The Book of Dema

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + From My Pen to Their Eyes

Clancy sat alone in his prison cell. He had been granted a room to himself–an apparent luxury here in the crowded prison block full of those the Bishops wanted isolated but not killed. He had been given a special status by Keons, which essentially allowed him a few things: a stack of his old journals, a light switch (presumably so that he could read after hours), a comfortable cot with clean bedclothes, and his boots. Those he was not allowed to wear. Instead, they sat upon a shelf above his bed–the supple gray leather a testimony to things available elsewhere. They did not make such boots here.

It had become clear to Clancy that his old mentor no longer trusted him. He could see it every time Keons looked at him. The Bishop was still trying to solve the riddle of his face. Clancy was recognizable, yet Keons searched it repeatedly for the answer. Somehow it was not the same, maybe aged, but possibly also shaped differently. The boots were a very curious addition to his list of questions about Clancy. The former initiate had related some memories of his captivity in the Bandito camp, but even they did not have the resources to produce such fine shoes. Their mysterious origin perplexed Keons, perhaps even to the point of disturbing him. He had not allowed Clancy to wear them under any circumstances, but he left them in the hopes that at some point, this man, who's testimony as Clancy held up in every way Keons could think to test, would resolve the puzzle for them both.

Most nights Clancy's sleep was scant. He could tell his body had become accustomed to the more demanding lifestyle of Trench. It craved movement, and most nights when the lights went out in the prison at 8:30 pm, he reached over to flip his on. He found that exercises helped. Like many of the other inmates, he used his ample downtime to follow a simple workout routine: sit ups, pushups, jumping jacks, stretching–it was all on that card they left on the desk when they brought him to his ten by ten cell for the first time.

In many ways, living here in this cell, which he kept immaculate, was easier than the scrounging he did in the wilderness. He remembered it was a dangerous place, easy to break a leg, get sick, die of exposure. Here his greatest challenge had been those sitting next to him. The other inmates were all here for the same reasons as any incarcerated soul might be. Legal infractions were strictly condemned in Dema, especially violence. There was only one violence here and it was of the willing. Judgment was swift and permanent. People who had no sense of right and wrong found themselves living here. Those who sought to imitate the Bishops in dress, mannerisms, and voice found themselves here. Those who talked to themselves or others in secret were usually quickly jailed. It was a strange, isolated life, but no one was in any real danger here.

Clancy ran his hand across his several journals fanned out on his desk. He remembered four of them. They had been his from before his escape. They were full of poetry, stories, and speeches no one had ever given. It is true that Clancy had discussed some of the ideas in them, but he was not a rabble-rouser. As an initiate, he had been a reliable, sensible acolyte of the Bishops. Why they had given these journals back hadn't been clear to him at first, but as time went on, he understood. He had recorded his reactions to the various lessons he had learned as a student in the Leadership Initiative. They would provide him with food for thought as he did the work Keons had mentioned on their ride home.

He pulled the green journal from the stack. It was blank. He was not allowed to write in it. He had stared at it for weeks at a time as he sat in isolation. The blank pages had taunted him at first. They weighed on him as the words fought to burst from his mind. Then he began to imagine the words appearing on the page in front of him. Like a mad man, he sat at his little metal desk and scribbled nothing onto the pages with his index finger. He wrote a cautionary tale in his head, one about a man who though satisfied with his world fought to break free of it. It would not end well for the man in his story. As Clancy formed the narrative, he saw the man worry about his job, his wife, his child on the way. The man knew the good in his life but still felt pursued by it all.