Chapter 2: The Truth-Telling Scroll

Aunt Miriam’s eyes, usually clouded with age, sharpened as she peered at me across the small, cluttered table in her cottage. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs. My confession about Elara’s flinch had brought a strange mix of sorrow and resolve to her face.

“Truth-telling scrolls,” she murmured, her voice a reedy whisper.

“What scrolls, Aunt Miriam?” I asked, leaning closer.

She reached for a gnarled hand, tracing patterns on the worn wood.

“Before the Great Schism, before the Elders held all the power, there were records. Not just of tithes and harvest, but of every child. Every birth, every ailment. Every blessing.”

She coughed, a dry rattle in her chest.

“My Jedediah, your grandfather, he was Steward of Offerings then. He insisted on proper records. He said truth was a seed, and lies were weeds that choked the harvest.”

I remembered my grandfather, a man of quiet integrity. His memory felt like a breath of fresh air in the suffocating doctrine of Everlight.

“He spoke of ‘healing reports’ from the traveling physicks,” Miriam continued, her gaze drifting. “Outsiders, they were. Not of Everlight, but respected for their knowledge. They wrote everything down.”

A cold dread settled in my stomach. Elara’s assigned deafness felt like a deliberate act now, not a mere oversight.

“Where would these records be?” I asked, my voice low.

Miriam’s eyes fixed on me, clear and unwavering.

“In the Everlight Archives, behind the Hall of Council. Hidden, I expect. They don’t want old truths dug up.”

The Hall of Council. A place forbidden to all but Elders and their most trusted stewards. The Archives, even more so. My heart hammered against my ribs. I had always been a man of quiet labor, not subterfuge. Yet, Elara’s small, trusting face flashed in my mind.

I pictured her that morning, watching a squirrel from the kitchen window. Her head had tilted, tracking its rustling path through the dry leaves outside, a movement too precise for a child who supposedly heard nothing. The community had labeled her “deaf and witless,” a convenient dismissive phrase. But if she could hear, then the label was a cage, and I, unwittingly, had helped to build it.

The Harvest Festival was days away. A flurry of communal activity, a distraction for many, but a perfect cover for me. While the community feasted and celebrated the bounty, I could slip away unnoticed.

I spent the next few days in a haze of preparation. I worked my fields, making sure everything was in order, but my mind was elsewhere. I imagined the archives, picturing the layout I’d seen on rare, guided visits during community history lessons years ago. The smell of dust, the dry rustle of old paper. I’d need a lantern. And a good excuse if caught.

Elara sensed my unease. She often sat near me as I worked, a quiet shadow. Sometimes, I would hum a low tune, or tap a rhythm on a bucket. She never acknowledged it directly, but her eyes would track my movements, a flicker of awareness in their depths. It was like living with a silent challenge, a constant reminder of the injustice.

The day of the Harvest Festival arrived, hot and bustling. The central square of Everlight buzzed with activity. Laughter mingled with the bleating of tethered lambs and the excited shouts of children. Long tables groaned under piles of bread, roasted meats, and autumn vegetables. Silas, in his pristine Elder robes, moved through the crowd, shaking hands, his smile wide and practiced. He looked like the pillar of the community, revered and respected. The thought of him, a close friend, being involved in such a deep deception churned my stomach.

I made sure Elara was settled with Sister Beatrice, a stern but reliable Elder who oversaw the younger children during the festivities. Elara, as usual, gave no outward sign of emotion, simply sitting where she was told. I felt a pang of guilt, leaving her alone, but this was for her.

My chance came as the evening feast began. Music from a simple fiddle and drum filled the air, louder than usual. Most of the community was gathered in the square, their attention focused on the celebratory meal. I slipped away, moving through the narrow lanes between the cottages, hugging the shadows. The air grew cooler as I left the main square, the festive noise fading behind me.

The Hall of Council loomed, a solid, unadorned stone building. Its single, heavy oak door stood slightly ajar. Odd. I pushed it open further, peering into the dim interior. Empty. They must have left it open during the preparations. A small mercy.

Inside, the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant echo of the festival music. I pulled a small, oil-fueled lantern from my satchel, its flame sputtering to life, casting dancing shadows. The archives were through a smaller, unmarked door at the back. It creaked as I opened it, revealing a staircase leading down into darkness.

The air grew heavy with the scent of aged paper and mildew as I descended. It felt like stepping back in time, into a forgotten corner of Everlight. The archives themselves were a cramped, windowless room, lined floor-to-ceiling with wooden shelves groaning under countless ledgers, scrolls, and tightly bound books. Dust motes danced in the lantern’s weak glow.

Finding anything here felt impossible. Miriam’s words echoed in my mind: “Jedediah insisted on proper records. Every birth, every ailment.” I needed something from Elara’s birth year. She was six. I started with the ledgers marked with the current year and worked my way backward, my fingers growing grimy with dust. The process was slow, painstaking. Each ledger was heavy, filled with meticulous, cramped script detailing tithes, land assignments, and communal work allocations. Nothing about children’s health.

My frustration mounted. This was folly. What if Miriam was wrong? What if the “truth-telling scrolls” were just a romanticized memory, a fable? I felt a sudden, sharp pang of fear – not of being caught, but of finding nothing. Of being wrong about Elara, or worse, of being right and having no proof.

Then, buried beneath a stack of old farming almanacs, I found a smaller, leather-bound volume, unlike the others. Its cover was blank, unadorned. It felt different. I opened it carefully, the brittle pages rustling. It wasn’t about tithes. It was a logbook, titled “Physick’s Visits – Outside Practitioners.”

My heart leaped. This had to be it. I flipped through the pages, scanning dates. There were entries for injuries, fevers, births, and deaths, all meticulously recorded by an unfamiliar hand. And then, a date six years ago. The exact month of Elara’s birth.

The entry was partially water-damaged, the ink smeared in places, but I could make out key phrases. “Child born to Lyra…” Lyra. Miriam had said Elara’s mother was named Lyra. My hands trembled as I held the page closer.

“…examination of infant’s faculties… no outward deformities noted… observations for several days…”

My breath hitched in my throat. This was it. I scanned frantically for the crucial lines. And then I saw them, stark and undeniable, despite the faded ink and water damage:

“Child shows no signs of auditory impairment.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. A physick from outside Everlight, a neutral party, had declared it. Elara could hear. The community’s decree, the label “deaf and witless,” was a deliberate, malicious lie. A cold, righteous fury surged through me, hot and bitter. The anger quickly twisted into paralyzing fear. Who had done this? And why?

I felt a sudden, chilling certainty that Silas, my friend, was somehow at the heart of it. His subtle questions about Elara’s burden, his ever-present piety. It all felt like a carefully constructed facade.

I carefully tore the damaged page from the ledger, my hands shaking. This was not merely a piece of paper; it was a weapon. A dangerous, explosive truth. I tucked it carefully into my satchel, extinguishing the lantern. The darkness felt heavier now, charged with the weight of my discovery.

As I made my way out, back through the Hall of Council and into the cool night, the distant festival music sounded different. It was no longer a celebration, but a mocking cacophony, a cheerful accompaniment to a horrifying deception. My farm, my quiet life, now felt like a battleground.