His negligence had caught up with him. Nothing about his encounter with Hanna was going well. It went off- rail when he broke protocol and conversed with the prisoner. The confession went down-silo from there and ended with him forgetting to lead the girl in her final words to God.
One positive outcome, if it could be called that, was that his failure probably negated his sacrosanct responsibility to hold in confidence what was said to him. But looking into the steely eyes of the sheriff, Elias hesitated to let on how much he knew. Which was enough. After a brief conversation about Hanna’s trial with Samuel—always informed and ready to assist—he knew he couldn’t in good conscience agree with the verdict. He had questions. He had doubts.
“I’m familiar with the report, Sheriff. I want to hear it from you. It seems, if you don’t mind me saying so, a rather exceptional case and one that might have been handled, well, differently.”
Alston uncrossed his legs and removed them from his old wooden desk, pushed his swivel chair back, and slowly stood. His six-three frame offered a stark contrast to the stooped and shrinking figure before him. Even Samuel, who matched him in height but not in heft, was overshadowed.
“I do mind your saying so. We have a silo to run and you priests have a role to play. Or has age caused you to forget your place?”
Elias, frail as he was, took the dressing down in stride. He’d outlasted four sheriffs and two mayors in his forty-odd years as chief priest of the upper levels. It wasn’t their authority that intimidated him, it was something else entirely. The nagging feeling that the silo had moved on without him. But he put that concern behind him for now.
“The priesthood knows its place, young man. We all do,” Elias said.
That much he could affirm. His place, mimicked by every priest throughout the silo, was to work hand in hand with the authorities to maintain peace, order, and civility. But Elias also recognized a numinous component, even if the powers behind the curtain did not. He would provide—though some of his fellow name-only priests might scoff at the thought—spiritual guidance, edification, and instruction on things eternal.
He continued, “My job is to nurture faith among the flock under my care.”
“No. Your job is to make sure your flock knows the difference between what’s imagined and what is true. Hanna’s imagination is a dangerous thing. You know it and so do I. The sweepers are already too religious; talk of heaven only feeds their fanaticism. And who speaks of heaven except a priest?”
Elias came close to sputtering for the second time in one day. “Are you implying that my order is behind this somehow? That we
“Watch your tongue, old man.”
“My…my apologies. I forget myself.” Elias produced a kerchief from a discreet pocket in his simple black robe and dabbed at his forehead.
“Did you also forget that you spoke at her sister’s funeral last year?”
“No, I remember.” He threw a sideways glance at Samuel, who was there as well and assisted in consoling the family. His shoulders began to sag.
“Was there talk of heaven?”
“But of course, the service requires a few words of comfort. Obviously I referred to it as a spiritual
“But the connection was made.” Jedediah Alston turned abruptly to the secretary. “And what is your recollection of the events? Was this a simple homily by a sincere but misunderstood priest, or did he attempt to stir rebellion and discontent?” The small office took on the weight of a courtroom.
Samuel offered a sympathetic nod to his older mentor but Elias was staring at the floor, bent over, as if bearing the burdens of the silo itself. The secretary thought carefully before he spoke. “As you noted, Sheriff, the sweepers are quite…enthusiastic when it comes to their beliefs. A few aptly chosen words—and they need not be intentional—might foment their fervor.” Next to him, the priest withered. “But surely there is no warrant for accusing the priesthood. Otherwise, why has this child been brought forward and not the person responsible, if indeed there is someone responsible, for planting this seed in her mind? In fact, it isn’t clear from the report how her crime came to light.”
Elias raised his head at that and the sheriff met both their expectant looks. He picked up the folder he’d tossed aside earlier and flipped through it, his eyes not alighting on anything in particular.
“There is one omission,” Alston conceded. “It was Hanna’s father who turned her in.”
-3-
Samuel took each step seriously as, floor by floor, he wound his way down the silo. The hand railings smooth, the metal steps worn, these stairs had given themselves over to untold generations of people who traveled to wherever work or pleasure took them. The constant traffic up and down—even to the lower depths more than a hundred floors below—was a reminder of the silo’s stifling reality: there were plenty of places to go, but no ultimate destination.
This particular journey weighed heavily on the frail priest’s representative. Elias, grateful for any excuse to avoid a taxing excursion, had promptly accepted his apprentice’s offer to meet with Hanna’s parents. They were in a temporary residence on the fifth level. Samuel would go and offer comfort as he accompanied them to the top floor viewing screen to witness their daughter’s march outside the hatch.
During his eighteen years as shadow—the last six as confidant and secretary—he’d often ministered in his mentor’s stead. Soon, however, Samuel would take over all the priestly functions, having been groomed since childhood for the role. He took the inevitable promotion in stride. Holding the title was of little consequence at this point; he already held the power.
The thirty-year-old, dark-haired minister stepped off the stairwell and into a smallish commons area on the third floor for a short break and drink of water. The sound of children playing greeted him and, remembering to smile, he waved to the nearest group.
“Brother Sam, Brother Sam,” shouted one boy. The six-year-old, full of life and hope, broke away from his friends and gave Samuel a hug around the legs.
“Why, hello Seth. How are you?”
“Great!”
And then the boy was off, merging once again with the other giggling children who would soon shed their laughter and innocent joy when they became shadows themselves on their way to productive members of society. Samuel frowned as he considered their future. Awaiting them were various apprenticeships and eventual jobs as porters, dirt-farmers, and nursery-attendants—even mechanics, engineers, and IT-workers for the more promising youngsters—but no future. Important roles, to be sure, if a life of meaningless drudgery toiling for a faceless, impersonal silo was your dream.
Adin and Ester greeted him solemnly after a gentle knock at their door. The small sleeping quarters, wedge- shaped like everyone’s living space in this cramped, circular world, was utilitarian and bleak. Offering as few amenities as possible, the room was meant to host its guests for no more than a week. Hanna’s parents needed only half the night.
They’d traveled up from thirty-eight, one of three sweepers’ floor, earlier that day and would trek the final four levels before dawn. They would then enter the largest room in the underground complex, the cafeteria and lounge, and find their seats in front of the view screen that projected the reality of that toxic world just outside their bunker. That noxious world their ancestors had created. One that, it was said, claimed the lives of countless billions and would now claim the life of one more. Adin and Ester would march, and sit, and then they would watch their daughter die.
“My deepest sympathies,” the priestly representative said. He stood, back to the door, while the couple retreated to a dingy couch and leaned into each other, exhausted from their long walk.
