Herbs For Success
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I don’t know what happened. I’ve lost time, and it’s not clear to me whether or how much of it is gone from my life. The world that existed before this day doesn’t feel like the same one at all: It feels different. Everything seems new, but it feels as if it shouldn’t be possible for everything to seem new.
There are times when something feels so familiar you think you can remember every detail, and then there are other times when the details feel completely unknown, and they make you want to look over your shoulder, and then suddenly you realize the world has changed around you in a way you never noticed until after it was too late.
It’s strange how things change without any explanation; I’m trying to work out the reasons why I’m feeling this way while I wait for someone to return and tell me who I am again. I have no idea what to expect—the only thing I do know is that the first day back on campus is going to be awkward enough already, but now I’ll probably spend it with some stranger instead of my old friends.
“Hello?” A hand shakes my shoulder. “Are you awake yet? Your shift starts in half an hour.”
There’s a face looking down at me, but I can barely focus on it. The room smells odd; I feel as if I’ve been sleeping outdoors all night and just woke up to find myself still outside. It takes me a moment to recognize the voice.
“Morgant,” I say. I try to sit up straight but I can’t seem to move properly. My joints creak and crackle under pressure, and it hurts to breathe. The last time I felt anything like this was right before I went through puberty, and that wasn’t exactly pleasant either.
This isn’t going to be good. “What did you do to me? Are we in the hospital now?” I ask. I’m sure he had no idea when he came into this room, but he looks genuinely confused.
“You were asking about your father,” he says. I don’t understand him. He sits on the edge of my bed—his hands are shaking, and he keeps looking at them. When I finally manage to get onto my feet he lets go of his arms, and the sudden loss causes him to stumble back a step. I grab the wall with my hands because if I don’t hold something steady soon the floor will be mine for the taking.
He seems to calm himself down once he sees I haven’t fallen over and is actually getting the hang of walking around on unsteady legs. He turns back to me, and his voice sounds strained again. “We’re here on campus for two weeks,” he tells me. “And there’s a lot of work ahead of us.”
It’s hard for me to think about anything except the ache in my knees and ankles. I can’t even remember how I got myself out of this condition, and I know it must be bad news that we’re not at the university anymore. We aren’t supposed to be here.
“Where are we?” I demand. “Is anyone else coming?” I’m aware that the words sound very childish, but it’s the only way I can express my fear. What if the rest of my family is missing? And there’s something about being here which makes me forget where the others are, or what happened to make me forget…
His lips press together, and he looks away from me. His hands tremble as he opens the window curtains, and then he pulls the curtains closed again and stands by it for a long moment looking out over the grass of the front lawn.
“This place belongs to me now,” he says quietly. “My parents are dead, and the rest of the people involved in my father’s schemes are all gone. That means this place is mine.” He stares straight at me. “But I have nothing left.” He laughs bitterly, but it sounds empty.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head slowly from side to side. I take a step toward him, and another. Then he steps back. “Listen to me. You need to listen to me,” I say. I reach out to touch him, but he recoils. “I’m not leaving you alone here—it won’t do anyone any good.”
“I told you, it’s all gone—”
“The school is open to everyone!”
“That’s only because the faculty let themselves be bought off by my father. They were all complicit in his actions.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak so harshly. “If you knew…” He shakes his head, and for a moment there are tears on his face. But they aren’t mine.
“…you’d agree with me?” If I hadn’t already known, I could easily imagine Morgant as one of my teachers: young and passionate, always ready to argue that he’s right and everyone else is wrong.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that someone other than my father has lost their mind and come after me, or if it’s simply the knowledge that Morgant is really hurting that makes me want to defend him against whatever accusations he thinks he hears in my voice.
“Yes! Yes, I would agree with you. This place belongs to everyone!” He grabs my shoulders, and he’s shaking now too. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be better—”
I push away from him, and this time he doesn’t try to stop me. I leave him standing at the window and go downstairs without speaking. The house is much smaller than I expected, but it’s warm and well lit and it smells nice, even though the rooms are crammed full of books and papers and furniture.
It’s strange to see how many things Morgant can fit into such a small space. I wonder how long he’s been living here; he must have done all his studying in the dorms or in a library somewhere else.
There’s a kitchen area on the ground floor. It’s just a little room but it’s stocked with every kind of food imaginable. There are plates and cutlery scattered everywhere, along with half-empty cans of soup and jars of marmalade and jams that look like they’ve been sitting here since the last century.
The refrigerator is stuffed with bottles of water and juice and soda, and there are still more cans stashed away underneath the countertops.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask. My voice sounds loud to me, and I feel dizzy for a moment as I realize what a stupid question that was. I take a step away from the refrigerator, and then another.
