“They tell our youth they must reject the Scroll of Ancient Truth and follow these young rebels who try to turn poor Terra upside down with lies.

“They must be stopped. They are vermin in the temple of our glorious ancient truths.

Let vermin die

Or truth shall lie

Destroyed by our

Own apathy

Towards the Shrine

of Older Life.

“They must be driven out,” she rasped. “All who teach that I am dead and thus to be despised … Let’s strike down Everyman and his agnostic crowd, till all men believe again that I do live and hold the only scroll of truth.”

Quickly Sarkon volunteered to lead the group into the heresy-infested ghettos of the city. As they moved through the streets, many in the angry crowd picked up stones.

“Where is Anthem?” said Sarkon to a little singing group they encountered in the streets.

“We know not, brother,” answered all the young Singerians.

“Do you believe the woman is alive and that she owns the great brown scroll of the only truth there is?” Sarkon probed.

“No,” replied a youth in simple openness. He did not know the storm his honesty was shortly to unleash. “No, I don’t … She died a year ago before a village well. That bent old woman is a dragon from the pit.”

“Blasphemy,” croaked an old voice in Sarkon’s retinue. Sarkon grabbed the young man by the throat and screamed in red contempt, “Infidel! You dare to call the mother of our faith a dragon from the pit?”

He struck the youth, who staggered backwards with such force he fell across an old Singerian who was kneeling in the dust. They both sprawled in the street.

“And you, old man. Do you believe the Singer is alive?” Sarkon shouted down in anger.

“I do!” the man replied before the strong and brutish foot of Sarkon fell with crushing force into his abdomen. Sarkon kicked him again full in the face. Blood from his mouth coursed through his silver beard. Unconsciousness delivered him from pain.

In fury then the crowd that Sarkon led fell on the group of singers with clubs and stones. A little girl who saw her mother bludgeoned grasped her bosom just before a flying stone in mercy made her sleep.

When the assailants had withdrawn, no singers moved for most of them were still unconscious in the street. Then some began to stir, each reaching out to others and offering strength and help.

Two never rose. The old man hemorrhaged and died. The woman who received the crushing blow lingered till the night, then peacefully she died. When her daughter woke, she cried.

“Have you a father, little girl?” an old Singerian asked. Her vacant eyes said no. “I’ll find someone to care for you. Come with me tonight,” he said.

When word of the assault reached Everyman and Anthem, the awful burden of the Song began to settle on their leaden hopes. The lamp burned low while they groaned the pain that seared their souls. They saw the ugly storm they knew would come by day. They ached in knowing those who died were but the first. The Star- Song stuck in their throats, and nothing issued out except a lamentation: