New Moon

New Moon

… … … … … …

        They had timed it wrong. The night was dark, too dark, for the starlight was not enough to illuminate the path from the street to the heavy oak front door. Perhaps this was a good thing. At four in the morning, none of the new neighbors would be awake and even if they were, would they be able to see the ethnic woman tighten the shawl that covered her face as she shakily stepped out of the black car and made her way towards the door? They’d see merely a shadow—a silhouette—and maybe they’d wonder why anyone in their right mind would choose to move in to a new house at four in the morning but the question would dissipate quickly in the night. And the neighbors would be too tired to care about the man that also exited the car and followed the woman into the house. And if by now, these perhaps non-existent nosy neighbors who watched the duo in the early hours of the morning did not resign themselves to bed after such a strange sight, all they’d see in the black night would be two dark figures carrying boxes and suitcases into the newly habited house. However despite the advantages darkness brought to a secret operation performed in the midst of night, Anala could not help but crave some moonlight as she stubbed her toe on a rock while making her way back to the car for her things.

        “Ow!” she whispered loudly, cringing at the throbbing pain in her big toe as she readjusted the cardboard box full of her clothes on her arms.

        “Anala!” the man hissed, “Watch yourself!” He placed the box he was carrying on the foyer and began to walk back to the car to get more things.

        “I’m sorry, Connor,” she whispered back, following his suit. “That stupid rock really hurt my foot…”

        “Yes well, when you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, do remember that we must do this as fast as we can!”

        “Why bother,” Anala muttered, as she grabbed a small suitcase from the trunk of the black car, “No one’s watching us. It’s late. Or should I say early? And I can hardly see where I’m going, yet alone have someone at least twenty feet away see me.”

        For good measure, Anala also picked up a plastic bag of food and began to carry both items into the house.

        “If anyone catches you…”

        “I’d be toast, I know, the Militia Men would be here in a second but please, who’s going to suspect a Colored in this village?”

        “You never know!” Connor said darkly, “Now hurry up with the necessities. I’ll get the rest tomorrow. We need you to be settled in that basement before sunrise.”

        Anala smiled to herself as she put down the small suitcase and bag in the small and plain foyer of the house and took a moment to look around. The house wasn’t very big—two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. There was a large basement with its own bathroom and that was to be her permanent residence. The walls were plain white, except for some forest green Victorian print wallpaper that ran around the corners and edges. There was no carpet but the house was furnished—the Lords had made sure of that. She heard a grunt next to her and watched Connor put down the last of the boxes and lock the car. Closing the door, he turned on the light and led the way to the basement.

        “Now you know never to come upstairs…” he began.

        “I know…” Anala replied exasperatedly.

        “I’ll bring food to you.”

        “Okay.”

        “No noise during the day.”

        “Sure.”

        “Are you listening?”

        “Completely.”

        “And if you need something, you leave a note.”

        “Yes, Daddy.”

        Connor’s hand froze on the doorknob to the basement and his face softened immediately. He turned to Anala with a slightly apologetic expression on his face but she could not help but notice the traces of pride still present. She knew he still thought he was in the right.

        “Sorry, Anala.”

        She waved her hand and said, “Forget it. Now are you just going to stand there, or what?”

        Connor nodded and began to descend down the stairs to the basement. Upon first sight, Anala felt a rush of excitement sweep through her body. The basement, though small, was fully furnished like the rest of the house—a full sized bed (no sheets were included, of course), a small desk, a lamp, a night table. There was a small window of distorted, one-way glass—enough to see the light (or lack thereof at this time) outside but nothing more. Her lips slightly parted, Anala ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the wooden table while Connor examined the closet.

        “It’s not much—”

        “It’s brilliant!” Anala whispered excitedly. Connor looked at her, surprised.

        “Are you okay?”

        “Fine!”

        He peered at her even more closely, an eyebrow raised. Anala, noticing his skepticism, hurried to explain.

        “It’s just, well, it’s kind of exciting isn’t it? We’re actually doing it, fighting back?”

        Connor’s face darkened suddenly.

        “It may not end the way we want it to,” he warned.

        Anala shrugged. “That’s fine—I’m ready to give my life.”

        “But that may not be enough,” he muttered darkly, almost to himself. Anala, who had just flooded the entire room with light while testing out the plain blue lamp, did not hear him.

… … … … … …

        He briskly walked down the corridor of stone, his shoes making a rhythmic tip-tap on the smooth polished floor as they quickly made their way to the door at the end of the hallway. His face held no expression—no smile or frown on his lips, no furrowing of the brow, no quick darting of the eyes. In fact, the only feature that might let another know what was brewing within that head of his was his dark eyes but he walked too fast for anyone to sneak a glance at them. At the end of the corridor, the young man opened the heavy wooden door and entered a room inhabited by an older man and three guards, and took his place by the older man’s side. Next to each other, the men looked as if they could be brothers should they be a bit closer in age. They both stood tall and proud, hands behind their backs and looked straight at another door. The only thing that brought all their similarities crashing down, however, was that the haughty and grim expression the older man wore on his face was not mirrored on the younger man’s face.

