what is so perfect about it.”

            It wasn’t just the words he used. It was the tone. Johnny had been at Felhox Academy for three solid years (not even counting the pre-academy training), and in all that time, not one student pressed a question if the instructor deflected it, much less demanded the answer on his first day when his well being was hanging in the balance. Oh yes, barbarians had been “civilized” before, but Johnny’s observation was that they did not last long. Nor would this one, he supposed.

            “Since you are new I will simply warn you. Your text gives the explanation to your questions and you may read it there––”

            “I have no text, sir,” Apollos interrupted.

            Spritzer was thoroughly frustrated now. His mouth tightened and bent into a grimace.

            “Are you telling me they did not present you with your screen?”

            “No, sir, they didn’t.”

            “Well…during your refreshment break you may ask the central office to remedy that problem. You may read the text then, if you like. Now, if it is quite convenient, we will resume today’s discourse.”

            Johnny sat passively through the remainder of the lecture. Apollos mirrored him. And though it was difficult and something he did not want to be caught doing, Johnny stole a few quick glances behind him. Even his posture was different, the way he slumped back in his chair with his blue desk pen twirling between his agile fingers. He was an alien in this world, and Johnny swallowed a laugh.

“Apollos, a word if you please.”

            Johnny was just at the door when he heard the administrator, Mr. Falconer, call down the dormitory hallway after his new classmate. His hand was gripping his keycard which was about to enter the little slot. He hesitated.

            “I was looking for room assignments, sir. I can’t seem to find––”

            “No worries, my boy, no worries. You will be residing for the remainder of this semester––or longer if your interaction levels remain stable––with one Newburn, Johnny. His room is number C-294, down this hallway on the left. Ah! there he is now. Here is your keycard––what I needed to give you, actually. Keep it with you. I mean that. Do not lose it or there’ll be a reprimand.”

            Falconer resumed his checks, and Johnny heard Apollos mutter something sarcastic about stable interaction levels. Then he turned toward him, and his eyes were even more magnetic than in the classroom, and his slow confident steps amongst the swarm of white-clad students held Johnny’s gaze.

            “Johnny?” Apollos said, approaching him.

            “Yeah.”

            “I’m your new room mate, apparently,” he said, and slipped his keycard in the slot by the milky white door the wrong way. He jerked it out, turned it around and reinserted it. This time the door opened with a quiet hum.

            “I hope there’s two beds,” he continued, “because I’m not sleeping with you, Chief.”

            Johnny slipped through the door before it closed on him and watched the new boy throw his white duffle bag on the top bunk.

            “A lot of white around here,” Apollos muttered. “Not like home. Great parliament of clowns you guys need to do some remodeling.”

            “Color is too distracting. It keeps you from your studies,” Johnny explained. Apollos burst into a fit of hysterical laughter that didn’t end until he was sitting on the floor with tears streaming down his face. Johnny blushed.

            “You––kids,” he wheezed, and let the fit slowly ebb away. When he was settled, he said, “So, Newburn comma Johnny, is that your real name?”

            “Johnny Newburn, actually.”

            Apollos rolled his eyes. “No kidding, Chief. I mean is Johnny your real name? It isn’t John or Johntholamule or something?”

            Johnny took a seat on the bed and leaned forward. “John is a biblical name. My parents could not name me that so they named me Johnny.”

            In the silence Apollos could only marvel at his new friend. “And where are your parents?” he asked.

            Johnny looked down at him incredulously. “How should I know? I won’t see them until I’m done at the academy.”

            “And when will that be?”

            “Didn’t they tell you anything? We’re in the third year––fifth if you count the pre-training––and we go for ten more.”

            Apollos whistled like it was an uncommonly large stretch.

            “What?” Johnny asked. “You’ll be sitting in the same classes just like the rest of us.”

            “That a dare?”

            This was simply too absurd, Johnny thought. The barbarian knew nothing of the civilized education system, and he would now probably end up teaching him.

            “Well, unless you’re going to run away and go back to––to––where did you come from, anyway?”

            Apollos rose and took a short stroll across the room. He noticed an electric keyboard sitting on the dresser and a red envelope of music. He pressed his fingers down on a few of the keys but they made no sound.        

            “You play piano?” Apollos said.

            “Sure, everyone does. It’s required. Don’t you play?”

            Apollos abruptly swung around and held his hands down around his waste. He turned the left one up like he was holding an invisible baseball and the right formed the okay sign. “Guitar.”

