Mirabel raised her magic wand and a unicorn appeared. The animal brayed at Shamilon, lowered its head as if to graze, then vanished.
"Wow. That's powerful magic," Shamilon said.
The woman frowned and shook her head. "No, Shamilon," she said. "Remember what I told you?"
"Sorry. "It isn't magic. You said it was technocracy."
"Technology. This wand is a miniaturized projector. And the unicorn was a what?"
"It was a three-D image with…with sima…I mean simutracy. Ugh!"
"A three-D image with simultaneously projected real-time audio," she said.
"Aw, you didn't have to tell me. "I would've gotten it in a second."
When Mirabel's frown turned into a smile, Shamilon's world seemed better, brighter somehow. She was an attractive, young woman of about twenty, with silky, shoulder-length brown hair, a perfectly curved body and long tanned legs. Dressed in a short-sleeved floral top and a flowing skirt that extended to her ankles, she seemed almost like a goddess to Shamilon. He was only sixteen years old, and hadn't had much experience with women. He'd spent most of his time on the family farm and rarely had a chance to speak to girls his age. It was rarer still when the girls welcomed his idle chatter and added their thoughts to his. Apart from his older sister, Noreen, he'd never spoken to an older woman, and certainly never hoped to speak to someone like Mirabel. Someone who was not only beautiful and smart, but who also came from Palanar, the city behind the wall. He didn't understand why she liked him and took the time to visit with him. Since they'd met a week before, he'd already secretly met with her three times, on three glorious afternoons in the forest behind his farm.
"Tell me more about the people behind the magic wall, Mirabel."
"Only if you stop calling it a magic wall. "What did I call it?"
"A force field."
"That's right. It's a force field," Mirabel replied.
"I understand the 'force' part, but why do you call it a field? It's not like it has grass growing on it or anything."
"It's not that kind of field, Shamilon."
Mesmerized by her enchanted earrings, the boy almost forgot what he'd asked her. They resembled tiny angels and seemed to dance in mid-air, just millimeters below each of her delicate ear lobes.
"Tell me more about Palanar, Mirabel. Please."
"Okay," she said. "We live in great houses with what we call 'indoor plumbing.' That means we have no need for wells. We get our fresh water from little spouts inside the house, hot as well as cold, so we can take baths anytime we want. When we need to go somewhere inside the city, we don't have to use horses or mules. We fly there in metal chariots called hover-cars."
"It's magic. It's definitely magic," Shamilon said.
"No. It's not magic. There's no such thing as 'magic.' It's technology or science."
"So, which is it?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Is it technology or science?"
"Those two words mean almost the same thing, Shamilon."
"Oh." Through the slim trees at the edge of the forest, Shamilon spied his mother as she emerged from the back door of his farmhouse, a jar of bird seeds in her hands. It was nearly dinnertime and she would soon call for him. Although he knew his mother had not glimpsed him yet, he edged behind a large tree. He was glad Mirabel followed him. He would have warned her to stay out of sight, but didn't want the beautiful woman to think he was afraid to be seen with her. He wanted Mirabel to stay and tell him more about her city. "So what else can your science do?"
"Almost anything you can imagine. And a few things you couldn't possibly imagine. We have lights that don't need candles or oil. They are powered by something called electricity, instead. We have special boxes that can freeze food in seconds. And we have other kinds of boxes that tell stories with three-D pictures and sounds, just like the unicorn you saw."
"Neat."
"Shamilon. Shamilon, are you playing in the forest again? Come inside, it's time for dinner." It was his mother. She hadn't seen him, yet, but it was only a matter of time before she actively came looking for him.
"Oh. Looks like you have to leave," Mirabel said.
"No. No, I don't. I can stay if I want. I'm almost an adult, after all."
"Shamilon? Shamilon, can you hear me?" his mother called.
"We'll get together tomorrow, Shamilon. Okay? Maybe you can tell me about your world. Maybe you can even bring me some of those stories you've written. I'd love to have you read one to me."
"Really? I didn't think it would interest you."
"Of course, I'm interested. I'm interested in everything you do."
Shamilon wanted to kiss Mirabel for what she'd just said. Truthfully, he wanted to kiss Mirabel, period. When he heard his mother call him again, however, he decided to postpone that kiss until later.