        “Sir, we’re ready,” one guard said. The older man nodded. The guard bowed his head slightly, wrinkling his navy blue uniform. The door opened and two more guards came in, dragging a man and a woman. They shoved the duo towards the older man. The woman stumbled and fell.

        The male prisoner stood before the older man, looking down at his faded and ripped blue jeans. The woman, still on the floor, looked up at the older man. She did not look much better than the man she entered with, with her similarly ripped blue jeans, dirty white t-shirt and untamed black curls that stuck out at odd angles. In fact, she would have looked almost comical if not for her expression of pure loathing.

        “Well. Premier Helling,” she said.

        The older man smiled slightly but turned away from her to her companion.

        “You!” he barked, “Kneel before your leader!”

        The man glanced up once at the Premier with distaste before kneeling and returning his gaze to the floor.

        “Now,” Premier Helling said, “I want your names.” He looked at the man kneeling before him expectantly but the woman answered, never taking her eyes off the Premier.

        “My name is Anala. My companion’s name is Connor.”

        The Premier nodded and said, “And you both work, or perhaps I should say slaved, for the Lords of Ithil?” This time, the woman remained silent, still staring at the Premier.

        “Answer me!” the Premier barked again.

A guard cleared his throat and said, “Er, sir. We have indeed received confirmation with the Militia Men that they work for the Lords of Ithil.”

        The Premier nodded, a burning anger raging in his black beady eyes.

        “In that case, you must know what fate awaits you.” He spoke to the man and woman on the floor. He was pleased to see the man flinch very slightly but the woman continued to stare at him, continued to stare directly into his eyes in fact, with detestation.

        “Of course,” she replied. The Premier was struck by how cool and collected her voice was, despite the way her body was shaking with anger or the way she was looking at him. He cleared his throat. She would not faze him.

        “Then it would be in your best interest to answer our questions.”

        “I’ll try my best, depending on the question.” The Premier was again struck by the way she was answering him. There was no fear in her eyes, no shake in her voice. This was not the way others behaved under his questioning. Perhaps she needed a bit more persuasion. Yes, that was it.

        “Do you deny being a member of the secret organization called the Lords of Ithil? Do you deny engaging in covert activities whose sole purpose is to bring down the God-Blessed government of this sovereign nation of England?”

        Anala smiled slightly. “No.”

        “Then tell us the name of your superior,” he commanded.

        “No,” she answered.

        The Premier raised his eyebrow.

        “Tell us the location of the headquarters of the Lords of Ithil,” he said, raising his voice.

        “We don’t know,” she answered defiantly.

        “You are lying,” the Premier said.

        Anala shrugged. “Maybe. But it makes no difference. You will not breach the secrets of the Lords of Ithil.”

        Premier Helling felt his blood boil at her words and nodded to a guard. The guard nodded back, walked over to Anala and slapped her. She gasped with pain as she felt his hand strike her cheek and bit her lip to keep from crying out even more. The Premier was satisfied to see the red mark of a hand ingrained in her cheek.

        “You insolent girl!” Premier Helling hissed, “You think you are strong enough to resist us! Just know—no matter what you do, England will prevail. England shall prevail.”

        Anala just breathed heavily, her eyes darting back and forth between the Premier and the younger man who stood beside him, who she had not noticed before. The whole time, she had been concentrating on focusing only on the Premier but the slap had broken her concentration. This second man looked very much like a younger version of the Premier himself. She gave him a hard look of anger. He only gazed back at her coldly as he watched the guards drag the prisoners away.

 

        Anala was thrown into a cell devoid of everything except a single dirty toilet. The air was thin and cold and smelt of coal. Her clothes had been taken away and now she wore a pair of gray shirt and pants that were both too large for her. The heavy iron door slammed shut and the only light she received was from a small, barred window on the door. Nearby, she heard another door slam open and shut and a grunt as a body collided with a floor and knew that Connor was in the cell next to her. She called out his name. He did not reply. Anala then felt tears welling up in her soft brown eyes and pulling her knees to her chest, she hugged herself and began to cry.

        Four days passed and the guards had broken neither Anala nor Connor. They tortured her but not as severely as they tortured Connor. It did not take Anala long to figure out why. Connor had been silent during the meeting with Premier, had complied with all of his orders and, perhaps most importantly, had not been defiant. The guards then must have reasoned that Connor must be easier to break than Anala. Anala wished they did not do this; she almost felt guilty for being so defiant, as if she was the reason Connor was being tortured so. But to survive this place for as long as she could, she knew she needed to keep her sanity. It was all about emotional resolve and she knew that self-doubt could be the end for her and for Connor.

