Chapter One
Here lies a man that brought terror into the hearts of millions, said the tombstone inscription. May he live on in the hearts of millions now living.
Kneeling alone in the cemetery, Palo Jakani accepted the gold-engraved inscription without question. He could not understand why so many today scoffed at those two lines. To him, they were true, and went together like bread and butter. All true believers thought the same. Why should people think any different?
Jakani visited the tomb four days of every year – on Great Leader Chamoska’s Birthday, on his Deathday, on Revolution Day, and that special fourth day that Jakani had chosen himself. The other three days were busy and crowded days for this region. The trains were crowded, the inns were crowded, the camping grounds were crowded, and – most of all – the cemetery was crowded. Thousands of people came from all over the planet to pay their respects to the Great Leader. Old men like himself, who had been there when it all happened. Young men, who wanted a world where their virility would be put to better use. Mothers dragging their children by the wrists and shouting at them for not showing enough enthusiasm. They all came for the same thing. For those three days of the year, all were one, and the True World, the People’s World, was better for it.
Yet there was also that one fourth day of the year when the cemetery was not so crowded; when, sometimes, the cemetery was all but deserted. That was Jakani’s birthday.
This pilgrimage was his own birthday present to himself – an hour, alone, in the presence of his Great Leader. Today, on Jakani’s sixty-first birthday, on his eleventh private pilgrimage to the Tomb of Chamoska since the death of his wife, the cemetery was almost deserted. Yet in the shadow of his Beloved Leader, Jakani was never truly alone.
He knelt there before the vast onyx tomb. The ten-foot ivory statue of Chamoska towered above him from the roof of the tomb, his stare harsh and stern as he eternally judged a world that would never truly live up to his ideals of manhood. Chamoska’s fist was raised in wrathful defiance of all whose brains were polluted with dirty thoughts that did not meet his approval. His fist promised vengeance. His fist promised retribution upon the weak and unworthy.
Towering above the Great Leader, the twisted branches of a mighty oak tree rose to the heavens, as if nourished and empowered by his mere presence. High up in the branches, barely visible under the shade of leaves, a black cat watched Jakani with luminous green eyes.
Jakani instantly averted his gaze from that of the creature, returning his sights to the more reassuring form of his Leader.
“The days of glory shall return, my Great Leader,” he spoke aloud. “The days of glory shall return.”
“Such a magnificent tomb,” said a gentle voice to his right.
Jakani turned and saw a thin, elderly priest standing there, staring reverentially at the Great Leader’s Tomb.
Jakani tensed up, almost ready to punch the priest for interrupting him. Yet there was something about the older man’s presence that sapped him of the will to act. It was a strange feeling, somewhere between respect and curiosity.
What would Chamoska himself have done in his position? This was the question that dictated every decision that Jakani made, every opinion that he formed, every word that he spoke to others. What would Chamoska do? What would Chamoska think? What would Chamoska say? Would Chamoska approve? Would Chamoska disapprove? To Jakani, there was no other way of thinking.
After a moment’s hesitation, Jakani decided that he had to find out more about this priest. He needed a context for him.
“Of course,” said Jakani, slowly getting to his feet. “A Great Leader such as Chamoska deserves no less. He was a real man, a real Tylansian man. There are so few of his kind today.”
The priest turned to face Jakani. “I gather that you truly are a devoted follower of Great Leader Chamoska,” he said.
“Of course I am!” said Jakani. “Chamoska will always be my Beloved Leader. His heart is my heart. His love is my love. His hate is my hate.”
“Indeed, yes,” said the priest. “I would like to make you an offer, Jakani.”
“How did you know my name?”
“We have been watching you for a long time.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’?” said Jakani, his suspicion rising. “Your church? Who are you?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said the priest with an embarrassed chuckle as he glanced at his feet. “So terribly rude of me not to formally introduce myself. I am Father Marishison.”
“What church do you belong to?”
“I am a chaplain in an organization you may not have heard of,” said Marishison. “Even if you have heard of it, many would probably dismiss it as a rumour or a folk tale.”
“What is this organization?” said Jakani, his curiosity piqued.
“I am under strict orders not to tell you,” said Marishison. “Our rules of secrecy are very rigid. All I can tell you right now is this one small – but significant – piece of news.”
“And what is it? What news do you give?”
At once, the priest’s grin dropped. His expression became grave, sincere.
“Chamoska is alive,” he said. …
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This is a good start. The writing is clean and unpretentious. It sets a mood that I didn’t expect in an OA story. At this stage I don’t know if the novella will concentrate on Jakani, or if it will be story about Chamoska as seen through the prejudiced eyes of Jakani. The whole chapter builds up to the explosive last line. Whichever way the story goes, I knew I had to read more.
A good first chapter with a very strong hook that compels the reader to continue to chapter two, and more.