Henry and the Malcontents, Prologue

Fiction By Annabel // 7/8/2009

Untitled, Prologue
 
* Author’s note: At last I have posted! This is the beginning of a fantasy—untitled as yet, because I’m not much of a one for creative titles. It does seem rather hard to understand and roughly-hewn...I apologize. I know that I asked in my bio that readers be gentle with me, but that request now seems whiny and cowardly. Please ignore what I previously said. I would appreciate any feedback on my writing, critical or otherwise. Thank you.*
 

 
 
The man was the only one speaking.
 
Despite his many years of teaching, he was still sometimes taken aback to find himself talking, explaining, gesturing, providing all the conversation, while his students said nothing.
 
He had been flattered, at first, by the silence—it seemed to indicate that they were hearing every word he said, taking it all in. He knew now that silence did not necessarily signify attention, that it could mean boredom, or wandering thoughts. That, well-behaved and quiet as they were, and had to be, his students didn’t really listen.
 
They weren’t really listening now, as he took them through the museum and explained everything they saw. There were twenty-four of them, all boys in their teens, following wherever their teacher walked and observing whatever he pointed at. There was something oddly discordant between them and the dusty, roped-off statues around them. Their very silence was not a mark of reverence but of mockery—as if they were wordlessly flaunting their youth before the people who were long dead and no longer cared for.
 
The teacher spoke on, well-aware of his audience's indifference. He told them of their country’s history. The pictures, he said, showed men who had been instrumental in Daigon’s founding. The crowns had been worn by great kings as well as foolish ones. The weapons and armor had been wielded by fierce warriors in the days when there was still war…
 
"Those were the dark ages. We know better now."
 
The youths had spoken without words, yet it was loud enough.
 
The man moved on, taking them deeper into the museum.
 
In this room, he said, there was much more recent history, starting with the early days of Daigon’s democracy. That portrait was taken of the very first elected president. Those guns were used in a war against an enemy country. That is a bit of a printing press—they had newspapers in those days…
 
"Foolishness."
 
He continued.
 
Those syringes…see? They carried medicines to combat different diseases. In those days, scientists conducted research…oh, primitive research, to be sure, by our standards…to find cures for different diseases. Sometimes, the government even encouraged such research. When people were sick, they were sent to hospitals like the one in this picture, and kept there until either they were cured or they died…
 
"Sick people are useless. If they cannot be productive citizens, why not let them die?"
 
The teacher went on with the speech he had made countless times over the years.
 
This was a holy book. They worshipped in chapels and temples and the like, back then.
 
"A sign of ignorance. We have been emancipated from such superstition."
 
This is a copy of a ballot they had…every few years, they held general elections…
 
"Why let the mob, which is ignorant, decide who has the power?"
 
The man continued. He would have liked them to see the good in Daigon’s past, maybe even to consider that the all-powerful Council was wrong in some of its restrictions and laws. Of course, the boys didn’t listen to him. They were among the brightest students in Daigon, and consequently had spent all their lives in Council-approved schools, being molded into the Council’s image. How could he, a lone dissenting teacher, shake them from their complacency? Especially when all that he said and did would undoubtedly be observed by the watchful Education Board?
 
He was not too disappointed by his failure to reach his students.
 
It had been different when he was younger—he had been determined to fire their cold hearts, to infect them with his own ardent love of freedom and hatred for oppression. He had felt it all with an intensity he could only smile at now.
 
When pupils showed signs, however slight, of dissatisfaction with the Council, he had responded with joy. Would they like to know more? He would take the promising young ones aside and lecture and argue with them until they were quite bewildered with his enthusiasm.
 
When, as happened more often, students in his eleventh-form history class responded with cool disdain, he had been crushed, unable to understand how such bright, intelligent young men could be unmoved by their country's bondage.
 
He had quivered with indignation when Board members began to hint that he showed too little loyalty to the Council. How dared they try to intimidate him? He determined that, as long as there were Daigonians who shared his secret longing for liberty, he would continue to encourage them.
 
But, it seemed, there were none. After a few years had passed and he had met with repulse after cold repulse, he had withered inwardly, and had all but given up the fight.
 
His message was more quiet now, so subdued that the Board members could not hear it at all, and always spoke approvingly of him as a loyal and respectable man. Only his students could sense his lingering dissatisfaction, and they did not care enough about it to either report him to authorities or to heed his words. The teacher was now hardened and accustomed to their lack of attention.   
 
 Someone had paid attention today, though the teacher did not know it. A boy had stood near the back of the small crowd, his clear, silvery-grey eyes speaking amusement and something like satisfaction. Had he learned anything? Time alone would tell.
 
The man and his students soon finished with their tour, leaving the museum in darkness. A book sat in one of the rooms, a large book with worn leather covers. It had been delivered from destruction many years ago, only to be locked in a glass case and remarked upon by visitors grown too learned for it. "That is a holy-book", they told each other. "In those days, people believed that their God had written it."
 
The book stood open, its small black type declaring a message of redemption. It cried that warmth and light could still chase away the cold and darkness, and spoke of hope for Daigon and its people. But it was no longer read.
 
No one heard.