            Johnny shrugged his shoulders and shifted on the bed. “What’s that?”

            “Oh, you’re kidding! What the hell do they teach you people around here?”

            Johnny blinked. “Piano…”

            Apollos sighed and paced the length of the room. “I know piano, Chief. So anyway, you were talking about running away. Where do you want to go? South to Mexico? East to the orient?”

            “No, no, no. I was talking about you running away, back to where you came from. Which was…?”

            “Can you keep a secret?” Apollos said seriously, and squatted down so his eyes were a little lower than Johnny’s.

            “I think so.”

            Apollos tilted his head towards the ceiling. “Up north,” he whispered. “Way up north.”

            “You don’t mean––”

            The two boys’ eyes connected. Fire burned in the barbarian’s. “Yes, I do mean.”

            Johnny leaned back and let out a long breath. “But…how did you? They let you come here when you’re one of––one of them!”

            Apollos’ eyes remained the same hot orbs of malice. “Oh yes, I, one of them,” he mocked. “But you don’t know who they are, do you? You don’t know what you are, either, or what you people do.”

            “Stop…” Johnny whispered.

            “I’m sure you hear all about it in the classroom. How I was spared for my so-called intellect. One who could be civilized.

            “Stop it…”

            “But what they’re never going to tell you is that your own bylaws condemn this place to hell.”

            “Stop!”

            Johnny was on his feet now, fuming. He thought about striking the barbarian right in the mouth, giving him a free lesson in Felhox policy. He had better pray the cameras weren’t monitoring this outrage, or he’d be dangling from the courtyard tree like so many of his ragged kind.

            The tension broke when Apollos laughed and fell back to the keyboard. He picked up the red envelope filled with sheet music and examined it carefully. “Nothing too peppy,” he noted. “Nothing too somber, either.”

            “It’s the assigned music, if you must know,” Johnny spat. “It’s gone through the acceptance process.”

            A big smile lit up Apollos’ face. “Oh? Really? And what process is that? Try to weed out the Es and B flats?”

            “Look,” Johnny snarled, “unless you want to be kicked out of here, I suggest you keep all your ideas to yourself.”

            Apollos laughed again. “Easy there, John-John. I thought this was an educational institution.”

            This was perhaps the most annoying person Johnny had ever met. Constantly this and that and the other thing. Contradiction here and there and everywhere. He even did it in front of the instructors!

            “Johnny.”

            “Sorry?”

            “My name is Johnny. Not John-John or Jay or whatever else you want to call me.”

            Apollos flipped another page of music. “Johnny’s a funny name,” he said.

            “Oh and Apollos isn’t? What kind of a name is that anyway?”

            Apollos eyed him with disbelief. “The Greek sun god, you know, Apollo? God of the breaking dawn? The Father of Lights?”

            When Johnny gave no signs that he knew what he meant, Apollos sighed and put the sheet music back down.

            “We can’t start this way,” he said. “What do you people do for fun around here? Wait, you do have fun, don’t you?”

            “Yes, as a matter of fact we do. We can watch television from eight to nine, and from eight to ten on weekends, or as holidays permit.”

            “I got some bad news, Chief. It ain’t eight to nine now. What does that leave?”

            “Studying,” Johnny said with a false smile. “Which if you’ll excuse me I have more of to be doing.”

            Apollos laughed and said, “Suit yourself, Chief. Suit yourself. I’ll be walking around somewhere else if you need me.”

            “Unlikely.”

            Apollos turned to leave and the clouded door began sliding open. Johnny flipped his screen onto the desk and placed his thumb on the top right-hand corner. He expected the savage to be gone by now, but all of a sudden his screen disappeared from under him, and he jerked his head up to find Apollos holding it in his hands, grinning.

            “This it, Chief?” he said. “They didn’t give me one of these.”

            Johnny was on his feet with his fists clenched at his sides. Apollos threw up the screen and caught it a couple times and giggled.

            “Give me that…now,” Johnny warned.

            “Yeah? You want it back?”

            A rise of red colors on a panel near the door caught Johnny’s attention. The bars started green towards the base, turned yellow, and were threatening red. The ward monitors would burst in any moment if he didn’t calm himself.

            “Careful, Chief,” Apollos said and smirked.

            “May I please have my screen back?”

            “No.”

