Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant Page A

as though a small animal inside were rummaging through nutshells. After a moment it spoke; its voice was loud and flat. “Gene pool orders original mating selection without variance. New factor, coded: Devon, unsuitable. Balance maintained. Answerrrr...” The voice of the Creator distorted, dropped in pitch, slowed down. Micah tensed, staring down at the machine. “Answer: none.”
    With triumphant finality, Micah punched a key on the top of the Creator’s machine and the device began to whir back down into the lectern. The lines in Micah’s lean face bunched hard. “Now, spiteful Devon, before this congregation, in the sight of the Creator and in the Creator’s words, thou hast been spurned. Wilt thou now relent? And join with thy betters in conjoining these two young people?”
    Devon said nothing as he stared back at Micah and the lowering top of the Creator’s machine. He opened his mouth but no words emerged.
    “Wilt thou?” said Micah.
    Devon turned his head toward Rachel.
    She met his eyes; her gaze fell first.
    He turned toward Garth.
    The smith’s apprentice would not meet Devon’s eyes.
    “Wilt thou, boy?” Micah repeated the words implacably, giving them edges like hammered metal.
    Devon opened his mouth again, but words still would not come. Clenching his fists, he turned and bolted from the Place of Worship. Whispers ran through the congregation until Micah raised a paternal hand. “This boy has been possessed by a fine wickedness. From this moment forward, henceforth let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon, let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him. For us, humble in the name of the Creator, this Devon is a spitefulness, a contentiousness, a spot of rancor. Let him be, then, gone from our sight. Now: return to thy labors.”
    The congregation rose, facing the circle design on the rear wall. Each man and woman and child linked thumb and forefinger over their hearts as a symbol of their piety. Even Garth. Even Rachel.
     

SEVEN
     
    The forge of Old William the metalsmith was an open shed on the northern edge of the village. Old William seldom took up the iron hammer these days; the stiffness in his joints was too painful. He had turned the major responsibility for his craft over to his young apprentice. Old William had taught his charge well; there were seldom complaints from those who ordered tools from the new smith.
    Devon waited in the half-concealment afforded by the shadows beneath a copse of elm. The rest of Cypress Corners’s commerce started up around him while, he awaited Garth’s return. Voices passed him on the other side of the row of trees: men returning to the fields. “Devon was never all that clever.”
    “I know I would not wish to be cast into the darkness by Elder Micah.”
    Mumbles of assent.
    “I don’t know.... That Rachel’s quite a piece.”
    “Hush, lest Aram hear you.”
    “He returned to fetch the water skin.”
    “Nonetheless, don’t defile his daughter with your tongue.”
    Someone’s half-stifled laughter. “I know I’d like to...” The voices faded out of earshot. Devon lay back, his head resting on the hard pillow of an exposed root.
    A few minutes later, Garth arrived at the forge. Devon continued to wait, watching as Garth resumed his work. His childhood friend was obviously distraught; Garth’s face was a mask of gloom. He clattered about the shed, futilely kicking a bucket of scrap nails across the room when the thing failed to get out of his way. Garth turned the gas jets of the forge up to full. With the tongs, he thrust a horseshoe into the roaring, orange flame.
    If only he loved Rachel, Devon thought briefly, and then wiped the thought away. No, I do not wish that at all. He realized how truly selfish he was. One more sin.
    In the fire, the metal shoe began to glow a dull cherry red.
    The color, Devon remembered, of the embers of the house. Years later he had wondered at the cruelty of children toward one of their