I put my hand out and grab the edge of the door to steady myself. The room begins to spin for a moment before I manage to steady myself, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. It’s a struggle to pull the air deep down into my lungs.
The thought of going anywhere near a cupboard, or trying to cook anything, gives me a feeling of dread. I’m not used to cooking. I’m not sure that I could cook if I had an entire kitchen at my disposal.
But I have to force myself to stay calm. I know that there isn’t much to work with, but it’s better to find something simple than nothing at all. So when I open the cupboards, I find packets of pasta sauce and powdered cheese and a box of cereal—and then a few other things too, things I don’t recognize, but which seem to be similar to what Morgant brought from his family home.
Morgant comes upstairs while I’m chopping vegetables. The knife slips and slices across my fingers; blood wells up between my skin and the sharp metal handle. For a moment, all I can hear is the ringing in my ears as I stare at my dripping fingertips.
I hold them in my palm until the pain fades away enough for me to lift my head. “Are you hurt?” Morgant asks, sounding alarmed. His eyes search my face as if looking for some proof that I am really injured.
He takes the knife from me and presses my palm to the table, pressing down gently with the flat of his fingers. It feels like I’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s cold and it’s pooled around my wrist. I press my hands to my face to block the sight of my own red fingers.
“Not seriously,” I say almost apologetically because it must have looked terrible to Morgant. He turns my hand over and looks at it properly. I’ve got a bandage around the wound—it must have happened earlier. He takes one look at the blood on the bandages and his expression changes.
“What about the others? Where’s everyone else?”
“They’re safe,” I tell him, “but—”
“No, you didn’t say that,” he says, cutting me off. He looks back to the kitchen, then stands up abruptly and walks toward the front door. “You said no one’s safe… you should get dressed. We have to go.”
I don’t argue with him, just let him walk by. The house is warm now; I strip off my clothes and throw on some new ones. There’s a closet filled with coats and jackets, so I grab one and slip my arms through the sleeves, pulling it tight around my chest.
The fabric is soft, and it’s easy to forget that it’s real wool and that I’m wearing a coat instead of a shirt. It seems almost too good to be true, and I remember suddenly why I hate the idea of being someone else.
When I turn, Morgant is standing behind me. I feel his breath on the side of my neck as I bend forward to tie my shoelaces. When he pulls back, I see the way his eyes linger on my bare legs for a moment longer than need be. Then I hear the front door close downstairs. I hurry after him, and we climb onto my bike and set off down the road.
We ride fast, and in silence, for a long time. There aren’t any cars on the street anymore, and none of the lights are working. In fact, most of the houses are dark, their windows covered with thick plastic sheets. Some people might call these people crazy, but I think they were wise.
This was a bad storm, a dangerous one. Even though Morgant insists this isn’t a problem, I’m glad that the streets are quiet and empty. We’ll never get caught out alone here, and if anyone sees us riding along together with our faces concealed, we’ll have plenty of time to hide before anyone realizes who we really are.
“It’s not far.” Morgant finally breaks the silence as we turn off the main road. “Just a short distance from here, we’ll meet up with the others.”
He points to the right—toward the sea—as we come to the end of the street. But he doesn’t slow down, and neither does the motorcycle. The wind is strong today; I grip the handles tightly as we drive toward a steep hillside covered in trees.
We ride over the top quickly, passing under some sort of arch, then down into an even narrower street lined with more houses. At the bottom of the narrow street is a wooden gate made of planks nailed to logs laid lengthways.
A small wooden building sits beside the entrance: a hut or storehouse. There are a few windows, but only one light inside shines, casting a dim glow over the whole thing.
For a moment, I can’t believe that anyone could live in such a place. The thought makes me feel uncomfortable, but also a little relieved. It seems impossible that these people would have been willing to stay out in the open during the worst weather of all possible times.
But they were. They must have known something I didn’t know. That’s what I tell myself.
“We’re there.” Morgant nods to himself when I look up from my thoughts. We’ve stopped outside the shack, and he’s already dismounted. I watch as he pushes the motorcycle back through the gate and climbs over it, disappearing from view. When he comes back he holds out two guns and a box of cartridges, then hands them over to me. I take one, and a knife.
“The other two are in the backpack,” he tells me. “There are four in total. I don’t want anyone else carrying weapons, especially not when we’re near the boat.”
I nod, taking the gun from him. Its weight is reassuring, the way it fits against my leg. I put the rest of the things aside until later and follow him into the shack. The door slams shut behind me, and I blink in the darkness as the lanterns come on at last.
