down his long nose at Adrian. "And what about the new church out there?"
"Close it up. Bring the members back. We are not as ready as I had hoped." He sat down. "And seek out humans who may know about us. Erase their memory. We must cut off all enemies and destroy those who try to harm us. Even our own. Find them and dispose of them."
"You rushed this, Brother Adrian," Tollen said.
"It's been seven years of building a strong community. We must expand into the human world soon. In my lifetime. I must see this happen."
"It's for the good of all our people, not only one. We don't want our cause crushed again like on Elyon."
Adrian scowled at Tollen, who finally dropped his eyes, and sat down.
Caleb stepped in. "Father, with increased lobotomies we defeat the purpose of coming here to build our gene pool. Those lobotomized no longer have powers."
His father turned to look at him. "But they can still breed power, Son. Better than those who refuse to breed."
His father knew he had sent the girl meant for him off to Thomas after releasing the boy. Caleb hadn't been punished yet for his own disobedience. It would come. New scars would soon blend with the ones thick on his back already. He could bear the whippings—if he could spare the punished some pain.
Adrian called order and the elders voted on the new laws. Despair sunk into Caleb. They all had the power to heal but were denied this for themselves. This was the one law that enabled his father to wield the power of corporal punishment over his people. How ironic that back home Caleb was an outcast for not healing himself as expected when injured. He wanted to feel the pain, to feel human.
And here Caleb secretly saved the discarded ones, those his father punished and tossed aside like yesterday's trash. But how could he save every executed Elyon? At least a few were something. It was his one salvation. If he stopped a few souls' pain, it soothed the emotional pain he felt.
The pain of fighting against his Destroyer genes.
The pain of never knowing his sons.
The pain of never having love of his own choosing.
Would he soon be trash, too? And who would save him from being discarded?
Is this what his mother felt like in that well? He had only been seventeen the day he found her. He didn't know why she had traveled off the path and come across it. He had covered the old well with branches and leaves. It had been his hiding place back home to get away from the bullies—and his father.
He remembered the day he'd walked in on his father plundering Aunt Manta in their house, and hearing her moans of pleasure. He had stumbled out then into the cold rain, heading for his hideaway.
When he reached the well, a giant hole breached the brush he had last used to cover it. He shoved the branches aside and climbed down into his sanctuary, wary that some animal might be poised to greet him. Halfway down he paused, but sensed no movement. Heard no sound. The comforting dark reached up for him, and he longed to enter its embrace.
His foot reached the floor but didn't touch hard stone. He landed on something soft. He lost his balance and fell back, cracking his head on the side of the well.
He lay crumpled at the bottom, waiting for the pain to recede. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a face stared back at him. Not the bright eyes of an animal. Eyes he recognized, yet so different now drained of life. His mother's.
Caleb screamed and slammed back into the wall. Her head lolled to one side and her leg, stuck out at a crooked angle, lay on her travel bag. She leaned up against the wall as if someone had propped her there.
Why had she insisted on leaving alone? He should have walked with her. He knew these woods better than she did. She must have wandered off the path in the dark and fallen into the brush. He never should have covered the opening so carelessly. He should have told someone about the danger and had it sealed.
This was his fault. His own, dear mother's loss—all
"Close it up. Bring the members back. We are not as ready as I had hoped." He sat down. "And seek out humans who may know about us. Erase their memory. We must cut off all enemies and destroy those who try to harm us. Even our own. Find them and dispose of them."
"You rushed this, Brother Adrian," Tollen said.
"It's been seven years of building a strong community. We must expand into the human world soon. In my lifetime. I must see this happen."
"It's for the good of all our people, not only one. We don't want our cause crushed again like on Elyon."
Adrian scowled at Tollen, who finally dropped his eyes, and sat down.
Caleb stepped in. "Father, with increased lobotomies we defeat the purpose of coming here to build our gene pool. Those lobotomized no longer have powers."
His father turned to look at him. "But they can still breed power, Son. Better than those who refuse to breed."
His father knew he had sent the girl meant for him off to Thomas after releasing the boy. Caleb hadn't been punished yet for his own disobedience. It would come. New scars would soon blend with the ones thick on his back already. He could bear the whippings—if he could spare the punished some pain.
Adrian called order and the elders voted on the new laws. Despair sunk into Caleb. They all had the power to heal but were denied this for themselves. This was the one law that enabled his father to wield the power of corporal punishment over his people. How ironic that back home Caleb was an outcast for not healing himself as expected when injured. He wanted to feel the pain, to feel human.
And here Caleb secretly saved the discarded ones, those his father punished and tossed aside like yesterday's trash. But how could he save every executed Elyon? At least a few were something. It was his one salvation. If he stopped a few souls' pain, it soothed the emotional pain he felt.
The pain of fighting against his Destroyer genes.
The pain of never knowing his sons.
The pain of never having love of his own choosing.
Would he soon be trash, too? And who would save him from being discarded?
Is this what his mother felt like in that well? He had only been seventeen the day he found her. He didn't know why she had traveled off the path and come across it. He had covered the old well with branches and leaves. It had been his hiding place back home to get away from the bullies—and his father.
He remembered the day he'd walked in on his father plundering Aunt Manta in their house, and hearing her moans of pleasure. He had stumbled out then into the cold rain, heading for his hideaway.
When he reached the well, a giant hole breached the brush he had last used to cover it. He shoved the branches aside and climbed down into his sanctuary, wary that some animal might be poised to greet him. Halfway down he paused, but sensed no movement. Heard no sound. The comforting dark reached up for him, and he longed to enter its embrace.
His foot reached the floor but didn't touch hard stone. He landed on something soft. He lost his balance and fell back, cracking his head on the side of the well.
He lay crumpled at the bottom, waiting for the pain to recede. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a face stared back at him. Not the bright eyes of an animal. Eyes he recognized, yet so different now drained of life. His mother's.
Caleb screamed and slammed back into the wall. Her head lolled to one side and her leg, stuck out at a crooked angle, lay on her travel bag. She leaned up against the wall as if someone had propped her there.
Why had she insisted on leaving alone? He should have walked with her. He knew these woods better than she did. She must have wandered off the path in the dark and fallen into the brush. He never should have covered the opening so carelessly. He should have told someone about the danger and had it sealed.
This was his fault. His own, dear mother's loss—all
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