"Okay, Mirabel. It's a date. I'll see you tomorrow, and I'll definitely bring along some of my stories." He watched as Mirabel disappeared in the direction of the magic wall, which began at the opposite end of the forest. Then, with a broad smile on his face, he walked out of paradise toward the farmhouse -- and his everyday existence.
Before the evening's meal, Shamilon's family joined hands around the dinner table, bowed their heads, and said a prayer of thanks. His mother rose from the table and brought in a basket of hot, freshly baked bread. His father then took the serving knife and began to carve off slices of turkey for each member of the family.
"What did you do, today, Shamilon?" Johnson, his father asked.
"Nothing much."
Nola, his mother, glanced at his sister, then turned to Shamilon. "Noreen says that you haven't been to softball practice all week," Nola said.
"Well, I'm tired of softball," Shamilon replied. "It's a game for little kids."
"Noreen says her friends have seen you talking with someone in the forest."
"Can't Noreen speak for herself?" Shamilon asked. His sister continued piling food on her plate.
"Do you have a new friend, Shammy?" Johnson asked.
"It's a girl, Dad," Noreen said between bites. "An older girl. They say she's older 'n me."
"Is this true?" Nola asked.
"Aw, it's nothing. She's just…just someone I met. We weren't doing anything. Just talking."
"Well, why don't you bring her home so we can all meet her?" his father asked. "You know your friends are always welcome here."
"She's…she's shy, Dad."
Johnson grunted quietly, a sign that he didn't entirely believe what Shamilon had just told him.
"Is she one of your friends from the story-writing club?" his mother asked.
"No, Mom. She's just…aw, do I have to talk about her? Can't I have any privacy?"
"Have you been working on your stories, Shamilon?" Johnson asked. "The pastor says you promised to write him a parable for Harvest Day."
"I've almost finished that, Dad. I'll have something to show him by next week."
"Good. Very good. You know we're all very proud of the work you've done for Pastor Simons. You're a credit to our family."
"It's important to praise God and tell stories about holy men," Nola said.
"Except, now, all of Shamilon's stories are about girls," Noreen said.
"That's not true."
"I'm sure it's not," his mother said, glaring at Noreen. "But Shamilon, I do know that you haven't written any more about Hilinon or our other great ancestors. Do you want to know more about what they did and how they lived?"
"Well, I did want to know more about one particular legend," Shamilon replied.
"And which legend is that?" Johnson asked.
"Can you tell me more about the Technocrats and how they came to live in Palanar, behind the magic wall?"
"What? Why do you want to know about those people?" his mother asked."
"The Technocrats were petty, mean, and foolish, Shamilon," his father said. "Concentrate your efforts on another subject."
"But, but I want to know about them, Dad. What did they do that was so bad?"
His father ignored Shamilon's question and, instead, turned toward Nola. "There've been a few strangers in town, lately. Some people suspect they're from the city behind the wall."
"That can't be," Nola replied. "Johnson, do you really think that anyone still lives in Palanar?"
"I doubt it, but I can't be certain. Anything is possible."
Nola grabbed Shamilon's hand and nearly knocked his fork to the floor. "This girl you've met, she isn't a stranger in town, is she? I don't think you should be talking to strangers."
"Is this girl a stranger, Shamilon?" Johnson asked.
"No! She's just a girl. Now, forget her and please tell me about Palanar and the Technocrats."
Johnson exchanged a curious glance with Shamilon's mother, then turned to his son. "Okay, I guess you should know the whole story. You're old enough," Johnson said. "According to legend, there was a great war many centuries ago that killed over half the earth's population. Most people blamed it on the technology of the time."
Shamilon's mouth dropped open as he heard his father speak the now familiar word. "Technology. What does that mean?"
"It's a word used to describe a kind of manmade magic. At one time, everyone used it. People didn't read many books or listen to music, because they had technology to entertain them. Plus, there was technology for cooking and technology to replace horses and carriages. According to the stories, they even used technology for bathing."
"That sounds strange, but very interesting, Dad," Shamilon said, though his face colored as he heard mention of Mirabel's magic baths. He didn't dare tell his father that Mirabel had told him all about indoor plumbing with hot water.
"It wasn't good for people, Shamilon," his mother said.
"No, it wasn't," Johnson said. "With all the magic around, no one could find a job. Why pay someone when you can get all your chores done through wizardry? After a while, the unemployed people began to fight amongst themselves. Soon, whole nations were fighting each other, and then the great war came."
