Seed of the Masters

by Gerry Sammon

1.

Roaring, screeching filled the air, tearing through the too blue sky, then faded into the distance.

‘More dragons, father?’ asked Edgar. 

‘I told you, don’t call them that. It’s just one of the pastors.’ The older man looked up as the aircraft shrank into the east. Harald was sweating hard. He wore a heavy woollen shirt and jacket and denim trous. Tough leather boots adorned his feet. On his head he wore a broad brimmed straw hat. Harald took the opportunity to rest awhile from his labours in the field. He leaned on one of the handles of the plough.

Edgar wore similar attire, apart from a brightly coloured bandana to protect his head from the sun’s rays, and a similarly coloured neckerchief.

‘Yes, I know. That pastor must be in one heck of a hurry.’

‘Well, you also know that a pastor’s business is his own, and none of yours. Now let’s get on. We must finish ploughing by dusk,’ said the older man. ‘We’ve left it too late already.’

‘We’ll be working through the night again, won’t we,’ grumbled Edgar.

‘We will, son. Once we have cut these furrows in our Lord’s soil, we must sow the seeds. It must be done before tomorrow, when the feast day of St Judas dawns. Then we can celebrate.’

The ten acres of land had been in Harald’s family for six generations. Ever since the Second Age of the World. It was good land, divided into long, thin strips containing rich soil which never failed to provide an abundant crop. This demesne would contain the next crop of wheat. A fourth field lay fallow until the next rotation. But Harald’s premier crop would be the wheat, which he was sure would be the finest in the ville.

Harald and Edgar pushed on to get the work done. For hours they toiled, Edgar now pushing the plough through the earth while his father scattered the good seed on the land. This was Edgar’s first season at the furrow. Edgar had become a well-muscled young man, and he had started being noticed by the girls in the ville. Both men laboured hard, until a CLANG! seemed to distort the air around them and Edgar came to a sudden halt and sprang away from the plough, rubbing his jolted arms in bewilderment.

‘What in damnation did you do to my plough, Edgar?’

‘Nothing, I swear. Wasn’t his field fallow last season?’

‘That it was, boy. What of it?’

‘Well, there’s something under the soil. The blade hit it, I think it’s broken or bent. Didn’t you notice something last time you furrowed this field?’

Harald bent to examine the blade, tutting as he inspected the damage. Edgar walked over to the spot where he had been halted and started digging in the soil with his hands. As the soil parted it revealed a hard, flat and shiny surface. To Edgar it seemed metallic. Perhaps some sort of metal grid? But how did it get under the soil? Edgar reached for the small knife in his pocket and began to slowly remove the soil and yes, it looked like a huge metal plate. He struck it with his steel knife. There was a blue flash, and Edgar went sailing through the air at least three metres and landed, winded, on his back.

‘By St Judas, what was that?’ said Harald, running to Edgar’s aid.

Gasping for breath, Edgar said, ‘It’s metal. Under the soil. Metal. And I was lifted.’

2.

St Judas’ Day dawned, and the bells of the parish church were ringing with a joy seldom heard at other times of the year. Today was a holiday. It was time for the whole ville to hear the gospel of the Second Age of the World.

Harald and Edgar joined the throng of villagers as they snaked through the winding streets towards the church, which stood close to the centre of the manor, adjacent to the grand estate of the ville’s own lord and lady.

The roar of a plasma drive heralded the arrival of the Bishop, who would lead the St Judas Day service, it’s pulsing blue thrusters descending in octaves as the aircraft descended on to the lush grounds of the church, to be greeted by the parish pastor.

All the villagers happily entered the church to hear tales from gospel; how the First Age of the World ended in fire and death. Then how the world’s people crawled from their underground hideaways and began to build the Second Age they now lived in. It was a gospel that told of the sacrifice and determination of the early Second Agers, how the heroic farming communities came into being to ensure the survival of what has been lauded as the Golden Second Age, an era without compare in the whole history of the world. And how St Judas had ascended from the ground to declare the good news they craved. The good news that life goes on, structured, labour intensive, and happy in the knowledge of eternal reward. And it was all done in the presence of the ville’s lord and lady.

