On the first day of summer, the saints file from the sanctum of the temple to the gates of the city, to remind the people of the years when summer meant migration and upheaval. Once, the hours of the prescribed reading could be comfortably filled by a procession five abreast - nowadays, the saints march two by two, staggered and pacing themselves to keep the march from petering out before the scripture.
The youth's legs are burning by the time the youngest of the saints march by, their hair greying, their faces lined. In years past, he and his father would stay to see the very oldest of the chosen, household names in their filmy robes and wispy beards, then make their way through the surrounding festivities to find sweets and listen to storytellers. This year, though, he is a man, with no excuse for laziness; this year, his father is a judge, with a responsibility to show his face throughout the proceedings.
At least this new station has earned the family a spot close enough to the temple doors to hear the oration, the sweet words the boy has almost committed to memory - now, at the end, the high priests chant the commission of the saints, the binding of all children born under the Lords' sign to their service. Never mind that the sign was last seen decades ago. Never mind that the Lords left no back-up plan.
The boy does not notice he is swooning under the sun until his father catches him, pulling him close to his side, his head crested in sunlight as he smiles through his beard and says
"Oi!"
And the owner of the Hive flophouse is jabbing him with a broom, saying his 'jink' is only good for an 'anti-peak', and that - to paraphrase - it is in his best interests to get a move on. So he throws on his hat, grabs his meagre belongings and stumbles out into the sunless, godless dawn.
Tarkan Margolis
