The Black Sentry Read Free

it. Everyone in Merrindale congregated near the North Gate—the millers and bakers, the blacksmiths and wheelwrights, the parents and their children and, of course, the ever-present Black Sentry. All villages were assigned specialized duties, and Merrindale principally focused on food production, not only for itself but for several other villages. As a result, food figured prominently in the Festival. Market Square abounded with aromas and odors, all mouth-wateringly appealing—and for a poor baker’s son, torturously unobtainable.
    Hi s father and the other merchants set up carts or booths to display their wares. His father had black bread and spice cakes and a few simple pastries. The Sentinel frowned on frivolity in all matters, including food, but his father still managed to have a few treats for the village’s children. Toddlers pressed against the booth, pointing, salivating. Even if they were not tall enough to see what was on display, their noses gave them a complete description. Many a parent eventually parted with one of his hard-won coins so his child could have something special for Festival Day.
    On one occasion, about mid-morning, he watched a small boy whose parents could not afford treats depart looking dejected and disappointed. His father quietly crept behind the child and placed a small tart in his tiny hands. The elated expression transformed the boy’s face.
    “That is no way to run a business, husband,” his mother said later.
    His father smiled, then squeezed her hand. No matter what his mother said, his father would never change.
    Around midday he first heard the rumor. Two children, much younger than he, standing some distance from his father’s booth, exchanged some astonishing news.
    “ Is it true?” the small girl gasped, her eyes wide and incredulous.
    “It must b e,” the boy replied. “Papa said the Magistrate told him.”
    “The Acolyte ! Here?”
    H is heart raced. The Acolyte. The chief representative of the Sentinel in this district. The Acolyte had not appeared in Merrindale since before he was born.
    At the close of ev ery Festival, the villagers gathered in the Arena for the Celebration of the Sentinel. But a Celebration presided over by the Acolyte would be an extraordinary event. For poor Merrindale, it would be an honor of the highest magnitude.
    “Don’t become too excited, Daman,” his father warned . “But the Acolyte—!”
    His father laid his hand upon his shoulder. “I don’t want you to be disappointed, son. Our village is one of many. Barely a speck in the Sentinel’s great empire. He’s hardly likely to send his personal representative to our little celebration.”
    H e returned to his work, but he didn’t abandon hope that the children’s whisperings would prove true.
    He loved the Spring Festival. Although everyone was careful not to violate any of the Sentinel’s prohibitions against frivolous behavior or deviant activities, the people of Merrindale tried to make the most of the Festival. Many of the small cottages were festooned with flags and drapes and other approved decorations. Many people wore bright hand-sewn costumes. Often a single color or pattern was worn by every member of a family. Eating and drinking and playing livened the festival, although the Black Sentry ensured that none of it reached a level that would be inappropriate for an event that was, after all, a celebration of the Sentinel. The Sentry patrolled the grounds in dark uniforms that covered their entire bodies and made them seem invulnerable. As the light dimmed, their goggles seemed to glow, an eerie orange. No one knew how it was done. No one but the Sentinel, of course.
    He sat in his father’s booth and inhaled deeply, drawing in the smell of farm animals brought for show and slaughter, the smoke from the blacksmith’s fire, the dust kicked up by a hundred footfalls on the dirt roads lacing the village. He heard small children playing Creeper tag, the chirping of