What was the point of a prophecy if, knowing what would happen, a body was still incapable of changing it?
Constance studied the eyes of Anna Lightfoot-Owens as they gazed past her, past the invisible boundary of the tower walls, out into the depths of space. Black with curious flecks of gold, those eyes had always seemed to represent a universe unto themselves, a cosmos in competition with the one outside. How many times had Constance found herself, along with the other colonists, gazing into those eyes and listening to her smooth, deliberate voice? She had sat at the community table, flaking the crust of fresh-baked bread in her hands as she listened to Miss Anna tell stories of her travels across the wastelands of North America with her husband, bringing words of hope and progress to outposts scattered far from Tomorrow. She had sat with the children, holding little Reese Howard in her lap while Miss Anna regaled them with stories of her own childhood under the shadow of Epiphany, before the sky had been returned to mankind. She had stood on the fringes of the meeting hall, counting the hoots and whoops of affirmation thrown by the other colonists as Miss Anna described the planet that was waiting for them, the place she had seen in her vision, the promised land with a sky of royal purple. She thought of the prayer meetings, the worship meetings, the services held when lights were low and bones were tired from monotony, when Miss Anna would coax the Holy Spirit from the ether with songs and supplications until most of the colonists were drunk with it.
Where is the Spirit now? She wondered, watching Anna's eyes. Why can't you do that here? Having prophesied that the colonists would be split apart before the tower ever came into view, Miss Anna now seemed helpless, unable to summon the charismatic power that had been so effective on Westward. What was the point of a prophecy if, knowing what would happen, a body was still incapable of changing it?
"This is your fault," Constance thought. Or did she say it? She wasn't certain. While she was watching the older woman's expression to find out, they were distracted by the shadow of an approaching form, silent on the moss-like ground.
Constance saw that it was John Mays. A computer specialist by vocation, Mays was a soft-spoken man in his early twenties with strikingly dark skin that made his eyes and teeth a piercing white in contrast. Constance could see why Sarah Brown, blond and lily-white, had been attracted to him early on. They were engaged now, planning a wedding ceremony for a planet with a purple sky.
There was a brief exchange of greetings. Constance nodded her head in the direction of the camp. "Sarah's over there," she told him, "giving a lesson."
"I'm not here for Sarah," John said, his tone strangely flat when he spoke the name of his fiancée. "I'm here for you."
Constance was startled. "What do you mean?"
"I have a message for you," John explained, holding a hand out toward her.
"A message from who?" Constance asked.
"From her," John said, as if it was already obvious. "She wants you."