The Ishim Underground

by Carrie Bailey

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Eron woke to the outline of the bailiff in his doorway holding a clipboard and bit of charcoal. His head was pounding like an Auckian tax collector in spring.

  “We’re just friends,” cried Eron bolting upright.

  But, Ester was gone.

  “I’ll make a note of it,” said the bailiff dryly. “I'm taking census. Two occupants. Male. On youth. Where is the other one?"

  "Still out," said Eron, rubbing his face with his palms. He sat up and looked around the bright room. "Glad it's census, not rent," he said, trying to smile even though it hurt his face.

  "That, too," said the Ishim. "You will need to join our labor force unless you plan to bring back plunder."

  "No one said anything about paying rent," said Eron.

  "Nothing in this world is free," droned the Ishim. "Report to my office before the first sleep and I'll get you registered."

  "I thought that was the point of being a thief," said Eron.

  Ester was at her wheel when Eron found her room. The wheel spun rhythmically as she hummed. Fresh bowls lined the shelves. Many had designs pressed into them with sticks and rods, but a few where painted. One in particular caught Eron's eye. It was the cave, but rather than being aglow in green dust, it was purple and behind, a great white light instead of the endless darkness. Incredible. She was, in Eron's estimation, an excellent potter. The lumps of clay stacked beside her wheel appeared to be a dark brown, but Eron knew in sunlight, it would be reddish. And though crude and thick, their form was skillfully fluid.

  “Do we have to get married n-now?” he stammered nervously.

  It was a question that weighed heavily on his mind since he woke that morning. He'd never touch a girl's hair before. In his city, the question wouldn't even need asking.

  “Tempting offer,” Ester smirked, dipping her hands into a pot of water and tilting them at an angle over his wheel. She began to shape a rough ball of clay secured to the base of her wheel. Her foot bobbed up and down on the pedal. But, when she saw how violently Eron's legs were shaking, she stopped the wheel, slowly bringing the clay into a half formed lump. After wiping her hands on her heavy gray apron for some time, she got up and brought a cushion for him to sit on.

  “This isn’t Auck City, Eron. We can wear our hair loose. No face paint required. Trousers even. And there is no shame in having friends,” Ester added, putting a clay kettle, she had obviously made herself, over the grate on her small fire.

  Eron's mother would not approve. Women in trousers were not women. Thadine had once poured over Bo, their neighbor, now Captain. She brought the girl dresses and ribbons. When Bo joined the Red Guard, Thadine stopped inviting her to the factory. Eron didn't know what he thought.

  “Auckian women don't have to wear face paint or cover their hair,” he said. “I think it protects their skin from sun damage.”

  Ester furrowed her brow, "What happens when they don't?"

  The conversation was not going well. Eron made a lame excuse to leave, before he walked into any more serious levels of trouble, and headed back to his own chamber where he discovered Amit sprawled out, arms and legs over the floor, face down. Eron pulled the woolen banner across his front door and stepped around the spotted boy, making sure to accidentally plant a quick jab in his rib with a toe. The boy groaned.

  Eron's bundle and what remained of his possessions were laid out along the counter, carved out of the rock. No joints. Just chips and scratches from years of use. He didn't remember doing that.

  His loin cloths, nearly the texture of bark, were just a straight piece of light weight fabric with two strings on either end. The strings were tied in front, the fabric pulled through the legs, looped over the tie in the front, then tucked back through the legs where the final tip of the cloth was twisted and stuffed into the back. After a certain point, turning it over and tying it in the other direction just wouldn’t do. They needed washing.

  And Eron’s single marino undershirt had a hole in the armpit enough to fit his foot through. They had been using green rags, torn from the tunic Amit was wearing when they met, to tie up things, but those things that needed tying had been reclaimed by the thieves after their trial and their rags were taken as well.

  “Where’s my slingshot?” said Amit feeling the fitting around his belt.

  “Did you leave it at the pub?” said Eron, securing his bundle with the leather straps.

  The thin limbs of the young boy flailed about his pockets. He stood weakly and rummaged under the cloak and fur he slept on. Amit threw himself at the few things he had left on the counter before stumbling over to Eron’s bundle, which Eron deftly swopped before it fell into his inebriated grasp.

  “You're drunk,” said Eron. "And how old are you?"

  “Where is my plunder?” cried the boy.

  “It’s not plunder when you come by it honestly,” Eron snapped.

  “Go sit on pike,” said the boy slurred.

  Only one day as a thief and he was already sounding just like them. Amit gestured at Eron then turned and landed against the wall, which neither rattled nor resounded, but absorbed the blow. Thick chunks of chunks of the dust caked onto the boy’s fist and bits fell like soft green pollen. Amit clutched at his chest, feeling for Tunkukush's tube. His eyes rolled back in his head and he folded over, unconscious. His slingshot was tucked into the boy's belt on his back.

