Waiting for the Sunrise

Chapter Two

Four months later...

Church was one of the few things that survived the death of her mother. The routine had always been there, it was a tradition. A young and widowed Edmund Boux made the decision, years ago, to raise his daughter as a God-fearing girl like the village expected her to be, even though any shred of belief had been ripped away from him the moment his beloved wife took her last breath... He was certain there was no God listening to the pathetic pleas and wishes; there couldn't be. He was sure of it.

The quaint village of Falhill was a cold and suspicious place, it's inhabitants were patronising and studied vulnerable meat like vultures; Edmund's abrupt fear of the creaking pews was enough to fuel their wild imaginations. Despite his lack of faith, he took Anna to church. Either to protect her from the sticky web of lies the gossiping villagers had spun or to keep the memory of Catherine alive.

It was another typical Sunday morning, the frantic rush of finding everyone's best clothes, delving into deep caverns between bloated bookcases to unearth a tie or clean sock. Anna did the best she could to get the family organised as well as getting ready herself. Motherhood had been hard on her; she had no time to spend in the forest or to go to the schoolhouse, instead she had to look after baby Fynn and clean the constant coating of dust taking over the house. She did the best job a girl of her age, with no mother of her own, could do.

The past four months had been a battle. She fought against the prudish glares and hushed whispers. She fought for Fynn and the chance to start her own family. She fought against the idea of letting him go. And she fought with the pins in her dress as she sewed a patch over another hole in the cotton fabric.

"Mama?" A little voice called from behind her.

Anna set the dress down on the kitchen table and turned to face Fynn - who was stood in the doorway with his arms wrapped around an old teddy bear. "Fynn, what have I told you? Call me Anna." She said softly.

He stuck out his bottom lip and hugged the bear tighter to his chest. "Anna...drink?" His big blue eyes pleaded.

Fynn was only four months old but had learned to walk a month before, he had only begun talking a few days ago. Anna found it difficult to comprehend his progress, he grew so quickly her hands were becoming bruised and sore from all the new clothes he demanded. Four months and he seemed more like a toddler than a baby.

"No. There isn't much water, Fynn, there is only enough for two cups a day." Anna shook her head. The drought had come a week before, draining the crops and killing the grass, leaving the village with little food or water. It was okay though, a messenger was sent out to collect bottled water from a nearby city, there was enough for two bottles per household per week.

Falhill was one of the villages set up by the Government, there were several up and down the country, a village that lived by the rules of the old days. The initial idea was to prove that people can adapt to a different way of life. And because the cities were filled with poverty and crime - the only rational solution was the Heritage Scheme. England was an ideal place to set up the scheme, there wasn't many forests left after the construction of the hundreds of large cities, but enough to plant four replica villages. It was treated like the lottery. Only the fortunate won entry to a village.

The villages had no technology, no cars, no mobile phones, no computers. Just stone buildings and farm land. The people who live in the villages protect it from the outside world and form their own bubble of paradise. Anyone who threatens to burst that bubble are eradicated without trial.

"Anna, it's time to go!" Edmund exclaimed, sweeping Fynn into his arms as he burst into the kitchen. Fynn erupted into fits of giggles as Edmund tickled him. His laughter filled the stale air and brought a smile to Anna's face. She couldn't remember a time when she had been able to laugh like that, the pure laugh untainted and unstained, only a naive infant could laugh like that. She hadn't been one of those. She had always been aware.

She tidied away her sewing kit, brushed her wavy blonde hair back into a bun, then ushered the pair out of the house. It was hot day, even in the early morning Anna could feel the burn of the dazzling sun on her skin, with no clouds to distract the intense glare of the golden light. The cobbled paving was dry and chalky, she was careful not to let her dress touch the ground to avoid wasting water on washing clothes, and took Fynn into her arms despite the sweltering heat. They marched over to the gates of the churchyard where a small cluster of people were chatting. She didn't stop to examine their faces but strode past them with her chin held high. Fynn snuggled closer to her chest when the group stopped their conversation to glare at them.

The graveyard was modest in size with fewer than a hundred marble headstones clustered around the base of the church. Tufts of dry brown grass nestled against the cool stone, dead flowers mangled between the unruly blades, washing the scene with a dull ashen glaze. Instinctively, Anna's eyes settled on a white modest headstone deep within the yard. She knew the inscription well; the chiselled words were forever imprinted on her mind. Like the others, the flowers by her mother's grave had dried up long ago, the crispy petals splayed beneath the twig-like stalks, bundled together with a soft red ribbon.

Her father tugged on her arm. "Come, we'll lay down fresh flowers after the service." He whispered in her ear. She hadn't realized until then that she had been rooted to the spot at the sight of the pearled grave. A tear glided silently down her cheek, she wiped it away as soon as it came and marched on to the large wooden doors.

The church pews were like the desks of a classroom. The eager and snide members of the community were seated closest to the altar, with the rest of the villagers -filtered by popularity and status- behind them. Edmund and Anna Boux perched on the bench beside the door; left wondering why they were the victims of the cruel hierarchy.

The service proceeded as usual. The vicar rambled on about God's love and generosity, promising that if they were faithful and lived without sin, God would give them water. When the vicar exclaimed something about the drought being a punishment for sin; everyone in the hall turned and glared at Anna and the boy in her arms. She stiffened and gazed past the angry faces, staring impulsively at the wooden carving of Christ on the cross, praying for forgiveness and acceptance. Praying for Fynn.

The service ended. The gentle hum of conversations filled the air to the arched ceiling. A stream of mumbling figures and faces pushed through the ornate wooden doors. With grim expressions and anguish heavy in their hearts, they trailed behind.