            Apollos made a quick dash for the door, which flew open when he tripped the sensor, and Johnny hurtled after him. The interaction alarm went off, and the room slowly filled with a mist, and a soothing female voice said, “Your interaction levels show too much aggression. Please lie down on your beds and close your eyes. Do not continue interaction. Repeat, do not continue interaction.”

            Johnny scarcely caught the last part as he threw off all inhibition and chased Apollos––who was having a merry time of it––down the corridor and one flight of stairs after another. They weaved in and out of students who watched them, unsure whether to be frightened or curious.

            “Give it back!” Johnny roared, and Apollos laughed the harder.

            Soon they were out in the courtyard. Apollos stopped to gather his bearings and noticed the beach was only a few hundred yards away. Johnny saw him turn back, wink, and take off running towards it.

            “That’s mine!” Johnny screamed.

            “I know!” Apollos called back.

            The savage boy was beginning to tire, but Johnny could run another five minutes on fury alone. He began covering the distance between them. When he saw the beast approaching the water, he knew what he was intending to do. He pumped his legs harder than he ever had. Even the worst exercise hours were never this rigorous. When he was in range, he made a flying leap and tackled Apollos to the ground. The two hit the sand with a thud, Apollos laughing hysterically, Johnny doing his best to strike him in the face and stomach.

            “Hooo–––hold on a minute,” Apollos gasped, and laughed even more.

            “You dirty, stingy, uncivilized creature! I’ll kill you!”

            But Johnny soon grew tired of pummeling Apollos and rolled off and joined him on the sand. The savage was still laughing.

            “Didn’t that…feel good?” Apollos panted and turned his head to the side. His brownish-blonde mane was full of sand, and he had a few trickles of blood from the fall running down his forehead.

             All the nerves were wearing off and Johnny felt that fatigued sensation of being completely drained. But it wasn’t like the mind-numbing stupor he often experienced in class. This did, in fact, feel very, very good.

            “You’re a…good runner,” Apollos said. And the two slowly began to laugh again. And they laughed and laughed until tears streamed from their eyes and their stomachs burned and their heads ached.

            When the fit subsided, Johnny rose to his knees, then to his feet. He looked down on his new friend with a smile, then extended his hand. “Come on. They’re probably going to give us hell for this.”

            “You think?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Interaction levels not stable enough for them?”

            Johnny smiled. “Yeah. And I got sand in my screen.”

Suffice it to say, the short meeting went far better than expected. Apollos, who contended to the ward monitor that it was just a game, was very convincing. He explained that since he had no screen of his own he did not realize the importance of it. Plus, it was all in fun. The thing still worked. The two of them were restricted to take their meals separate from the larger group for one week, and all television privileges had been revoked for a period of no less than two weeks, no more than one month, depending upon the future stability of the interaction levels.

            It didn’t bother Johnny at all, especially when eight o’clock came around and the rest of the ward went to the television auditorium for the selected viewings. He and Apollos would sit together in their room and talk. Just talk. It was something Johnny had never done before.

            “There’s a package for you on your bed,” Johnny said one evening just after dinner. Apollos, who was scribbling in an old-fashioned notebook with an even more old-fashioned pencil, looked up. “I think it’s your screen. Better think about starting your Macbeth thesis.”

            Apollos took the black package from the bed and slumped against the wall. After tearing the seal and removing it, the screen came to life and asked for his name and thumbprint verification.

            A few minutes later Johnny was laying on his bed reading a news article about a northern victory, but he switched it off and sat up. Apollos had his head dipped down, his eyes covered by his wild tangle of hair.

            “What was your home like?”

            Apollos looked up. “Up north?”

            “Yeah.”

            “They might be watching.” He indicated the camera hidden within the light plate.

            Johnny leaned forward, eyes alight. “What was it you said? Don’t let them tell you what to learn?” He winked.

            The other smiled at that and set his screen on the desk above him. He leaned his head back into a pair of linked hands and whistled. “Not much to say, I guess. My father went to work in his car while my mother kept the house. My friends and I explored the neighborhood and the woods nearby, swam, things like that.”

            “So why did you come here?” Johnny meant the question honestly, but when Apollos responded with a bitter “Because they forced me,” he regretted asking it.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

            Apollos sighed. “I know you didn’t, Chief. I know. The soldiers poured into the town one evening, shooting up the stores and looting, then they came to the neighborhood.”

            “And then what?”