After the service, Harald went to the ville’s inn to drink merrily, strange findings in the field forgotten, while Edgar went for a walk in the meadow. Hearing the gospel had invigorated Edgar, he always felt sombre on St Judas’ Day. His mother had died when he was a child. Edgar missed her every day, but mostly on the festivity rich St Judas Day.

As Edgar wandered through the meadow, a woman’s voice rang out behind him, and he heard the swish of the long grass as she walked towards him. Edgar turned and gasped, the young woman appeared only a few years older than he, and she glowed with an unearthly beauty. She was dressed all in white, in a bright, skin-tight outfit and light boots. She wore a bracelet of lights on her wrist, and a ringlet of gold haloing her hair. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. He had last seen her in her private church box with her husband, the lord of the ville.

‘My lady, how can I assist? Is our lord not with you?

She smiled and her eyes glistened. ‘No, he is not. My lord is bringing the yearlings home from the far woods. He will be gone until morning. I noticed you were not joining the revelries with the rest of the ville, and I felt I should speak to you.’

‘It is my honour, lady.’

‘My name is Bronwen. Come walk with me, tell me stories, cheer me up.’

Edgar felt suddenly tongue-tied. He didn’t lead an exciting life. What tales could he tell this high-bred lady? He must have something of interest, of intrigue. Then he had it, the strange metal shell he had discovered under the soil. Edgar told her of the strange way he had been forcefully thrown across the ground as he touched it.

Instead of the expected disbelief, the woman looked at Edgar and nodded knowingly. She led him by the hand further into the meadow, past the ville’s pond and into the common pasture, where the ville’s animals could roam freely. They left the road and walked towards a hut Edgar had never seen before. When they entered Bronwen touched one of the lights on her bracelet and the walls started to shine with artificial light. The walls were metallic, similar to the covering Edgar had found beneath the land. A console surrounded by screens stood in the centre of the room emitting a pulsing sound.

‘Let me show you something, Edgar. Look at this screen.’

Edgar looked and took a hasty pace backwards, On the screen were moving images of revellers at the ville inn, his father among them. Another screen showed the empty fields, yet another showed inside the parish church they had just been worshipping in. Another showed inside the pastor’s parish house. A larger monitor showed multi-screens, which changed intermittently. Each showed scenes from every house in the ville.

Edgar just pointed, and was unable to speak for some minutes, then said, ‘Lady Bronwen, what is this? Who is watching us?’

He wanted to run away, but on looking around, the door they had entered was no longer there.

Bronwen smiled sadly. ‘Everywhere in this ville is being watched. It’s the same in every other ville.’

‘But why?’

‘Lord Dagomar took me from a ville just like this one, but many kilometres to the north. I was the lord’s daughter there. Dagomar chose me for his wife. You must think this wizardry. Come.’

She touched another light on her bracelet and part of the floor slid open and metal stairs appeared. She led Edgar down the stairs and into a bright tunnel, where they boarded a bullet-shaped vehicle which sped them away.

‘Above us now is the land you till.’

‘The metal surface I found?’

‘Yes, protected by a repeller field.’

Edgar recalled the force of the repeller field as his knife touched it. He shuddered. The vehicle came to a smooth halt and the pair walked up a set of stairs which led into the manor house. They climbed even more stairs and Bronwen led him through a door where a grand four-poster bed stood within an ornately decorated bedroom. She closed the door.

‘I have been watching you, Edgar. You have been living a lie, Edgar. Your so-called life of bounty and happiness is a sham. The Second Age is a sham. You and your ville, and every ville in the land, on the planet, are slaves to the killers of our world, The lords and bishops are descendants of the very people who destroyed our world, our way of life, in the First Age. You are living a deception, for the benefit of we elites, the lords and bishops who rule you.’

‘How can that be?’

‘I will tell you, Edgar, but first …’ Smiling seductively, Bronwen slipped out of her bright white suit and stood naked before him. ‘I want you Edgar.’

3.

