Prologue: Isaiah

Nearly all the gravestones in the cemetery belonged to children. I traced my finger over the fresh letters engraved in the limestone of a new headstone. I had heard the engraver chipping away at it earlier this morning.The engravers usually worked alone at funerals, slowly chipping away at the limestone. 

Moss grew on the other stones around it, filling the cemetary with the smell of earth, but this headstone was clean. Flowers didn’t rot on the grave it headed like the other stones had. Not even fresh flowers were lain here after the engraving this morning. Birds chirped faintly just beyond the treeline. It was also peaceful for once.

Most parents didn’t attend the funerals, and most gravestones didn’t even give the children the dignity to write “died” before their age and name. They swept under the rug the fact that most children in the cemetery were under four. Four years old was when they would’ve had worth–when the ceremonies began.

My head whipped around the graveyard, towards the dwellings, into the trees. No one was around. I flipped to the last page of my notebook, and quickly drew another tally mark before shoving it back into my pocket. 

I tripped on the raised stone of a familiar grave. This one actually said “died” but it should’ve said “taken”. “Viktor Volkoav - died at age 36” it read. He was my father, and he had disobeyed the community. That morning, he was supposed to be back from the docks when the sun rose, but the elders couldn’t find him. 

My mother had always told us stories of people who disobeyed the rules being punished, and I’d heard many about rebels getting lost in the woods forever, but I didn’t think it would happen to my father. On that day, I didn’t believe it. How would he get lost? He had been fishing for the community for years, but that morning they found the dock empty. Only his boat was left. 

My fingers dug through my pocket for the piece of string my sister had snuck me earlier. I pulled it out, and twisted it between my fingers, like I was waving goodbye. I dropped it onto the gravestone with the one other scrap of string my mother had left all those months ago. 

The strings might’ve given my father happiness, but they wouldn't bring him back from the woods. The string fragment I left was red and frayed. It wasn’t mine, or even the color of a string I've received. My mother too had left a red string piece. “Love” what the elders said the red string ceremony would give you. Somewhere in the trees, I can’t help but wonder if my mother’s red string has yet been severed from my father’s.

“What are you doing, boy,” a gruff voice came from behind a gravestone, startling me.

I jumped, instinctively shielding the yellowed page of my notebook from view. My eyes darted between the notebook clutched in my sweaty palm, and the [elder] in front of me as he spoke.

“I uh–I’m visiting my father’s grave,” I shoved my notebook into my coat pocket.

I tried to ignore how my heart was practically slamming against my ribs.

“Huh,” he said, “can I see that notebook?” 

I gripped the small leather-bound notebook in my pocket tightly, inhaling deeply. I subtlely patted my other coat pocket, sighing in relief when I felt the hard surface of my decoy notebook through my jacket’s fleece.

“It might take me a moment sir. It seems to be stuck in my pocket,” I shrugged.

“Very well then,” he said, putting his hands behind his back.

His eyes darted around the graveyard impatiently, his arms crossed. As his attention was elsewhere, I carefully used the slot I made in between my pockets to shift the decoy to my left hand in my pocket.

“Sir,” I cleared my throat, holding up the notebook.

He poked through it and rapidly turned the pages, licking his finger and touching it to the paper to turn each one. I held my breath, crossing my fingers in my pocket, and pleading silently that he would be done soon.

Please don’t look at the last page. Please don’t look at the last page.

“Well, get to your lessons, boy,” he shoved the notebook back towards me.

“Sir, we don’t have lessons this morning. There’s a ceremony.”

“Oh, fine then. Go on then,” he said.

I briefly nodded, and turned on my heel. Once I reached the edge of the cemetary a few paces later, I exhaled the breath I was holding. The back of my hand brushed the sweat from my forehead away. I walked a little bit faster now, desperate to reach my dwelling before the morning’s events started.