Passing the Torch

By Karen Lewis

How strange it is, that of all the things I should miss from theWorld Above, the sun should prove to be the source of the mostpowerful regret! Nowadays there is not a day where I do not miss it -long for it, even - yet I can still remember how as a student I wouldstay awake reading in my dorm, heedless of the hour and the darkeningof the sky. Even then I was seen as "eccentric", the one who washappier under the wattage of artificial light than in the heat of thesun. Maybe the dreams that transport me now, as my head nods over mybooks, are some ironic consequence of that thoughtless youth?

Whatever they are, they have become a force I cannot escape.Invariably I find myself in the open air, in the middle of anunfamiliar heartland. I watch the bright sky, dazzling at first untilit slowly purples into dusk. I feel the warm breeze turn cooler as itplays softly over my face. I taste the freshness of the night air onmy tongue, the cleanness of it. It is the taste of youth, and sopowerful is it that when I finally awake and shift in my chair I ambriefly disoriented by the flickering shadows that meet my eyes. Thespines of my books, the rough-hewn walls of the cavern, the stumps ofcandles that sparkle like a starry sky; all of these seem unreal.They seem part of a hallucination, a dreamscape from which I can yetawake.

Then a sound reaches my ears. The jangle of the pipes, thesentinels tapping their messages into the depths of the earth - and,though faint, it manages to pierce to the very heart of my dreaming.The sunset vanishes. Reality settles around me: all of a sudden theseimages are invested with familiarity. For of course I know thisplace. These books, this cavern, these people around me: all this ismy world, the world I strove to build on the foundations of mybeliefs, the world for which I gave up so much of what lies above. Tothink of leaving would be folly, a betrayal of all I hold dear.

I must not complain that it is a long way from the sun.

And yet I am old, and the visions disturb me. I go out even lessthan I used to now, although I have been careful not to let theothers see that my step is slower, my vision more sensitive to brightlight. That I can never feel the fresh wind or the warmth of daylighton my face again is a fact I have grown to accept: I can make do withthe faint night-wind, or the glow from the lichen that grows on thetunnel walls. Twilight has a certain charm to it, after all.

But these dreams are more than a beautiful vision of my past: theyare a reminder of the passing of Time even in this seasonless world.The time that has passed and - I must face the truth - the littletime I have left. I have told no-one else and have been careful toconceal my growing weakness, but I know for sure from my painfulcough that my health is failing. These years underground have takentheir toll upon me. I may last the year, but not the next.

Is it strange that, mindful of this, my thoughts turn to Vincent?No, it is not strange. He will be the next leader of the TunnelCommunity, I am certain of it. If I know him, he would not evenventure his name for election, but the others love him: they willchoose him. Who could oppose him? He is the very symbol of everythingthe Community holds dear. He was the tiny baby who, all unknowing,forced an abyss between myself and the man I thought a friend: heforced the whole Community to choose between us. Now he is theepitome of the outcast who finds shelter in the World Below. But Iknow that he is not yet ready to become a leader as I was. He doesnot yet possess self-knowledge.

How good Vincent is, how innocent. But how much would it take toshatter that innocence beyond repair?

How much - or how little?

And if something violent were to happen, what would he become?

Until Catherine Chandler arrived, he never delved any further intowhat he was. In all the time before he was able to look into themirror and see a beast, a lion-man, and yet he never truly - neverdeeply - questioned the assumption that he was anything more than ahuman with a mishapen face and body. That is what he was told, andhow the other Tunnel Members have always treated him. And whenCatherine Chandler came into his life., she brought a trust and awarmth that inspired a new tenderness in him. So much so that hedared to love her as a man loves a woman.

But although she could never have known it, she also broughtdestruction and danger into his world. For she could never love himfully. The barrier between them became evident, and rather than loseher he has resigned himself to a Platonic love. But all the same hewas reminded - more painfully than he ever dared admit to himself -that he could not love a human being. For he knew that in the eyes ofthe World Above he could never hope to be considered fully human.

Through that he groped toward a fuller knowledge of what he was -but that same knowledge is even now racking him from within, fillinghim with guilt and fear. I watch him from the shadows, and can almostfeel his suffering. It is all so needless, so wrong. And I know hemust overcome it if he is ever to become the leader I want him to be- I am the one who must help him understand. He has the capacity tobe a stronger, better ruler than I was - and he will be, if I canonly show him...

But how can I do it? Should I confront him with it - tell him,face to face, what he is and how he must acknowledge the side he hasalways refused to see? The answer is no. I tried once, and he did notbelieve me. He would not listen to my words then: he would reject menow. Could I bear that again? But still I need to show him: the veryrage that burned in his eyes showed the truth of what I said. Thetwin flames in his eyes, the twin suns... He was terrible andmagnificent at once, a god, and I was afraid. Afraid that he mightsuccumb to his rage and claw me down into silence.

I was a coward.

I will do it. Since words are of no use I will show him clearlywhat he is, in a way he cannot ignore. In violence and pain I willforce him to see that all his education and "civilization" isnothing, a useless veneer to conceal what is bred in the bone. It ishis animality which must rise to the surface, the lust for power,that brute force within himself which will awaken with the firsttaste of innocent flesh. As he realizes what he has done he will feelhorror, disgust, repulsion, but he will grow to understand that theseare needless emotions, traps of society to shame the common man intocompliance. He is no common man: he is greater than this paltry humanstate, he has always been greater. And he will understand his godheadwhen the savour of human blood washes over his tongue.

And it is my blood which will work this alchemy, which will wipeaway the old vestiges of love and reason and baptize him anew. I giveit freely. I have been through the fire, Vincent, and emergedpurified, like gold. Now it is your turn, and when you writhe in theagony of the flame I will watch you and hope for you.

When it is over you will arise, as terrible as an army withbanners.

You will be my son.

________________________________________________________________

Many thanks go to Betty Christophy (betpchem@worldnet.att.net) forreading the first draft, and giving me advice and the title.