"Everyone with sense saw that the war had been caused by technology," his mother said. "Everyone but the Technocrats. They wanted to continue using their black magic. Amazingly, they wanted to use more of it than ever before."
"Shamilon would've been a Technocrat," Noreen said.
"Hush, Noreen. Your brother has more sense," Johnson replied.
"So finish the story, Dad," Shamilon said.
"There's not much more to tell. The elders of the time condemned the Technocrats. In turn, the Technocrats moved all their people to Palanar, the city behind the wall. Only it didn't have a magic wall, then. They constructed the wall a few years later, to keep out the rest of us. Our ancestors didn't object because they didn't want to have anything to do with the Technocrats. And that's the way things stand till this day." his father said. "Now do you see why they're not a worthy subject for your studies?"
Shamilon looked around on the floor for a convenient hole to jump into, but saw no means of escape.
"Yes, Dad. You're right." The boy said what his father had wanted to hear, but secretly couldn't wait for his date with Mirabel.
Mirabel sat on the ground with her long legs stretched out for Shamilon to admire. Her head rested against a tree. The young man smiled when he noticed the grass and twigs snarled in her long hair.
"That was a great story," Mirabel said to Shamilon, who was leaning against a tree with loose, handwritten pages in his hands. "Thanks for reading it to me!"
Shamilon folded the pages and tucked them into his knapsack. "Glad you liked it. That was my first story about Hilinon and his followers. I wrote two more."
"You're so smart," Mirabel said. "Where do you get your ideas?"
"Oh, I just sit and think about what really inspires me, and then I just start writing. It's not that hard, Mirabel, and you're so special, I'm sure you'd be really good at it. Why don't you write your own story?"
Typically, Mirabel looked Shamilon straight in the eyes when she spoke, but now her eyes darted nervously away from him. "I couldn't, Shamilon," she said. "I know you think I'm special, but I'm not special in that way. I'm not…smart like you."
Although he tried, Shamilon couldn't hide the disbelief from her – and didn't want to turn away. "Mirabel, you are smart and sophisticated and charming and...I know you can do anything. I know it!"
"You know it? Right." Mirabel turned her back on Shamilon and spoke in a loud, angry voice. "Shamilon, you don't know anything!"
Johnson's voice played in the young man's head. His father had told him that Mirabel's people were bad. They worshipped a false god, the god of technology.
"Why did your people lock themselves behind the magic wall, Mirabel?"
"It's _not_ magic, Shamilon, it's--"
"I don't care what you call it, Mirabel. Why did your people use it to separate themselves from our people? And why are you here, now? What do you want from us? From me?"
She turned around to look at him. There were tears in her eyes. "Shamilon, the truth is we…most of us can't read or write. Our school system fell apart years before I was born. Only the oldest of our citizens still know how to write their names. It's gotten to the point where we don't even have the skills to repair our equipment or develop new technology. And technology is the basis of our culture. Without it, we're lost. So representatives from the city--like me, we've come to recruit teachers. We need bright young men like you to come to our city, live with us, and teach us the old skills."
The blood ran straight to Shamilon's face and he turned red as an apple. He slammed his fist against the bark of a tree and his knuckles began to bleed. He turned to shout at the girl. "You've used me, Mirabel," he said. "You don't really like me at all. You just want what I can give you. You want to take me away from my people, from my family and my home, to live in your magic city. You disgust me!"
"Shamilon, listen to me . . ."
"No. I'm tired of listening to you," he said. She tried to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away and ran, out of the forest, back to his parents' home.
For the next week, Shamilon moped around his family farm, listless and depressed. He helped his father harvest their corn crop, but found it difficult to keep his mind on his work. His thoughts kept returning to Mirabel, a woman who had tried to use him, a woman whom he now hated with a passion. He discovered that he hated everything about her.
Shamilon thought of Mirabel when he was milking the cows, early in the morning. He thought of her people, how they were silly and small-minded. How they relied on their frivolous technology.
He thought of Mirabel when he was feeding the chickens. Shamilon wondered how she'd ever hoped to lure him away from his home and family. She could offer him nothing. Absolutely nothing of value.
He thought about her while he walked to his study sessions with Pastor Simons, and decided to ask the good pastor a veiled question or two.