  "We have to work today,” said Eron, knowing Amit wouldn't hear him. "Because, that's what thieves do. Apparently."

  While Amit slept, Eron cleaned. He didn't have a pot or bowl to collect dust in, but he swept it around with his hand. It was a mysterious thing. Gray when the fire was lit. Green in the dark. And the darker it was, the greener the dust. He heaped a pile of dust at the foot of the banner that covered their door and surveyed their room. There was nothing more to be done except maybe, wash his clothes. There was a basin for that built into the counter, but he didn't have a pitcher and unlike the pub and Ester's workshop, where she lived, he wasn't connected to the pipe system that brought water from above.

  Gawds, the room was so empty.

  After he finally recovered, a day later than Eron expected. The spotted boy fumed and raged against the idea that they would have to work in exchange for their room in the den. It was an offense to everything the boy believed in.

  "I will not work!" screamed Amit.

  Eron grabbed his tunic, but the boy got lose. He reached for his wrist and began to drag him fitfully toward their door, "I waited," said Eron, struggling to move forward. "I hide all day. Yesterday."

  "I'm a thief!" the boy howled. "I'm going for plunder! I. Will. Not. Work!"

  He let go and Amit tumbled onto the rocky floor. One problem with living underground Eron had already noticed was that not all the rock was smooth. Amit had scrapped his elbow. Blood trickled down his pale forearm. There was really nothing to clean it with except Amit's cloak. The boy criss crossed his scrawny legs and wiped himself with the old rag.

  "Maybe they need us to kill someone," said Eron, taking the vial with the three bumps on the bottom end from his bundle.

  He had wanted to unpack. He wanted to make their room a home. Considering how long they might be there, the bare surfaces and hollow space felt wrong. But, he didn't trust the thieves.

  The prospect of being recruited as assassins eventually persuaded the boy to join Eron outside the bailiff's office. Once lined up with the other thieves, determined to be his own man, Amit refused to stand next to Eron. Shoulder to shoulder with taller, more muscular men, Eron missed Amit immediately though the boy was wedged between two men only three men down. More and more men gathered until the line up spilled out from the major buildings of the den down to the open space below the elevator. More than one hundred men stood waiting stiffly in formation when the bailiff came out and began jotting notes on one of his scrolls.

  "This is Able, as most of you know," said the bailiff, pointing behind him with the back of his graphite
stick. "With our annual beefalo hunt beginning tomorrow, he is in charge of organizing the participants." Able stepped forward and looked over the men. "Considering everything that has happened this summer, all the highway men will be joining the hunt to provide relief for displaced families and the elderly."

  Able was large. That was the easiest thing to say about him. And he wasted no time handing out job assignments. No speech. Just work. Although Amit and Eron were both given duties as kitchen hands, the spotted boy celebrated privately, all but ignoring Eron. And he refused to walk with him back to their chamber when the thieves were dismissed.

  Eron moped back to their spartan home while Amit went straight to the pub. For the first time since he left Dunedin, he felt lonely. Scared even. Eron couldn't see around joining the beefalo hunt. Gil was safe in Dunedin. And he was to scrub pots and boil things out in the open, on the plains, where anyone could see him. Worried, he couldn't force himself to go out that night. The thieves and highway men pounded the ground in front of his door and the tiny oval hole that was their only window. Packed and ready to leave, they would be leaving the room empty.

  Shame. The most desperate part of feeling lonely. He neither spoke nor approached anyone that night. Although he took a walk over to Ester's workshop, he found it empty. And Tunkukush's tube, which Amit had left in their room, was also empty. He wanted to go home. Instead, he spread out his cloak and fur. And he cried while everyone else celebrated straight through the night.

  In the morning, they joined the caravan of thieves and passed the morose lamassu separately. Both abominations flapped their wings, cooling their furry bodies, as they studied the masses slowly leaving the den. After more thana month underground, the sunlight wrecked Eron's view and he stumbled nearly underfoot, inches from Mosul.

  “MEAT?” asked the smaller of the beasts.

  “Like you need it,” Eron whispered under his breath, tempting fate. But, the lamassu, as aggressively and inhumane as they were, occupied a functional role for the thieves and monks alike. In exchange for defense of the den, they ate well. Not something even the boldest animal would jeopardize. Mosul drooled on him, but left Eron unharmed. Mostly. The drool sort of stung.

  The terrain they were crossing offered little cover from the rain. A light sprinkle tickled Eron’s nose as they marched up the hill. Bearing north and west, the caravan brought a few wheelbarrows and many weapons as they pounded over the footpaths toward the plains. All one hundred thieves and highway men.

