The White Shield House

I watch the flooded town of Amsterdam with relief. It took us almost two months from the Ural Mountains to get here. There were so many obstacles that I thought we wouldn’t make it. If Sam wasn’t so good in conducting the boat, we wouldn’t be here now. I can see a myriad of islands made of ancient rooftops, silent witnesses of centuries of decay. 

Our contact is waiting for us in a gardened harbor that once was a terrace in the top of a tall building. He’s a short man, with blond hair and green eyes. His clothes are clean but worn out, jeans and a white t-shirt. Not much different from what I’m wearing.- Hello, dear. Your mother is well, I assume.
“Yes, Mr. Van der Wieden. When I left her, she was working hard. The Paris’ Reconstruction Effort is taking all her time but she’s happier than ever.”
“I’m also happy that the White Shield has finally got the permission to erect its own city-state. It was about time we get a permanent shelter for our treasures.”

I smile in response. Van der Wieden guides me to his shack, a small wooden structure decorated with a chaotic combination of books, pictures, boxes of all sizes and dirt. He points out two big boxes.
“This is the result of two years of White Shield’s efforts in the Low Countries area. The ducal palace had a lot of artifacts, most of them in perfect condition. It only takes me three dives with a helper to get a bunch of good stuff. Your mother will be very pleased.”
“Sure. She is anxious to begin the Dutch wing of our Museum.”
“And this is your gift for your mother. I could restore it without much problem. Sixteenth century’s leather-bound and vellum... An almost perfect combination. I think she will be enchanted.”
He gives me a carefully made package that I put in my backpack. We arrange the boxes on my little boat with Sam’s help. I look around, seeing that we’re almost out of space. Beyond the load from Amsterdam, there are our own findings, in Eastern Europe. It was a rewarding trip.
And the voyage home begins.

***

We travel in silence because Sam can’t speak, as his ancestors had lost this ability in the years after the Final War. We flow along a river stream, one that wasn’t there three centuries ago. Today the planet called Earth is much more water than anything.

I contemplate the green pastures that show up every now and then. For me, this is a marvelous sighting, as this was a wasteland, marked by craters and radioactive clouds until a century ago.

It took long, almost three centuries; to mankind heal the scars left by the Final War. In the beginning, everyone was unhappy, confused, not trusting in our recovery. But hope was always there, in the shape of the White Shield.
I’m proud of it. It is my organization, my family, my mission.

We arrive in Paris almost ten hours later. Sam is more tired than me, so I let him in the boat as I walk towards my final destination, to call someone to help me with the boxes. It is always a pleasure to wander on the streets. Most of the buildings are now ruins but the organization had retained its memories, with holographic models and projection showing old splendors. The Council had decided to reconstruct most of the historical buildings in old downtown.
But here the vestiges would remain as a warning of how close we have been to final destruction.

Beyond the ruins, I can hear shouts and the sound of people working. The ReConstruction team salutes me as I walk by.
“Marianne, it’s great to see you. So, how did your trip go?”
“It went very well indeed, uncle. The boat is full and Sam will need a hand to unload it.”
“I’ll take care of this myself, dear. Go on, your mother is just ahead.”

I reach the House, a huge museum, built in the most modern architectural style. After making a security check, I go on the alleys, smiling to the scenario around me. I compliment old friends of mine: statues that have seen centuries, monuments that resisted more than fifty wars, masterworks that crossed generations, all part of the cultural treasure rescued by us.

I see open doors to studies and bureaus, where documents are transcribed, translated, cleaned, restored. These fragments of history, of good and bad, will be as safe as the art works in our museum. And the popular culture, protected as a treasure. The entire west wing of the building is consecrated to teach languages, tales, dances, foods, festivities, music and other manifestations that would be long dead without us.

Mankind rebuilt itself with our help. We shared the cultural patrimony we saved. We went looking out for more in the rumbles of our old civilization. We built museums, libraries, mediatheques, schools, theatres. We taught and researched and preserved.

In the 20th Century, some researchers became aware of the danger to our most important patrimony. They founded the Blue Shield to protect our culture from wars and disasters around the globe. It didn’t take long to Final War happen. With the indiscriminate use of nuclear weaponry and biological attacks. Mankind was reduced to a few groups living isolated. The first Shield organization was destroyed as well and only a few of its members survived.

From those honored few, Blue Shield’s successor was born. They called themselves the White Shield and they struggled to save our culture. Much was lost – I grew up listening to my mother longing to see Diego Rivera’s mural painting or the design of Brasilia.