There’s a table made from planks set up near the front, holding three boxes: food supplies, water bottles, and ammunition. There are two beds on either side of the room. One is unmade and strewn with straw; I suppose it’s meant for storage, but I’m grateful when Morgant takes the second one and sets it up across from mine.
After a quick inspection of the shelves, we each choose some clothing for ourselves and leave the others in the boxes.
In a matter of minutes, we’ve dressed again, and Morgant is handing me an old, worn hat to hide my face. Then he puts a piece of black cloth over the lamp. For a moment, I hesitate, unsure where to begin.
“You know how to use the guns?” he asks quietly as I stand still with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling.
I shake my head slowly, feeling like I’m going mad. “No, but…”
“They don’t make much noise unless you pull the trigger.” He shrugs. “It’s simple enough. Just keep your finger straight and press down lightly on the firing button.”
“Right.”
Morgant reaches over to the table, picks up a gun and a box of cartridges, then turns the knob on the wall. The light goes out. “Now go ahead and try it out.”
My heart starts pounding when I take hold of the weapon, but Morgant’s words remind me that I’m just another person who has learned to survive without the help of science. This time, there won’t be any new inventions that will save me. No new medicines. And no one to come looking for me.
I swallow hard and point the barrel at the door, trying to remember every rule I’ve ever heard about shooting guns. My hand shakes slightly as I pull the trigger twice.
At first nothing happens, and I almost let out a sigh of relief before remembering that I should expect something new. I try again, this time pressing down harder than I did before. The bullet tears through the wood in a single clean strike. As it continues on its path, the sound becomes deafening.
“Not bad for an amateur,” Morgant says calmly as the bullet hits the door frame next to his head. The whole room echoes with the bang. “Try a headshot.”
I do as he suggests. The gun swings toward the target and shoots another hole in the door, but it’s so low down that the bullet ricochets and strikes a bed. At least it wasn’t close enough to hit me. I try another angle. Now it doesn’t even have to be aimed right.
I can just put it up and down and shoot anywhere. And if someone tries to attack me… Well, that’s when it gets tricky, and I’m glad Morgant isn’t here to see how well I’d do with his own eyes.
After a while, my fingers start to ache. My shoulders feel heavy. But after half an hour or so, I feel a little steadier. It’s not exactly practice—that would only happen if there were others nearby to play with. So I decide to try something different: I aim the gun at a picture hanging on the wall.
When I pull the trigger, it makes a satisfying clunk. It seems that I’m getting better at pulling the trigger quickly and smoothly. Maybe this is what people mean by being good with a weapon, after all.
“What are you aiming at?” I hear Morgant ask from somewhere far away. “Anything in particular?”
“The wall.”
“… I don’t understand.”
“Just give me a few more moments,” I reply as I line up the weapon between the two pictures on the opposite wall. They look too similar to tell apart from a distance, but once they’re dead center in my sights, I can pick out their differences: one has a flower in bloom and the other is covered with snow.
I press down firmly on the trigger and pull back my arm at the same time. A burst of blue light explodes out of the barrel, hitting the wall directly above the flowers on the right. “Perfect!”
“So you’re finally getting it.”
He’s talking loudly now. I don’t need to turn around to know he’s sitting at the table playing dice, and that means our game must be finished. In a moment he’ll go outside to relieve himself or get something from the storehouse, leaving me alone for hours.
I can’t say it’s surprising, given my history with Morgant, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering about my future. How long until I’m strong enough to leave these rooms? If ever I am?
“What kind of gun do you want me to shoot next?” I ask him as casually as I can.
“Well, you’ve already done pretty well today, so I think we should stick with something more basic.”
As I follow his instructions, he gives me a quick overview of the weapons he has stored inside the room. Most of them are handguns of some sort. He shows me how they work, which buttons to push and which ones not to touch, and tells me that I shouldn’t hesitate to experiment with the firing mechanism whenever I please.
I nod and try each one. Some of them shoot bullets with great speed and power; others produce loud noises that can stun or kill, depending on where they land. One is completely silent and looks like something you might use for self-defense.
When Morgant is satisfied that I’ve mastered each firearm, he puts everything down on the table. “I think it’s time for a test run. Are you ready?”
I am! But then I remember that I was supposed to keep it secret from Morgant that I’m trying to become stronger. “Shouldn’t you stay here?” I ask as casually as I can. “You’re a better instructor than I am—”
“If I’m not here to guide you, then your chances will be greatly reduced.”
