Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant Read Free Book Online Page B

prayer services had begun by the time Jubal and Devon had crossed the bleaching fields of downed alfalfa and entered the town. They alone trod the dusty street toward the center of Cypress Corners. As they neared the circle of trees surrounding the Place of Worship, Jubal said, “Hold.” The two men stopped.
    Devon heard the sound of light laughter from behind a metal ivy-climb—traditionally called a “communicator booth”—across the narrow street. Jubal stalked over to the dull-gray pillar and Devon followed.
    Aha! said the Elder. Devon peered around Jubal’s shoulder to see who had been confronted. It was a young boy, perhaps eight or nine. He was clad like his male Elders in a white collarless shirt of rough homespun material and black cotton overalls that came up in bib fashion with straps over the shoulders. He was barefoot and was rolling a shining metal stave hoop with a metal rod.
    “Young Jacob!” said Jubal.
    The small boy looked sheepish.
    “Dost thou know what hour it be?”
    Young Jacob thought for a moment. “Aye, sir. Twelve-hundred hours, sir.”
    “Nearly thirteen-hundred hours,” corrected Jubal. “Second worship hour, lad. Long since time you were at your prayers. No time for idleness and wicked laughter.”
    “I beg pardon, sir,” said the boy. He stared contritely down at the street. As his head dropped, Devon was sure he saw Young Jacob wink. Elder Jubal grunted a perfunctory acceptance of the apology.
    “Then be about it, lad; hie thee to thy place of kneeling and rid thyself of impure, wicked thoughts lest the Elders mete out severity.”
    Head still hanging respectfully, Young Jacob dropped his hoop and stave beside the ivy-climb and scampered through the ring of cypress toward the steps leading up to the Place of Worship.
    Jubal watched, shaking his head at the frivolity of the young. “I’ll never understand those to whom piety doesn’t come early,” he said, reverting momentarily from the stiff, formal speech usually affected by the Elders. “It makes things so...” He hesitated. “So inexact.”
    “You were once young,” said Devon.
    “I think not.” His face set in dour lines. Jubal led Devon up the wide, plank steps. From between the cypress doors they could hear a voice.
    “Hush,” said Jubal. “Elder Micah’s sermon...” Devon recognized the voice; words as hard and cold as the mica schist he had found half-buried in the hills.
    “One hundred kilometers across be the world of Cypress Corners,” said the voice of Elder Micah. “One hundred kilometers be all the plot of land given us by the Creator. To work and nourish and on which to find our salvation. ‘Twould be simple for thee to fall into the wicked thought that there be more to the good life, the life given to the service of the Creator, than these one hundred kilometers; that there be thought ne’er thought, deed ne’er done, that thou might rise above thy fellows with certain deed and certain thought...”
    Again with a gesture for silence, Jubal led Devon between the slab-sided doors of the Place of Worship. The interior was barnlike in its spaciousness and simplicity of arrangement. A center aisle led to the front. On either side the congregation, all in black, sat in the hard metal pews. A few heads turned to look as Jubal and Devon advanced down the aisle. Like a whip-crack, Elder Micah’s voice brought them back to eyes-forward.
    “...and that the will of the Elders may be summarily flouted. Be there aught amongst ye who feel so?”
    At the front of the Place of Worship was a low platform. Elder Micah stood behind a metal lectern. On the bare wall behind him there was only a burnished metal circle; for the Elders, the symbol of Belief.
    Jubal conducted Devon to the aisle seat of the front row. Throughout the room there was a barely audible rustle of whispers. Tall, gaunt, forbidding, Micah leaned forward across the lectern and fixed his gaze on Devon. He repeated,
    “Be there aught amongst