He waited until his teacher had finished a long sermon on the importance of education and hard work. Nearly thirty other young men crowded the classroom, boys to whom he dared not reveal his secrets. Shamilon, however, fearlessly raised his hand to be recognized.
"What's your question, Shamilon?" Pastor Simons asked.
"Well, sir, I wondered--if someone asks you to teach them something, is that always--always good?"
"Of course. How can you ask such a question?"
"But pastor, suppose the person is bad and wants to use the knowledge for wrongful purposes?"
The pastor clicked his tongue and frowned at his student. "Shamilon, it's part of a teacher's job to instruct his or her students in the proper use of knowledge. For example, suppose I taught you how to read, but didn't give you the right books. That wouldn't be right, would it?"
"No, sir," Shamilon said. "I see your point. But suppose, to do this teaching, you had to travel far away?"
"Your students will come to you, if they really want to learn," the pastor replied.
"Is there any such thing as bad knowledge, pastor? I mean, my dad was telling me about the ancient Technocrats and their technology. Was that knowledge bad?"
The pastor inhaled sharply. "Now, that's a difficult question, Shamilon. I don't really have an answer for you because we don't have any records of their teachings. Some say the Technocrats used magic. That's always bad."
"Oh. But suppose one of these bad, magic Technocrats suddenly appeared and asked to learn what we taught?"
"Well, that would be good. It would show that they were interested in reforming their ways," the pastor said. "But, class, we all know why Shamilon asked, don't we?"
A few of Shamilon's classmates smiled and nodded their heads affirmatively. "Lately, there have been rumors about the Technocrats coming back to our village to ask questions. Now, we all know that's a fairy tale, don't we?" More heads nodded affirmatively. The pastor softened the tone of his voice and spoke directly to Shamilon. "There is no one left alive behind the magic wall, my son. No one. They all died, centuries ago."
Shamilon walked home after his class in a state of confusion. Obviously, the pastor wasn't right about everything. The Technocrats _were_ alive, and Mirabel was the proof. If the girl had told him the truth, her technology wasn't magic. That meant it was okay for him to learn. And it was also okay to teach her how to read and write, if she really wanted to learn.
Shamilon decided to find Mirabel. He'd walk through the forest to the magic wall and call out her name. He'd call until she came to him, no matter how long it took.
Early the next morning, Shamilon crept out of his parents' house and into the forest. He found the small clearing where he'd usually met with Mirabel, then followed the path into the heart of the forest that she'd always used to return to her city. Because it had rained in the past week, he could locate no footprints to guide him. He'd often gone hunting in the woods with his father and had developed excellent tracking skills and a keen sense of direction.
After he had traveled awhile, he noticed a heel mark in the soft ground then, sometime later, he found a ribbon that looked as it came from one of her dresses. By the time he was usually in his parents' barn, milking the cows, he could see the magic wall through the trees, a faint outline of a city visible through its translucent surface.
Shamilon began to run toward the wall, pushing aside tree branches and vines. He stumbled once and fell to his knees, but quickly regained his footing. Minutes later, he had cleared the forest and stood at the base of the wall.
He called the girl's name in a loud, clear voice. "Mirabel. Mirabel, come out. It's me, Shamilon." There was no response to his call, either from the woman in question, or from any other resident of the magic city. "Mirabel. Mirabel, please answer."
He began to pound the wall with his fist. Like rubber, the surface of the wall bounced inward and then out again in response to each blow.
He continued to strike the wall and call for his Mirabel for over half an hour. Shamilon was just about to admit defeat and return home, when several large pairs of hands reached through the wall and grabbed him. Seconds later, he found himself inside the forbidden city, surrounded by four large angry-looking men.
Shamilon rode with Mirabel in the magic hover-car that wasn't magic at all, and gaped with wonder at the amazing city behind the wall.
"I didn't know anyone could make buildings that tall," he said as he stared at one huge skyscraper.
"That's the Palanar City Commerce Center," she replied. "Years and years ago, many very important people worked there. That was back when the people in this city worked. Now, it just stands there, empty."
Shamilon was so busy looking at the flying chariots, the magically lit street signs and the incredible buildings, her words almost didn't register. After an instant however, he realized what she had said. "Nobody in Palanar works?" he asked.