        She spent most of her time sleeping or lying down, thinking. The interrogation methods the guards put her through were straining and painful and Anala had no energy to do anything else. However sometimes, she spoke with Connor. They quickly discovered that the wall separating them was only about as thick as paper and could hear even each other’s whispers. Despite their communication, Anala wished that she could reach through and touch him, to hold his hand, to reassure him but it did not work like that. She soon realized that the spoken word is only as powerful as its corresponding action. Telling Connor that the world was not a bad place needed a hopeful smile, or a hand on his shoulder. Because of the wall between them, she could not reach him nor him her. Sometimes he spoke to her about the war—he picked up things during his interrogation. She learnt that Ireland and Denmark had fallen. Conversely, she also learned that the French and Germans had combined forces with the Americans to fight against the Premier’s regime. Her head swayed with the information. The war was growing tight and time was running out.

        Perhaps this was the reason why there came a change in authority. Information about the Lords of Ithil—who where undoubtedly responsible for the triangular alliance between the Americans, French and Germans—was crucial to the Premier and the guards were not making progress. And so the next time she walked into the cold interrogation room, lit only by a small lamp, and sat on the end of the wooden table, she saw not a Militia Man with a higher ranking walk in but the young man who was standing beside the Premier that day of her imprisonment.

        He smiled at her. She knew not to let it give her false hope.

        “Do you know who I am?” he asked her.

        “No,” she answered.

        He kept smiling. He did not sit down. “Would you like to take a guess?”

        “They’ve obviously replaced the normal guards with you. I would guess you’re a higher ranking official with less of a conscience.”

        Her statement made him laugh.

        “No! I am no ordinary guard,” he leaned further towards her from the other end of the table, “I am Premier Helling’s son.”

        Anala was taken back with shock only momentarily.

        “You’d think that with such an important position, the people of this country would know you.”

        “No. I do my best to stay away from attention. My father and my father alone deserves the spotlight.”

        Anala nodded slowly.

        “And, undoubtedly good sir, do you have a name?”

        He narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm. “Damian.”

        She nodded again and looked at her lap.

        “Do you want to elongate your suffering?”

        She remained quiet and did not look up.

        “You tell us what we want and it will end.”

        “Yeah,” she said, “by death.”

        “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

        Anala looked back up again and Damian was struck by a fiery glimmer that seemed to spark as she spoke.

        “You’ll kill me anyway,” she said quietly.

        Damian averted his eyes from hers and onto her silhouette instead. “Perhaps not,” he said, “Perhaps we will surrender you to the Americans. You are American, are you not?”

        Anala did not respond but continued to stare at him.

        “We have researched you and your background. Would you like to hear it?”

        Again, no response.

        “You came to England to study abroad,” Damian narrated, “You were in your final, and by final I mean fourth, year of university, weren’t you? Finishing your Bachelor’s in International Studies? With a minor in Political Science? But you didn’t expect the results of the election.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Despite the warnings, the signs, you didn’t run did you? While all the other disloyals, the other Muds, the f**s grew anxious, you wanted to finish the semester. Then, my father took control and all the others were finally forced to flee. But you didn’t run.” He leaned forward.

        “Why didn’t you run, Anala?”

        Anala simply gave him a small smile and said, “This certainly is a new method of questioning. I suppose you’re looking for answers in my past, aren’t you?”

        “No, I’m trying to understand you better.”

        “Thereby trying to understand the easiest way to break me.”

        Damian just smiled.

        “Oh don’t stop,” she said, “Please continue my story. I’m enjoying hearing it.”

        His smile faltered slightly. He did not expect her to speak so civilly and so straight-forward. He understood what his father had been feeling when she was brought in. Most prisoners remained quiet and did not have the heart to look at their attacker. Nonetheless, he complied and answered his own question.

        “I suspect that you wanted glory,” he said softly, “You wanted excitement. But you had no idea what sort of world you were entering when you joined the Resistance. You were fresh and young when the Lords found you, and I suspect you were one of those sentimental fools who believe ideas are worth dying over.”

        “They are.”

        He glanced at her sharply.

        “Ideas last forever,” she explained patiently, “and men do not. Ideas become nothing if they are not defended because they can’t defend themselves. We must make sure that the right ideas are protected. Otherwise, civilization goes astray.”

        “You’ve never spoken this much to your previous interrogators.”

        “None of the old ones liked to speak this much to me.”

        Damian got up and moved around the table and behind Anala. She heard him shuffle around and ordered her to stand. She did, facing away. Before she could even wince in anticipation, she felt the cold sting of a whip on her back. She gasped in pain and small, silent tears begin to flow discretely down her cheek.