But we saved enough. Bit by bit, the White Shield distributed culture to the remaining people, helping in the birth of our new civilization. And now, we live in something close to a paradise.

I knock in a door I know too well. My mother answers and I come in. The White Shield’s director receives me with a wide smile and a warm hug. I’m thrilled to be back here and anxious to give her the gift.

Before she asks anything, I open my backpack and take the package out. She looks at me puzzled.
“What’s this, Marianne?”
“A gift. Your birthday was two weeks ago, I knew, but as I wasn’t here...”
She kisses my cheek and begins to unwrap it.

As she sees the content, tears make her eyes blink. I’m not surprised: of all the books I collected in all my years in the White Shield House, none was more significant: De Optimo Reipublicae Statu deque Nova Insula Utopia, the 1516 first edition.
But to my surprise, she says, in a hoarse whisper:
“Where did you find this? How dare you take this to our home?’
She lets the book fall from her hands, trembling and in the verge of crying.
“Mother, I thought...”
“You didn’t think, Marianne. You never think about what you’re doing. I have warned you so many times: books are as dangerous as they are precious to us. They could be a treasure and a curse.”
I look down to the book, opened on the floor. Desiderius Erasmus was a philosopher, a visionary that dreamed of a peaceful world, when people would be treated as equals. It seems a harmless way of thinking for me.
Although I never really had read anything by him, I have learned that in History classes, through qualified teachers. They spoke of Erasmus’ defense of freedom, peace, free will and equality. They described Utopia as an inventive literary work that express these same values.
Why is mother acting like that?

“Mother, I know something about Erasmus and his works. He speaks of moral values that we, in the White Shield House, are fighting to preserve. And I don’t remember we have a copy of Utopia, even a later one. This one – and I bend myself to take the book – is a treasure.”
My mother raises her trembling hand in my direction, trying hard to control her emotions.
“Give me that, Marianne. I’ll throw that in the incinerator.”
“You what? No! You can’t do that. This is a masterpiece, a once in a lifetime find!”
My mother has an angry expression. Her face is red and her lips are twisted.
“Don’t push me, daughter. I’ll do what I have to. Our peaceful future is worth more than a simple book, even if it’s a preciosity. Now, give me the book.”
“I won’t. I’m taking it with me.”
“What are you saying, Marianne?”
I face my mother. She’s caught between anger and confusion, lips twisted in disgust.
“I’m leaving, mother. I won’t work for you anymore. I can’t work for something that I don’t trust and believe.”
My mother snaps at me, with hate in her eyes.
“You don’t know anything, child. You think that books are treasures, innocent testimonials of days past and hope that once was lost. It’s so much more, you idiot! Books retain information and information is power, in its most raw form. We, at the White Shield House, have to control all the knowledge people will receive from our findings so we can control them. This book will make people doubt what we do, what we achieved in all this years. I can’t let it reappear.”
My chest aches and I can’t breathe. My life is shattering in front of my eyes. All I ever believed was a lie, a dirty one. And she, oblivious of my pain or delighting herself in it, continues.
“People don’t need to know everything and we pass only the information they need to rebuild our civilization in its splendor. If we let the excess of, the non-sense talk of things that no one misses anymore, we’ll ruin everything we have been fighting for in the last three hundred years. I won’t allow you to ruin everything we achieved, Marianne. Now, give me that damned book!”
So, without even a second thought, I turn my back to her and start to run. My body aches with physical pain from the shock. It hurts just to be there, between these same walls I used to adore when I was a child. The pictures on the wall are blurred by tears as I pass them by.
My uncle shouts at me but I ignore him. He must know everything she said to me. He’s her aid, her loyal friend, her brother. The others stare at me as well, but I don’t care. I just want to be out of here.
Sam is on our boat, resting. He’s surprised to see me and shocked when he sees the tears. His gesture asks ‘what happened’ and I signal to him that everything is fine, but I have to travel with urgency. I can’t convince him to stay. He insists that his place is at my side, to guide and protect me. He doesn’t even allow me to explain that I’m leaving the organization forever.
Holding Morus’ book very tight against my chest, I leave behind the only home I ever knew. I know I will long for the Parisian ruins or for the White Shield House. I will never see the rooftops’ islands again. But it’s worth it.
My children will be strong, free-willed and will know everything I ever learn. And when I die, they will keep the last Utopia. 

Ana Cristina Rodrigues is a writer and historian who spend her time in this plane of existence writing, researching Medieval History and preserving old maps. She also takes care of a household that includes a son, a husband, a trio of parakeets and an undetermined number of cats.