That’s true. If I wanted to be honest with myself, I’d admit that I need someone else to watch over me. I’d rather die young than spend any longer in this place, and I’d rather die doing something interesting, like fighting with a sword or shooting someone. I wonder if he has something sharp that I could practice swinging…
“Fine.” I pick up the weapon closest to me – it’s got a big metal handle that reminds me of a medieval spear. I take a deep breath and grip the weapon firmly, taking careful note of the way my hands are positioned and how much pressure they’re exerting on the wooden shaft.
The wood feels cool in my hand and reassuring. With my thumb and forefinger, I wrap the leather straps holding it together tightly around my palm so it won’t slip away. Then I bring the end of the spear up toward my forehead, making sure to point the blade away from Morgant and towards a distant window.
This weapon is the most dangerous, so I want to make sure I can hit it accurately before using it.
I draw back my arm and let gravity help me along, bringing the spear back down through my legs and into the hard surface of the floor. It makes a soft thud.
Morgant watches me closely. “Did you hear that? Do you feel anything different?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Keep at it.”
After a few more attempts, I finally get the hang of it. I’m starting to see some improvement. When I put just the slightest bit of force behind it, it’s possible to swing it fast and hard enough to pierce a target.
But now comes the tricky part: when to attack. Is there anything I should be looking out for? Should I wait until he’s distracted by something else? Or maybe I should go after him as soon as he leaves? No, no, no! That would be foolish. He’d never miss an opportunity to hurt me.
“Do you think that weapon could actually pierce someone’s heart?” I ask him. “Is it even strong enough for that?”
“It depends on a lot of things—like the size and shape of the person you’re aiming at. And their armor. For the record, I have been known to defeat foes who wore full plate mail.”
“Plate mail? Really? Like in Robin Hood?”
“Of course. Don’t look so surprised. There were knights like that. You can’t imagine what people used to wear back in the day. Imagine wearing chainmail all day, every day. And that was only a little bit less protective than a modern bulletproof vest. Of course, I beat the living hell out of them.”
A knock sounds at the door. “Who’s there?”
“I’m coming,” he calls from outside.
The moment the door opens, Morgant grabs the spear and runs off down the hall. My head whips around instinctively as if to look for the intruder. As I stand there blinking stupidly, I notice that my spear has fallen to the ground.
A man enters, wearing a long, flowing robe and a pointed hat. His skin is dark and waxy like mine. He must be a member of the clergy.
“Hello.”
He walks up to me and extends his hand politely. “Welcome. I’m Father Argan, but everyone just calls me Father Aragont.” He gives me a smile that makes me feel uncomfortable – it seems like he knows too much about me as if we’ve met before, though I can’t recall ever being in his presence. “I’m very glad you’re joining our little community of monks here at the Temple of Light.”
“Thank you.” I try to give him the same friendly smile back, but it fails miserably. “Are you…are you a priest?”
“Well…yes. Yes, I am.” He glances briefly at Morgant. “Father Argan was ordained many years ago, so it is my privilege to serve as his deputy while he takes the time to travel and spread the word of our savior.” He holds a hand out again, and it surprises me when I accept it.
“I understand that you wish to learn about the ways of the church, so I hope my studies will prove enlightening. Shall we begin? What do you know already?”
“Um…” I shake my head quickly. “Just that Jesus was crucified and resurrected. But that doesn’t mean much to me.”
“Ah, well. Let me assure you that your ignorance is nothing to be ashamed of. Most people are completely unfamiliar with the true message of Christ. I’ll have a better idea of how best to instruct you once I’ve had a chance to get to know you.”
As Father Argan leads us into his study, he tells me how important it is to be aware of the signs of the Second Coming. He tells me about earthquakes, volcanoes, meteorites, and all other sorts of natural disasters that may signal the end of days.
“But surely you’re not saying that we should prepare for such a thing?” I ask when I can no longer hold myself back. “If there’s something wrong, then the Church should warn the world and stop it. We don’t need to worry ourselves sick over something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Father Argan pauses to give me an appraising look. “You have an open mind, boy. Good. Many people in our faith have gone mad or died because they refused to believe the truth. They thought themselves above the laws of God. And that’s why you have me, to show you the right way.”
“Right…the right way?”
“The way of God,” he replies firmly. “What we preach here is what you’ll find in the Bible. It’s what every faithful person needs to know.”
We continue walking down the corridors of the temple, passing by rows of priests who bow to Father Aragont respectfully as he passes. In this place, I realize, there aren’t any outsiders allowed – only members of the clergy who have chosen to devote their entire lives to studying scripture.
The building is huge, filled with narrow passages and rooms, all of which seem empty. I’ve seen plenty of temples where pilgrims and worshippers go about their religious rituals, but Father Aragon’s Temple of Light feels lifeless as if it never receives anyone except a few visitors from elsewhere in the city who happen to come by.