        “I studied psychology at Oxford,” Damian said, “and went to law school after that. I love to talk. But I’m also smart enough to know when actions speak louder than words.” With this, he whipped her again and this time, she fell on her knees. She heard him put down the whip. He knelt beside her and spoke again.

        “You have the information we want.”

        “How—” Anala was panting with pain, “How can you be sure?”

        He stood up again and continued with the story.

        “You went off the radar. No record of where you were or what you did during the months following my father’s election. I can only assume you were living at headquarters. And then, six months later, you appeared again! How astounding! You, along with your friend Connor, whom you undoubtedly met at headquarters, ran an Internet web site that sold clothing from a well-hidden location in Bosham. Clothing, I must admit, from American brands under the made up line ‘Relish’. But you didn’t mail out just clothing, did you? You mailed out letters under the alias Edward Smith, urging people to see how hateful, how spiteful, how evil my father was. You mailed out weapons in biological form. You mailed out money to those the Lords were trying to protect. Oh yes, we know all about what you and your friend did. We are certain everything we need is in that precious head of yours. And I’ve mentioned before: this can all end.”

        Anala, struggling, stood up and faced him, the fiery glimmer in her eye shining just as brightly as it had moments before. Damian was again struck by it and feeling her strength, her defiance, resonate from her, felt an urge to drive a knife through her chest. Breathing deeply, he controlled his anger and watched her struggle to remain standing. She did not rest her hands on the table; she did not lean towards the wall for support.

        “You can kill me. I don’t care,” she said, her voice strong despite the blood that was seeping from her back, “You’ve said so yourself: I’m prepared to die. You can shoot me, you can electrocute me, you can feed me to starving rats, and you can bury me alive. I don’t care. No matter what you do, you will never get inside my head and I will never yield. So if I were you, I’d start picking the cheapest and most efficient way of killing me.”

        Damian stared at her face for a second, scarred, bruised and unbroken, before giving in to his emotions. He slapped her hard in the same manner his father had days before. Ignoring her gasps in pain, he ordered the guards to take her away. Once he saw her leave, he sank in a chair and rested his head in his hands, shaking with anger.

        Anala was thrown back into her cell and cried out in pain as her body hit the cold, stone floor. Careful not to cause herself any more pain, she sat up, rested her back against the wall she shared with Connor and her shoulders shook as she tried to control her emotions.

        “It’s okay, Anala.” Anala’s tears stopped for a moment and she realized that Connor was actually speaking to her, though his voice sounded faint and distant.

        “We’re going to die, Connor,” she replied.

        There was a pause.

        “I know,” he said.

        “How can you say it’s okay?”

        “Just a feeling. It will be okay for you.”

        Anala was quick to note the last two words he had said.

        “For me?” she questioned, panic rising ins her voice, “What do you mean, ‘for me’? What about you?”

        “I…can’t guarantee that.”

        “Connor! You shouldn’t tell them anything!” she exclaimed.

        “Of course not.”

        “Then, what?” she inquired. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.

        There was another pause and Anala could tell that a struggle was raging inside his mind.

        “They’re going to kill me soon,” he said finally.

        “And how do you know they’re not going to kill me?”

        ‘They’re going to kill me to get to you.”

        “What?” Anala whispered, half shocked and half skeptical.

        “You’re the woman here. And you know how they are—they stereotype women. They think my death will affect you more than yours will affect me.”

        “How do you know this?”

        “I can see it in their eyes.”

        Anala remained silent, her heart pounding.

        “But you must promise me one thing, Anala.”

        “What?”

        “You must promise to never give in, no matter what they do to me. Even after I’m gone.”

        “Connor…”

        “Promise me, Anala! I know you worry about me. I know you imagine what sorts of horrible things they do to me and I know those imaginings burden your mind. But you’ve got to distance yourself from it, Anala. You’ve got to pretend it means nothing. Promise me.”

        “Connor…”

        “Anala.”

        Anala sighed, tears flowing silently down her face.

        “Promise.”

        Connor fell silent after the conversation. Anala surmised that he was tired. He had been growing distant from her and now, she knew why. She closed her eyes, ready to fall asleep when she heard him speak again.

        “Anala?”

        “Yes, Connor?”

        “Sing me a song.”

        “What?” She was surprised.

        “Sing. Like you used to.”

        Anala laughed hollowly. “My voice is like s**t these days, Connor.”

        “No, it isn’t. It’s as beautiful as always.”

        Anala smiled slightly and closed her eyes, imagining her hand resting over Connor’s. And with silent tears still pouring down her face, she began to sing softly.

Reviews

[Art300]

Awww it's so sad, but romantic in some ways.

[Calypso]

Very nice