Cataloging

I’m trying something new to me. For my A-Z Blog Challenge, I’m challenging myself to write a young adult story. No promises since work and life keep me pretty busy and I’m the slowest writer I know. Keep in mind this is a work in progress, a first draft, subject to many changes. I’m not looking for critiques, nor am I looking for praise. Read it if you want. Comment or don’t. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Continued from previous post/chapter “Beginnings”

I nCever liked the notion that I was somehow special, someone more deserving than others to live. The summer of my eleventh year, I expressed this to my mentor as we cataloged artifacts brought to us by a Traveler.

“If the Author is able to control events, why not save all the baby girls? Why was I saved?” I struggled to keep the anger out of my voice, but I failed.

Brother Phinneas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rubbed away the dirt that had settled on a broken piece of tile. His efforts uncovered a smooth, white surface etched with swirling lines of blue. The old man set it next to a small but growing pile of tiles of the same design.

Not sure that he heard me, I was about to repeat my question. But then he answered me with a question of his own. “What do you see when you look at this pile of broken tile pieces, Alistair?”

I followed his gaze to the rubble between us. “I see broken tiles that are similar to each other. They look like they were once part of something beautiful … maybe from one of the ruined towers in the south.”

“You have learned well. Indeed, these are from the south. The Traveler carried them all the way from the ruins of London.” Brother Phinneas picked up the small piece of tile he had cleaned moments before. “Suppose all he unearthed was this one small piece. Would we know what it was? That it was part of a larger design?”

I shook my head no.

He lay the tile on the table and placed another from the pile next to it. Then another. He continued to place the tiles until most of them were arranged next to the others. Then he said, “Come. Stand next to me and tell me what you see.”

I rose from my place across from him and stood by his side. Although there were gaps and missing parts, I saw that the delicate blue lines against the white had become the petals of a rose in full bloom. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“It is. If we were to evaluate just one small piece of the broken tile, we would miss the big picture. Oftentimes, Alistair, we are allowed to see only a small piece of the Author’s grand design. The piece on its own makes no sense to our limited view. But in the Author’s time, the full picture will be revealed and we will understand.”

I continued to stare at the wispy blue rose until I felt Brother Phinneas’s calloused hand on my own. His voice was softer than it had been and he sounded a bit sad, which was unusual for him. “I am just a man, dear girl. I don’t have all the answers and cannot see the reasons why things happen they way they do. I just know there is a larger plan though we don’t know what it is.”

I understood what Brother Phinneas said, but it didn’t take away the guilt I felt for being allowed to live when so many others had not. The anger within me grew and without saying so to my mentor, who I was sure would not approve, I longed to make the Hadithites pay for what they had done and were continuing to do to my people.

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