Even the walls are bare; no paintings or murals adorn them. Just a single line of writing stretches across its length, reading: “In brightest day, in blackest night, he is always with us.”
“Is it really true, then, that everything the scriptures say will happen, won’t happen?” I ask as we enter a large chamber containing hundreds of bookshelves stacked together on one side and several tables laden with piles of parchment manuscripts.
“Everything that the prophets wrote about will become true,” he assures me as if I haven’t been asking that very question since I was old enough to read. “It is written that our Lord was born, and he lived a life without sin before he returned to God. When he did return to his father, he told him about his plans to return to earth to die for mankind’s sins and rise again as the savior.”
“So he said he would, and he did?”
Father Aragon shakes his head firmly. “No, young man, Jesus spoke those words as an invitation to others to follow him – and to be forgiven of their own failings.”
“Oh…” Now I feel foolish. That makes sense, I suppose, though I still find it difficult to believe. “Then how do you know that he rose again? How do you know that he’s alive?”
Father Argan smiles at me. “Do you think I believe that he just disappeared into thin air? Of course, we have the testimony of Saint Thomas himself. Do you doubt our faith?”
He walks up to one of the shelves, reaching out to run his fingers through the spines of some of the thickest volumes there. He picks up one and opens it, revealing a single piece of parchment that has been folded neatly between the pages. “Here is a letter from Thomas. He was a good man, a great believer.”
“A saint…”
“Yes, son.” He takes a moment to look around the room, taking note of the scrolls scattered everywhere on the tables. “The Book of Books, as the Church calls it. Every word of the Holy Scripture is written here. If there were any inconsistencies, we could easily correct them. But this is a perfect book.”
I glance at the manuscript. There’s a faint scent of age in the air as I breathe it in. “Are you sure that it’s really so accurate, then? You can’t change anything about it?”
Father Argen steps closer to me and looks me straight in the eye. “Have you ever heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls?”
“Of course.” I nod eagerly. The Dead Sea Scrolls contain copies of ancient Hebrew texts that are thousands of years old. They reveal new details about the stories of Abraham and Moses; they also provide evidence of an early Christian movement that flourished centuries before Christ’s time.
I’m familiar with them all; my teachers spent hours poring over them in class. “That’s why I asked, Father Argan. Surely the scrolls can’t be wrong?”
“They don’t contradict each other,” he says firmly, placing the book back on the shelf. “Not even when taken as a whole.”
My eyes widen in astonishment. “But…how do you know? We’ve had so many different manuscripts in circulation for so long, and none of them agree with any of the others…”
“Because these are the true words of God.” His voice becomes low, and intense as he stares intently at me. “This is how he made us see reality – not through our own senses, but as a whole that we must strive to understand.”
“How? What does he mean?” I ask, confused.
“Think about it. Our ancestors saw only a small part of reality. They knew what was going on within themselves, but they couldn’t see beyond that to how we live now.”
“Why not?”
“We are born as sinners, as weak beings. As children, we depend on adults for every little thing. In time, however, as our minds grow stronger we learn more about ourselves, and we begin to see that our parents, our teachers, our masters – indeed everyone we rely on – are our imperfect humans too.
Some of us rebel against such things and turn to something greater than humankind. The prophets of old spoke of that, and Jesus was that something – and that’s what he meant by saying that he would come to save us.”
“Save us?” My mind races as I try to absorb his answer.
“Yes. It seems odd, doesn’t it? That God should choose a human being to help him save us? A mere man like you or I? No, he didn’t just send his Son to teach us how to avoid sinning and then leave him behind as the last hope of humanity.
Instead, Jesus promised that if we followed him, we would gain immortality. Not just a second chance after death, but eternal life – the kind of existence where we would never die.”
“But if he came once, why not again?” I shake my head vigorously. “If God wants to redeem mankind, surely he should make himself known? He could walk among us, as he did in the Old Testament!”
He smiles at me kindly. “God doesn’t act out of fear, son. He loves us. We were given the gift of free will, a choice – a way to reject his love. But if anyone is capable of loving people like us, it is he. He is the source of our greatest hopes.
We know we’re nothing without him: we can’t feed ourselves, we can barely survive, and we can’t protect our families or our friends. All we have left is the promise of salvation. We can become something else, something greater than we can imagine.”
His words take me aback. I’m so used to hearing about how God is responsible for everything that I hadn’t considered it might be possible that he created us in his image, instead of vice versa. This is new territory to me; it feels like an idea worth exploring. “You say you believe that God exists. Then why haven’t you seen him, Father Argen? Why hasn’t he come and talked to you directly?”
The End