Edgar woke with a start. Bronwen was wearing her bright white outfit again, and she was stood talking quietly with a man dressed similarly, but in luminescent grey. He was tall, muscular and seemed a similar age to Bronwen. Slightly older than Edgar.

‘Ah, the sleeper awakes,’ said the man in a booming, commanding voice. ‘I am Dagomar, who you would know as Lord.’

Edgar leapt from the bed and bowed, only then remembering his nakedness. He pulled a bedsheet across to hide his embarrassment. ‘My lord …’ Edgar stuttered, not knowing what to say.

‘Have no fear, young Edgar. My lady here tells me you performed excellently. I have scanned her myself this morning, and she will carry your child.’

‘Mm-my child?’

‘Yes,’ said Dagomar. ‘Your purpose is fulfilled. We thank you.’

‘Let’s sit on the bed, Edgar. We should talk,’ cooed Bronwen. Edgar looked at Dagomar in turmoil.

‘Your husband is my lord, I don’t know the protocol for this,’ mumbled Edgar.

‘Protocol,’ laughed Dagomar. ‘You know process, I’ll give you that. Now please, listen to the lady Bronwen.

Bronwen flashed her becoming smile at Edgar. ‘Edgar, my dear. Be joyful. Your seed will live on in me, and I will have your baby, who will in time become lord of a ville like this. Edgar, it is time you knew our secret truth. When the Great Cataclysm struck all those generations ago, we, the elite, were well prepared. We took ourselves underground, built these facilities, improving on them as time passed. Yes, they seem impossible to you, but they were the peak of our technological power. And they still are. 

‘Biologicals were used towards the end of the Great Cataclysm, causing a spreading infertility among many of our males. They, as the elite, had been deliberately targeted, and sought refuge below ground, taking their sterility with them. Those who remained fertile were genetically damaged. Their children were abominations, and none survived birth.

‘We elite women remained healthily fertile, but impregnation became impossible for us. So we turned to the villes. We watched over them closely, chose the most virile of the males, and had their children. That has been our way for the past six generations.

‘You, Edgar, are the sixth generation of your people. Dagomar, myself, and the elites, are third generation. We are two hundred years old, give or take a few decades.’ Bronwen stroked Edgar face gently, then stood.

Dagomar loomed in front of Edgar. ‘That is a story no one else from the villes knows.’

‘My lord, if I had sinned, as I sinned against your wife, with a ville wife, I would have been dragged in front of the parish pastor and sentenced to death,’ said Edgar. ‘How is it you are so reasonable with me?’

Dagomar formed a stern grin. ‘You are perceptive, young Edgar. First, I will tell you this. Before the Great Cataclysm we, the elite, ruled. Not overtly, but by our enormous wealth and influence. As the Second Age transformed all our lives, we now rule from below the world, where we must remain to sustain our long lives. Five generations ago we decreed there must once again be order in the world, where anarchy had taken hold. We looked back many centuries and agreed to impose a feudalist society. You would be the workers, us the rulers. You would provide for all our consumer needs, and we would give you benefits, via the bishops, who are also of the elite, and the parish pastors, who are not.’

‘Edgar, what a fine specimen our feudal system has produced. My son will be a superb contribution to our society, and in time he will find an elite wife who will then take and seduce a young ville boy to father their child, as you have done,’ said Bronwen.

‘Do not play with the boy, Bronwen. Do not tease him. He now knows the truth, as he rightly should. The time is now.’

‘I … I don’t understand,’ stuttered Edgar, standing to face the pair.

‘But you do,’ smiled Dagomar. ‘You said it yourself. You must now die. It is unfortunate you and your father uncovered the metallic shell above our underground world. You must now prepare to meet your father in the afterlife. He could not be allowed to tell of our secret. And neither can you, Edgar.’

Dagomar touched a light on his bracelet. Without sight or sound, Edgar fell dead at their feet. Their secret would be safe for at least another generation.

‘Such a shame, Dagomar, he was a sweet boy,’ said Bronwen.

‘Aren’t they all, my dear. I will summon the pastor to remove the body. Rejoice my dear, our race will live on.’