“I am glad to see you, my boy,” my grandmother said, kissing my head.

“I’m glad to see you as well,” I replied.

“I thought we were going to lose you. It was hard work raising you for all those years after your parents died, and I was concerned you were going to go the way that they did and find yourself dead because of politics. I still am a bit upset you let yourself get taken advantage of, though, by that teacher. I knew he was up to no good but I couldn’t get you to see it.”

“Well, you were right, for what it’s worth.”

“They’re going to put you to work, I’m sure of it, but at least you’re alive, and you have a chance to turn things around.”

“I will do what I can to make sure that I keep my nose clean and do what I can.”

“I know you will. You’ve always had persistence, and you will still be able to do things right.”

There was a brief pause as we struggled to find words.

“Do you think you’ll be able to write to me while I’m in the camp?”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to keep in touch with you. I’m sure your letters will be read after this, but it’s a small price to pay to keep in touch with you.”

“How do the people back at home think?”

“Well, at first when they heard you were on trial they were a bit upset, but once the facts got out they understood what was going on and they’ve got your back.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Promise that you’ll write back, no matter how much work you do.”

“I will, grandma. Believe me, I will. I’ll need someone to tell my stories to, after all.”

And with that, my grandma was ushered out of the room I was taken to, and to my surprise, the judge came in.

“I have a question to ask you,” the judge began.

“Ask away, your honor.”

“Do you wish to see your own mock funeral ceremony or not?”

I was taken aback by this, and could not immediately respond, so I tilted my head.

“Sometimes people can find it cathartic to see themselves as leaving one phase of life and entering a new one, stripped of their past and with nothing to do but to go forward.”

“I must admit I am curious to see it.”

“Very well, then, you shall set it, and after the ceremony you will be taken to Point Pleasant Work Camp.”

“Thanks for asking me.”

“You’re welcome, kid.” And with that, the judge nodded his head, turned, and left the room. I wondered what other surprises would come this day, but that seemed to be it. A jailer told me to get my rest, as I would be taken to the ceremony of the living death in the morning and could probably use my sleep before making the journey to Point Pleasant. I returned to my cell and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up and was taken in my prison clothes out of the cell and out of the Port Bravia prison to a small vehicle that drove me to a funeral home. While I was not allowed to sit in public before the ceremony, there was a room where, guarded, I watched the ceremony on a screen. I have to admit the ceremony was very strange to me. There was an open and empty coffin sitting on a platform at the front of the funeral parlor. Unlike in most funerals, no one left any flowers, since I was clearly not dead, but people did leave all kinds of cards and letters that expressed various sentiments for me. Some of them were insulting, calling me a Marxist stooge and other things like that. Others expressed the hope that I would be able to enjoy a new life and encouraged me that my life was not over, whatever I may fear. These cards were collected and later given to me. I was able to store them and they were later added to a museum in Point Pleasant that had an exhibit on my time in the work camp as a member of the living dead, once I found my way to the palace, at least.”

“How did that happen?” one of the grandchildren piped up.

“I’m coming to that part, be patient.”

“Alright, gramps.”

A priest, dressed in a plain blue robe, stood up at a lectern to give a message, raising his hands, palm up, to the heavens. “We are gathered here to celebrate a rare and unusual event, the ceremony of the living death. A young man found himself being deceived as was our first mother, and finds himself banished from the life that he has known just as our first father and mother were banished from the Garden of Eden for their taking of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that did not bring life but instead brought death for all humanity. Yet even though this young man whose living death we mourn today is dead to his old self and identity and to his political and property rights, there is always a way back both to God and a way to serve others. With hard work, an attitude of repentance, and with a continued focus on serving others and developing the talents that God has given, there is a way back to usefulness to fellow man and to one’s community as a whole. We hope that young Henry Olivander is able to cultivate his talents and find a way to rejoin the community as a servant rather than to suffer death and estrangement forever. Let us all join in prayer for the well-being of Henry.”

With that the people who had gathered together bowed their heads and everyone silently prayed, moving their lips in silent petitions to the Father of All as the priest did the same, silently and without a great deal of show. Once a bit of time, but not too much, had gone by, the priest opened his eyes and nodded his head, and the crowd mostly left the room, except for those few who came to look into the empty coffin with reflective looks on their faces. After the ceremony was done, I was taken from the funeral parlor and moved to the courthouse. I was not taken into the courthouse, though, but rather found myself joined by a few other people who were dressed in prison clothes and who, along with me, entered an old white school bus. I had wondered if we would be blind-folded or put in the back of a truck, but in this bus we moved from Port Bravia along the coast road, stopping at a few small towns to pick up other young people who were in similar garb who entered the bus from various small town courthouses as we made our way west from the coast to a point near the delta of the Western River that marks the border of Bravia.

Once we arrived at Point Pleasant, which was surrounded by a tall fence with barbed wire on top, and where there was a collection of old but well-maintained buildings around a dirt parking lot where we were deposited, we were instructed to leave the bus and stand in a straight line parallel to the bus that we had left. Once we had done so, the young men–we were all young man, sadly–were faced by a physically fit and trim middle-aged man who informed us in rather brusque language that we were now the property of the state and that we would be put to work in whatever task that was thought to be of use to the nation of Bravia. I do not remember all of the words that he said, but I distinctly remember that he called us all maggots or something of that nature, and that it would be his pleasure to whip us all into some kind of shape.

We were then led into one of the buildings, where less brusque and rude people gave us blue uniforms to wear and we were given assignments as to where we would be staying during our time in Point Pleasant. We were also told the schedule that would govern our time for the next several years. We were to wake up at 0500 in the morning, shower, make our beds, and then head out to initial review in our uniforms. After this was done, we were to have breakfast, and then do our morning work. For me, that meant digging postholes most of the time, which was exhausting work. Once the morning work period ended, at the middle of the day, we ate lunch. Then, for those of us who like me were young and either had not finished education or showed promise for higher education, or both, we had classes in the afternoon.”

“What kind of classes did you have, grampa?” the ginger girl asked.

“Well, some of the classes were of a practical nature, focusing on subjects like agriculture and forestry, as well as construction techniques and the like. Other courses were of a moral and religious nature, as we were taught about how we should behave in our daily lives as well as the laws and ways of Bravia as well as the Holy Scriptures. Other courses were more of the usual academic courses that one would expect, classes in mathematics, literature and writing, science, history and other social sciences, as well as the various languages of Bravia, and, for those of us who showed special academic promise, courses in Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic, so that we might best understand the ancient scriptures in their original languages. I was pleased to read a great many books and to see that the courses were not all the sort of rote memorization I was concerned about, but also included a great deal of give and take between the students and teachers.”

“How long were you there?”

“I ended up being in Point Pleasant for about nine years, actually. Do you want me to go into more detail about my time there and how I managed to get from there to here?”

“Yes, grampa,” the grandchildren said in unison.

“Very well, then, and with that discussion, we will conclude my story.”