"For years and years, we didn't have to work," she replied. "Our ancestors, the ones who set up the force field, what you call the wall, left us with tons and tons of equipment, to do all the work for us. You see, there's plenty of land here, and we had machines to plant our fields with grain and provide us with food. Mechanical men called robots to raise cattle and chickens for meat. Other machines to take oil, coal and other fuel from the ground and make fuel. We had everything we needed."
Mirabel looked sad and Shamilon wondered what she wasn't telling him "But now...now you don't have everything you need?" he asked.
"Well, these days, no one knows how to fix the equipment when it breaks," she said. "Every day, more and more equipment breaks. Our supplies are running out. Soon, we won't have electricity to power our homes or food to eat, or anything. That's why we need you, Shamilon, and people like you. We need teachers to help us learn basic reading, writing and math skills again."
"Well, we'd be glad to teach you," the young man said. "My people believe in education. Once your kids learn how to read, everything will be all right again, here in your city. Right?"
The girl piloted the hover-car to the ground, turned off its engines, then looked at Shamilon. "Well, it's not quite that simple, Shamilon. Your people can't teach us the engineering skills we need, because none of you know anything about engineering. It'll be a very slow process. Our children will have to learn reading skills from your people, then study the texts left by our ancestors. We must regain all that lost knowledge."
Shamilon got out of the flying vehicle and looked toward the wall and his village. The surface of the wall kept him from seeing anything but shadows behind it.
"Well, we'd better get started. I'll go home, and tell everyone about your city. I'll tell them you aren't evil and get my pastor to bring you books and teachers.
Mirabel glanced over at the boy and her eyes looked hard and determined. Shamilon, we can't let you leave. You can never go home."
"What do you mean, I can't go home?" he asked. "If I can't tell people about you, you won't be able to find teachers--or anything."
"Yes, we will," she said. "We'll find teachers one by one, just as we found you. Many girls have been going into your villages, the one just behind the wall, and other, far-away villages. One way or another, we'll soon have hundreds of your people, hard at work, here in the city. Eventually, we'll learn the skills we need to survive."
Shamilon's lip began to quiver as he realized that these Palanar city-people weren't ever going to let him see his parents, or his village again. "But that's not fair to us, Mirabel. It's a terrible thing to do. And it'll take so long, too. If you let me go home and bring people back here, we'll have you reading and writing in no time!"
Mirabel locked the doors to her hover-car, grabbed Shamilon by the hand and began to lead him toward a dull, gray building. "Come on, Shamilon," she said. "There are some people you have to meet."
The boy pulled his hand away from Mirabel's grasp. "This isn't right," he said. "None of this is right. You can't keep me here."
"Yes, we can," she said. "And we will. We have to do things this way. The city elders will explain it to you and you'll understand."
"No, Mirabel," he said. "You explain it to me, right now." He sat on the ground in front of the building. "Explain it to me or I'm not going anywhere."
"Okay, Shamilon," she said. "It's very simple. I'm surprised a smart boy like you hasn't figured it out. We can't work with your people on a voluntary basis. First, you're all too backward and full of religious mythology. Your people would be scared of us and angry, too. Most of you would refuse to help us. Then, there's another problem."
"Yes? I'm listening," he said in a harsh voice.
"Well, like I said, our supplies are about to run out. We need food and other things. And we need them all, right now. Where do you think we're going to get it?"
"I don't know."
Mirabel sat on the ground next to the young man and looked him straight in the eye. "We're going to get it from your villages, Shamilon. We're going to steal it."
"Steal it?"
The girl sighed heavily. "Yes. So, I guess your people are right about us."
"I don't understand."
"Well, from your perspective, we're evil," she said.
The boy looked at the magic wall again, then looked back at Mirabel. She didn't seem so pretty to him, anymore. In fact, he wondered why he'd ever found her attractive in the first place.
She and her people were nothing but loathsome, slothful parasites.
Nevertheless, Shamilon knew he _would_ teach the citizens of Palanar how to read and write. That was his duty. And it was also his duty to teach them something else, whether they liked it or not. He would teach these Technocrats the difference between right and wrong.
A lifetime resident of Baltimore, Maryland, Steven Schiff is now thirty-nine years young. These days, he's constantly looking for some quiet in which to write more SF short stories. He enjoys working with computers and surfing the web. His work has been published in ComputorEdge, Dark Planet, Cosmic Visions and Zone 9. All comments on this story are welcomed by the author.