Pebbles: A Collection of Short Stories

The Oracles

Have you ever believed in something you couldn't prove? I mean really believed in it. You had so much confidence and trust in that belief that you'd lay down your life for it?

Long ago, people lived unaware of the tiny threads pulling them along a predetermined path. My grandfather used to say people had free will, but really, they had ignorance. Almost 100 years ago, chaos forced the Oracles out of hiding. Free will threaten the world with total collapse. Nature raged against the abuse of the human race, pandemics struck continuously, and nations warred with little cause. But with the prophecies of the Oracles, society crawled back from the edge and reemerged with direction and purpose. The world united with no boundaries of nations. It was a new way of life and a new world. Society renamed Earth Sibyl after the oracles of Ancient Greece to honor the occasion.

Each person now knew their purpose; they focused and achieved. Advancement abounded, pushing society forward into an awakening. Still, some had a romanticized view of finding themselves and forging their own paths. Unfortunately, my father, like his father before him, was among them. He went so far as to fill his home with relics of aimlessness, framed poems of forks in the road, and warbling records of seeking.

Like all things, my upbringing was meant to be. Growing up within those walls, listening to longing stories of inner purpose developed my path. At 18, I reported to city hall for my prophecy. The brilliant sun beamed from the azure sky, glistening off the windows of the soaring tower of the Sibyl Embassy. A surge of electric energy soared through me as I grasped the cool metal of the door. I was one with this path, connected to the future. Vigor washed in waves through the line of my peers also turning of age. We acted as one unit forging a future of endless possibilities. I watched as each person before me learned their trail. Some gave a dutiful nod, while others couldn't mask the smile of enthusiasm.

"Hello, my name is Jack Cody," the words came in a rabid babble of anticipation.

"Spell your last name." The lines of the teller's years creased her face as she held her gaze on the screen before her.

"C-O-D-Y," I accented as clearly as my eagerness would allow.

"Cody, Jack, son of Marcus and Loise Cody," she droned mechanically.

"Yes."

"Please hold while your future is printed."

The teller's flat tone couldn't rust the shine of the moment. My optimism choked reality. When this weary teller's wide eyes met mine, I should've felt the ripple of fear. Instead, only the throb of oblivious fervor pumped from my heart.

"An escort will be with you momentarily, Mr. Cody," she stiffened with formality as she dropped her eyes again. It was then from the abrasive change in her demeanor that I bother to read her name, Sally. An ordinary name that fit with her preordained role as a prophesy teller.

"Mr. Cody, it's an honor to meet you," a clean-cut gentleman in a suit outstretched a hand to me. "I'm Patel; I run the distribution center here."

"An honor," I murmured back as confusion stifled some of my anticipations.

"Yes, sir, if you'll follow me," his head slightly bowed as he led me from the line of my peers. "You're very special. I can't say I recall someone of your skillset passing through our halls since I started my post nearly 15 years ago."

"My skillset?" A fog of bewilderment muddled my mind.

"Yes," his shoulders stayed high in pride of his role as the elevator doors clanged open. "I, unfortunately, cannot escort you beyond this point; clearance and all. But someone will greet you at the top," he nodded as he eagerly jabbed the top floor button, which lit up with the same glow of life Mr. Patel's eyes possessed. "Good luck," he beamed with a final bow of his head as the doors rattled closed.

The hum of the elevator vibrated through my bones as the lift carried me higher and higher. My face burned with the influx of molten blood my heart was driving through me at a rapid pace. Incoherent thoughts sped through my mind, but none lingered long enough to form fully. The result was a nauseating mix of anticipation, excitement, and terror that depleted my lungs of air and lined them with a heavy coating of debilitating lead. Lightheadedness was gripping my brain as the doors rattled open to reveal the placid face of a woman.

"Mr. Cody, we've been expecting you." Her voice, demeanor, and smile fit together in a gentle manner that felt both relieving and unsettling.

"Hello," I stammered as I shuffled from the elevator. My mind clung to the excitement of my destiny while my feet stalled, taxed by the weight of fear.

"Welcome to the Oracles," she flourished as she led me down a glass-lined hallway. On either side were rooms of people poring over files and tapping on keyboards. Unlike the other professional disciplines that polished their looks with suits, this team dressed in simple jeans and t-shirts. A uniform that belonged in the photos that lined the walls of my childhood home, the clothes of an aimless time.

"Jacob," the woman's voice hushed a bit as she ducked into the office at the end of the hallway, "Mr. Cody has arrived."

A creaking worn voice answered with a distracted, "send him in, Cecilia." Like the other offices on the floor, nothing but a wall of glass separated his office. His appearance matched his voice. His face was drawn with pleats of age, and his hair was a pure white as it glowed from the bright sunlight pouring from the window behind him.

"Hello, Jack. My name is Jacob; I'm the head Oracle for the Northeast region. It's a pleasure to have you join us." His toothy smile showed the hint of a youthful man that once inhabited his body.

"It's an honor," I managed before nerves seized my throat.

"Jack, we've been studying you for some time. Your family is of an old view, but you see the greater good of the prophecies, the hope, and purpose they give.".

His words sliced like the blade of a knife. "I do, sir," seeped from the wound. 

"Here, like our walls, we are a division of transparency. This is the only place of openness in the region, and here it must remain. We're the authors of the prophecies."

"The authors, but I don't understand. Prophecies are pre-destined, not authored." The assertion rang out like an errant swing of a falling boxer. 

"Ah, my boy, a prophecy is a placebo of control. We study and connect, but we also drive to need. If everyone were to strive to be an Oracle at the expense of farmers, how would we feed people?"

The room spun around me as the rational faces of my father and grandfather curdled in my mind amidst the souring placebo of control that deceived me. Life as I knew it was mortally wounded, as was I.