From the Inside Flap
CHAPTER 1
Orisland
Late spring in Orinsland was the best time of the year. Not that hot, and the rainy season had gone. That evening, the clear sky, a slow breeze, and the smell not altered by any pollution was an invitation for outside activities. But for the farmers, that was normal - they overlooked such gifts from nature. They were out almost always anyway, busy, knowing too well that a good year started with the work well done in the springtime.
It was Wednesday, maybe the most productive day, the middle of the week when people were less rusty, and the only resting day, Sunday, still a few days ahead.
Returning from their farm, seventeen-year-old Mike and his father, Jo, passed by the panel marking the settlement's boundary:
ORINSLAND
IN GOD WE TRUST
The panel was strange, with words half a meter tall, considering the message could easily fit on a smaller board. That huge piece of wood could replace their entire roof, but it was erected only to host those few words.
A natural mountain barrier protected Orinsland; beyond them, the desert extended more than one hundred kilometers to the west, north, and south. To the east, where the road over the mountain led to the city, the desert extended for about forty kilometers before making room for small bushes. The village didn't have the means to accommodate tourists, with no hotels, motels, or restaurants, and it was not on tourists' maps, so visitors came only occasionally.
The geographical isolation of the settlement created a herd personality in the community. The villagers lived detached from the rest of the world, and Mike thought they felt safe that way. Life was good. After a few generations, it was all they knew: the valley.
A river's springs were in the northern mountain; the river's path continued to the south, passing the village on its west end, then, turning southeast, it disappeared in a hole in the southern mountain after a curved trajectory. Not much water was left since it was the only household and primary irrigation source for the farms, mostly located south of the village. And God was good to them, bringing in the rain when the river could not supply enough water. Everybody Mike knew was happy living in this paradise.
"One day, you'll take over the leadership in working the farm, my son," Jo said, squinting in the bright sunlight and interrupting Mike's thoughts.
Mike had heard it many times before but didn't care much. Something else worked into his mind. He looked over to his father and noticed the wrinkles around his eyes, which were more profound than the last time he had seen them and more grey in his shortcut hair. "When will we have our TVs back?"
All TV sets were down because the TV reception station feeding the signals was not working anymore. Mr. Trent, the math and physics teacher, was sick and old. People were afraid of losing him. He was the only one having enough technical knowledge to fix the station.
"I don't know," Jo said, "but we're better without TVs if you ask me."
Mike hated to hear that. He dreamed of more than a life of prayers and work; the TV was his only escape. He guessed that Mr. Trent blocked the channels not in line with Father Quinn's teachings, but it was his only window to the outside world.
They walked in silence the rest of the way. From afar, one could not tell who was who, with Jo looking more muscular and having broader shoulders. Otherwise, they were the same height, had short-cut dark brown hair (Jo's a nuance lighter), and wore the same outfit with gray pants and plaid shirts.
*
Mike
Later that evening, Mike found himself outside Mr. Trent's house, knocking at his door. It was already dark, and people were too tired to walk the streets. Besides, there was nowhere to go for any entertainment. Mike did not meet anyone during his fifteen-minute walk. There were less than two months until the school year ended, and that was the last for Mike. He saw himself among grown-ups, and the visit to the teacher was like to a neighbor.
"Mike. Come in."
The teacher's slight frame looked even smaller because of his infirmity. Dragging his left foot with difficulty, Trent stepped aside and let the boy inside.
"I brought you some cheese, bread, and eggs, Mr. Trent," he said, handing the small woven basket of food to the teacher. The teacher probably had enough food but did not know what else he could bring along to make the older man happy.
"Thanks," Trent said, resting in the armchair near the window.
Mike looked around. It was his first time in the house, and he noticed the disorder. A shirt and some pants were on a chair - the only one for the wooden table in the middle of the room. The table had no cover, which was weird in Mike's view. The carpet covering most of the floor was worn out and turned up at corners. He was in the dining room, probably the most used part of the house. The room was the size of most homes in the community, about 300 square ft. It also had two armchairs and a sofa.
The teacher seemed not to bother. "Please sit on the sofa."
The two looked at each other in silence for a bit. Mike smiled, observing the teacher's eyes, the same nuance as his, light green.
The teen did not know how to start the TV conversation, and Trent spoke first. "Do you cut your hair every week? I remember you having it that short all time."
"Yes, Saturday evening, Mom's cutting my Dad's and mine to be clean for Sunday's mass."
Trent changed the subject. "Do you want some linden tea?"
"No, thank you."
"Come on, Mike, don't be shy. I'd like to have some, and I'd appreciate it if you could do it for both of us. You'll find the kettle near the stove and the pot with linden leaves nearby; you know how to do it."
Mike was proud of the trust and didn't wait for a second invitation. "How many leaves?"
"Try five." Trent's tone was neutral as if he didn't care much as long as he had some company.
Mike stepped into the kitchen to prepare the tea. The door was open, and he guessed that the teacher never closed that door; there was a darker line along the bottom of it on the floor, perhaps some solidified dust.
The electric stove looks new. Mike was proud that his family had an electric stove, too, while many in the community still used wood to cook.
The kitchen was cleaner than the dining room, except for that dark line at the door. The drawers were old furniture but well-maintained and clean. He saw no dirt on the light brown wooden floor or the table near the stove, the same color as the floor.
"Professor, any idea when our TVs will be working again?" Mike knew Mr. Trent liked it when his students called him "Professor."
About the Author
I grew up in a communist regime where religion was quasi-banned. My Christian mentors were my lovely grandmothers. They did what they could and were not sophisticated enough to explain the concept of the Trinity or how Christianity spread. But they talked a lot about Heaven and Hell. I was puzzled and scared. My parents were silent, maybe because of the penalties the government would inflict on true believers. As I became older, I had more questions than answers. THE VILLAGE shows my evolution.