            The smile on Apollos’ handsome face was a sad smile. “Then I came here, Chief,” he said at last, and the story was over. “Then I came here,” he repeated, “and my family didn’t.”

            Apollos arose suddenly and moved towards the door, dragging his feet as he walked.

            “Where you going?” Johnny asked.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Should I come?”

            His friend’s back was strangely cold and distant. His shoulders slumped and his legs seemed frail. “That’s up to you,” he said without turning.

            Johnny thought about it. “I better not. I’ve got a report due tomorrow. They’d rod me if it was late.”

            Now Apollos did turn, and a single droplet of water fell from his magnetic blue eyes. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Maybe some other day.”

            Johnny meant to ask him something further, but Apollos had already left and disappeared down the hallway. For a moment, he contemplated leaving his screen and chasing after him––perhaps take a swim in the sea again if they could duck the ward monitors. But there was the report. And there was the rod. And he decided to stay. He didn’t turn out his light until his eyelids drooped like they were weighed down with blocks of frozen meat. Apollos hadn’t returned.

Instructor Spritzer turned to the class and said, “I trust you have all completed the rough drafts of your Macbeth theses.” His dark eyes scanned from student to student, searching for any sign of negligence.

            Johnny did not look away. When Spritzer moved on, he glanced over at Apollos, who had turned up sometime after he’d fallen asleep the night before and had dressed and gone to breakfast without him this morning. His thumb was pressed on the little green orb on his desk, and a small buzzer on Instructor Spritzer’s belt began to vibrate.

            “Yes, young man?” he said, and everyone knew by his reluctant tone that he was in no hurry to address what the children had dubbed the Savage Boy.

            “I don’t have mine done,” Apollos said simply.

            Every eye in the room collapsed upon him. Spritzer took a step back and his eyes widened. “Pardon?”

            “I said I don’t have mind done, sir.”

            Instructor Spritzer began to chuckle. “Surely there must be some reason.”

            “There is, sir. The text I was given is inaccurate.”

            “Impossible!” Spritzer spat. “I have read and re-read the text a dozen times. The Macbeth is an exact replica of the accepted curriculum base. It has been produced in perfection. You are mistaken.”

            Apollos was smirking a little. “There’s that ‘perfected censorship’ idea again.”

            Some of the students were laughing until Spritzer turned his glare upon them.

            “Your text is authorized and whole,” Spritzer said calmly. “Yet you have failed to do your assignment.”

            “I will do my assignment when I am given the correct text, Sir. I have read this piece before. It has been tampered with. Entire sections are missing––even the end.”

            A silent chill ran through room. Johnny and his fellow classmates looked hopelessly back and forth between the teacher and the student. Instructor Spritzer wore a frown on his aging face, and he slowly drew the rod from his coat pocket.

            “Come here, Twelve,” he said, addressing Apollos by his seat number. The boy rose and shook his mane of shaggy hair. He walked forward with sure, fearless steps and stood at full attention before the looming instructor. “You leave me no choice, young man.”

            He drew the rod back and Apollos began to quietly speak. “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.”

            “This is for your own good.”

            The rod plunged forward and struck the boy in the chest. Immediately his words broke and his head raised up in an agonizing scream. Veins on his neck bulged along with his eyes, and his whole body quivered like he had been shot through with lighting from God. His breath quaked with his body, and he fell to his knees, vomit spewing from his mouth onto the floor. Spritzer observed him with a cool smile. The tip of the rod was smoking.

            Everyone in the room except Johnny gasped and turned away. His frozen gaze watched his friend fall and lurch in the midst of a torturous stream of agony. But after a moment on his knees, Apollos looked up and, trembling and weak, continued: “And all our yesterday’s…have lighted…fools the way of…dusty death.”

            “Enough!” thundered Spritzer, and he stuck him with the rod again, this time in the shoulder.

            “No!” Johnny yelled, and scrambled to his feet. Tears stung in his eyes as blood shot from Apollos’ mouth and ears. He fell to his side and shook so fiercely that even the instructor’s desk began to quake. Crimson life spilled over Apollos’ purple lips and onto his paling face. His head rolled to the side, and Johnny saw the pools of magnetic blue calling to him.

            “Out…out brief…candle,” he whispered. Spritzer’s nostrils flared and he drew the rod high above the fallen savage. “Life…is but a walking…shadow…”

            Then the rod fell for the last time, and the lights went out in the young boy’s eyes.