There is going to be a feast

They loved the smell of smoke, it’s crispy scent crawling through their noses and mouths. It was common in Vigilance in all shapes and forms. Smoke was the sign of life and action, the rush and the thrill. Secret whispers in candlelight, the sting of betrayed fingertips, a lit match, ignited firewood, blazing forest fire, smoldering bonfire – a careless mistake. And, as of recently, it was found hiding in dark alleyways, lurking in tucked away treehousesand teenage bunkers, covered in dirt and leaves.A tray of smoke leaking upwards from a joint, passed from one hand to other, fingers shaking in giddiness, hushed giggles coming from their mouths.

„There’s going to be a feast,” someone had said, and they decided to take a look. It didn’t matter what was taking place or why, the purpose or intent of it, what mattered was the fact that something was happening at all. They slowly gathered, black night and only a single pale polar star above them. As they neared the hill, they saw a torch lit path and followed it.

The 4-meter-high Latin cross burned bright against the dark forest, the sun long since disappeared by its tree tops. Aggressive flames licked the sky with hunger, burning the fresh oxygen and producing harmful carbon dioxide, robbing the townsfolk of their breathing air, their common sense, their compassion.

There were people standing near the cross, dressed in white costumes, fully covered except their bare palms and eyes, shining through the cut holes of a white hood. One of them spoke and the townsfolk took the words as a truth, as undeniable facts. They became dogmas and breathed new meaning into their lives.

“Cross is an inspiration, a symbol of faith, hope and love. We do not burn; we light the cross.”

Burning is in their nature, but fine, whatever, see if the substitute works.

***

„Would you have some free time at the evening?”

She looks up from her notebook and sees the son of their new neighbors, leaning on yards wooden fence, idle smirk covering his face. He along with his parents moved in about a month ago. Nathan probably could’ve already written a five pages long essay about them, fullof observations, theories and speculations and a book trilogy, if he collaborated with the rest of this foolish, noisy town.

She hasn’t really paid attention to them and doesn’t even know the guy’s name. Most likely Nathan would cry, if he knew about his sister’s disinterest.

„What would you need my time for?”

„Oh, you know, just talking, maybe grabbing a snack at Sunny’s...”So, a date is what he is after.

„Well, unless you can tell me some new, juicy gossip about the Conters...”

This is a running joke in their town. Everyone knows practically nothing about the people of that house, and there is no way this guy knows more than Naya or, for the matter of fact, anyone else. Her answer is a clear no, she doesn’t want to spend time with him, it’s never happening. However, he seems to see this as a challenge.

„And what would you like to know?”

The question makes her think. What did she want to know about them? Sure, if asked anyone else, take Naya’s family, for example, they would be ready to yell a hundred questions right on the spot. They were a bit obsessed with Conters, to be honest. However, Naya had never been really enthusiastic about the cause.

Naya’s family had a more personal interest in Conters than the rest of the citizens of Vigilance. The thing is, the manor they had settled in once had belonged to the Holts – her father’s side of the family. Nayas father had grown up there, but due to the enormous debts of Frank’s father, Naya’s grandfather, the family had to sell their manor. They moved to a cheap, reserved house only half a kilometer away and had to adapt to a much simpler lifestyle.The new, worn out wooden cottage, 2 stories high, with small, foul windows, had needed repairing - a fresh coat of paint, a change of doors and so on. It was constant work – burning firewood every day in order to contain warmth in rooms or pulling heavy water buckets from the deep well. With no more servants to order around, they had to do every chore by themselves. Holts lost all their luxuries, even their car – a fancy Model T Ford.

To Frank, a child raised in vast wealth, who was used to getting everything he wanted, this change was hard and heart-breaking.

Getting a house so near the manor – a constant reminder of their loss of prosperity –also probably was a bad idea. Holts could see it from their kitchen window, manor being the first thing they saw in mornings, walking downstairs from a good night’s sleep, or sitting down at the kitchen table, lunch ready, after a hard-working day.

That was the house the family still lived in.

The manor was a childhood fairytale, heard hundred times. Her father had told her about the bright halls, cherished flower gardens, the excitement of sliding down the long staircase railings. Manor felt familiar and unreachable, and unknown at the same time. It tempted her a bit.

„The real question is – how are you going to provide me the new information? You can’t just waltz in through the front gate, knock at their door three times and plead them to spill their beans,” she says.

He seems to already have his answer, as if he has previously contemplated about it (which, if he wants to be a proper citizen of this town, he has to).

„Very simple – I am going to climb a tree.”

„As if,” she snorts, stands up, gathers her notes and leaves veranda, walking into the house.

***

The old Holt manor was a large, two story high building with sandstone walls and small mullioned windows. It was located on a dwarf hill in the middle of a meadow, the groomed field crops long since perished, the land now filled with wildflowers and low shrubs. The hill warned the townsfolk of nights arrival, every evening the sun making its way down behind it, dropping long and dark shadows, encircling manor in darkness.

After the death of Ruth McLaggen, an elderly lady, the owner to whom Holts had sold the manor originally, her distant relative (she had no kids, and no one had any idea that she had any relatives at all), a tall, buff guy named Akito Conter came to inspect the manor.

He also came down to the town center and stopped at the Sunny’s. The wood exterior was a bit faded, especially the sign– it was missing two of its letters, cause being the old peeled off paint, creating word “Snys”. However, the café was clean and cozy, its windows washed clean, table cloths unstained and chairs steady and firm. Merlas hard-working nature had kept café alive and well liked among the townsfolk, creating it the heart of Vigilance.

It was the cathedral of gossip - men and women, children and elders, locals and travelers -everyone liked to stop by. Tired visitors from far away relaxed there with a soup spoon in one hand, ale in the other, unfolding the dramatic events of distant lands, warm liquids loosening their tongues, making them spill secrets much easier.

Mr. Conter was a sweet eye candy to all the unmarried (and also not so single) ladies and once had entered the Sunny’s was immediately encircled by the womenfolk. The men, only by bit less curious, had enough dignity to stay away, piercing Mr. Conters skull with their looks from afar. He didn’t answer to any of the intrusive questions the ladies gave him, instead flashing a kind smile and saying: „I am sure we’ll have enough time later to get to know each other.”

He turned up again a week later with the last train, as the sun scraped the horizon, painting sky in various red hues. His arrival almost went unnoticed, only seen by a group of teenagers on their late way home. They claimed Mr. Conter had brought along 4 more people, one woman and 3 men. What was more shocking – they swore that the skin color of the women and one of the men was brown.

Naya had felt sorry. Vigilance was going to be insufferable for them.