The Village
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 more profound than the last time he saw 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, with 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 in his fifteen minutes 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, like 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.”
“We need a long-term solution. I can no longer go to the city and bring damaged pieces for repair.”
Mike panicked. “Does that mean we won’t have the TVs back?”
“I didn’t say that,” Trent said reassuringly. “I’ll tell you a secret.”
“What is it?” Mike went still.
“A secret is something you share with no one except the messenger.” Trent continued after a few seconds, “In the station, there’s a computer controlling the station.”
“You told this in the classroom.” Mike tried to hide the annoyance in his voice.
The teacher ignored the boy’s tone. “And that computer communicates with the whole world. It’s connected to the Internet.”
Mike hurriedly came from the kitchen, forgetting all about the tea. “Do we have an Internet connection in our village?” He was dying to play with such a tool. He saw it on TV ads and the news. I know everything about it, even what buttons to press. He’d imagined using a keyboard many times.
“Of course, the signals we get from the satellite are TV and Internet; there is no difference. I placed an ad online, asking for a technician who’d like to move and live here.”
“Did anyone reply?” Mike asked anxiously, his breath quickening.
“Many. Father Quinn is working on selecting a candidate as we speak.”
So, Father Quinn knows about the Internet connection. His face turned red. Father Quinn told us that envy was a sin. “And the Internet still works?”
“You are smart, Mike. Yes, the Internet works. Only TVs are down.”
Mike nodded, then asked, “Did you come to this village the same way, Professor?”
Trent didn’t answer right away. Is he lost in thoughts, reliving painful memories?
The teacher suddenly looked quite small and frail sitting in the armchair, the lines on his face deepening. “Yes, Mike, almost the same way. I was part of the team that built the station thirty-eight years ago.”
“Oh, my Mom said something like the station was built over thirty years ago when I asked.”
Trent nodded. “I am happy that this community has the station.”
“Who paid for it?”
“The government. Every community should have a station to communicate with the government.”
“Why?”
“At least in case of emergencies.”
Mike did not know what else to ask, and the Professor did not say more.
“I’m sure the whole village was happy you decided to join us,” Mike said eagerly.
Mike would have liked to ask why the teacher didn’t have a family with a wife and kids but didn’t dare go so far; he felt Trent was unwilling to talk much about his personal life.
The teacher’s answer surprised Mike. “You’re a good kid, Mike, and I thank you for what you said. But you should know that people try to show the good side of themselves, while many of us hide our dark sides.”
Mike didn’t know what to believe. The way the teacher shadowed the community’s goodwill puzzled him. He noticed Trent’s sad composure many times but never observed any hostility against him. “I’m sorry if someone in the village said or did something that hurt you.”
The teen returned from the kitchen with two cups of tea. He handed one to Trent, kept one for himself, and sat on the sofa. They both started sipping the tea, a peaceful silence filling the room.
“Unfortunately, I’m getting older, and maybe sometimes I judge people too harshly.” Trent placed his cup on the console attached to the right arm of his armchair.
Mike didn’t know what to say and wasn’t sure if Trent even expected him to respond.
The teacher continued. “There were times when I had a good friend in the village, and times were brighter. His loss still affects me.”
Is the professor revealing himself to me? All his life, Mike saw Mr. Trent as a lonely man who liked his solitude. He waited. If the teacher wanted to say more, he was eager to listen.
Trent went on. “The closest friend I had in the village was Father Tom, and your parents probably told you that he passed away fourteen years ago. We were the two bachelors in the village, and back then, we were the unofficial leaders of this community.”
Mike remembered the old priest, but his only memory was of himself as a small kid in his father’s lap at church when a man he judged very old, dressed differently than any other, approached his family. His parents had frozen, awaiting something from the older man who smiled, showing his rotten teeth. He put his hand on Mike’s head. “You’ll grow strong and healthy and be a joy to your mom and dad.” The kid hadn’t understood every word but could catch the meaning and felt proud. The priest’s blue eyes had rested on him for a while, which had made Mike feel good. He had decided at that moment that he liked older people.
Mike looked at Trent intensively. He had never considered who could have been the village leader before Father Quinn. “Everybody today seeks advice from Father Quinn.”
“I know,” Trent said after a beat. Then he changed the subject. “How was the tea?”
“Good.”
Mike finished his tea and decided his time was up. He felt good about the visit and was the first to know about the coming technician. The way Trent told him about it was unique, treating him like a grown-up. He rose from the sofa and went to the front door. “Thanks for the good news and the tea, Professor.”
“I enjoyed your visit. You may come any time you like. It was nice having tea with you.”
Mike searched for the proper way to express his gratitude, but the words didn’t come. He smiled and left the house, closing the door behind him.