  “I hate washing dishes,” said Amit flopping down beside Eron who was diligently peeling root vegetables at camp one night.

  Other than the occasional chat with a thief or Ester, who usually preferred to walk with the women, Eron had spent time more alone than ever before. One hundred travelers and almost no one to talk with. And no sign of the spider. Even in Dunedin, he had more companionship. It had been nearly a week he was alone with his own dark thoughts. And memories.

  “I need a bath,” said Eron, ruefully.

  The fine layer of dirt and oil coating his skin and the stinky, crusty feeling around his face, arms and lower body had reached epic proportions.

  “Masterful understatement,” chimed the arachnid’s voice from within the metal tube around Amit’s neck.

  “You can use the dishwater,” said Amit helpfully. Unlike Eron, Amit hadn't stopped wearing his eye patch and he was poking it with end of a spoon Eron had just washed.

  Eron, having already had his hands deep in the sludgy mess, shook his head at them. And he held the corners of his mouth tightly downward not wanting either the boy or the Ishim to sense his relief just knowing they were talking to him again. For a few days, he had imagined he might be mad, if given the opportunity. But, that particular pique swelled and faded just as quickly as the hills opened onto the plains.

  Eron and the other kitchen hands had prepared a mountain of carrots, kumara, sweet potatoes and parsnips for the camp. But, Amit had never shown his face when there was work to be done. As much as he had wanted to, Eron breathed a word about Amit's absence to anyone.

  "Here have a knife," he said, handing Aden's blade to the boy.

  "Simple!" cried Amit.

  Then, Eron plopped a basket of turnips on the boy's lap. Amit's lip curled. Eron felt a fragile hint of joy grip the corners of his mouth and pull them reluctantly into smiling position. He turned so Amit couldn't see him.

  Happiness.

  He had nothing to read, except the discourses. No protection, except the one hundred men and woman traveling beside him. No possessions, except the few things he really needed. And no friends, except the two people in the world, he cared about the most. It was probably only coincidence they were also the two most annoying people he'd ever met.

  Eron left the spotted boy and the spider at the camp. The great herds of beefalo were migrating to the north and the thieves had plotted a course to intercept them, but at midday, they rested. And Eron was due for a break. He found a bend in a nearby stream where he rubbed himself with the rough side of leaves. The fresh air and cold water left his hair standing on end. He dipped his bare toes into the mucky earth and squished them until the water around his feet muddied. And the residual oils from his body drifted down the across the surface of the clear water, shinning colorfully and pooling just above the swirling depths of the stream, which was blocked by floating debris.

  Gooseflesh.

  It tingled.

  Big fluffy clouds spread thinly across the afternoon sky and the sun radiated its warmth with a lazy breeze. Even in summer, the D.O.T. felt like like winter. And though dew still set heavily in the early hours of the morning and the rain made an occasional appearance at the most unwelcome times, the Auckian plains had anticipated autumn, growing brown and brittle. But, at least, they were warm.

  For no reason at all, Eron climbed a fallen log and belly flopped unto the darker part of the stream. It was cold, but deep enough to take the impact. He crawled on his elbows to the shallower bank, pretending to stalk the minnow, which quickly evacuated the water around him. Perfectly content to shiver violently as the cold water coursed over his slender frame, he let his head sink under. And as if fading into a partial slumber, his worries drifted away with the murky waters flowing slowly through the green hillside.

  Ester stood on the bank where his clothes hung over the large log he'd jumped from. Naked and vulnerable, Eron crossed the waters to the other bank, splashing and faltering in rapid retreat away from the woman. She had joined the hunt as one of the navigators, but taken little time to socialize with him since the night they met at the pub.

  But, Ester wasn't even looking at him.

  She crouched down, put a finger to her lip and lifted a bow that Eron hadn't noticed was in her left hand. It was a simple curved unit with little binding around the hand grip. Ester stepped sideways leaving her weight on the top of her foot, silently, quietly, while Eron tried to see what she was after without moving from where he stood waist deep in the stream.

  A loogaroo pup rustled in the brush. Its eyes flashed and its tongue dangled innocently in it's mouth. It's wet nose poked around sniffing the wet and freshly washed cloth that hung over the back of the log, while its dark little tail wagged with excitement. But, the sound of a bow string twang, an arrow whizzing through the air and a yelp cut its life short. It dropped to the ground. Even as a pup, the loogaroo outweighed most human males.

  “They burrow into the ground to raise their young,” said Ester. "Get your clothes on. I'm going to need help here."

  That night, the camp roasted dog meat. Loogaroo. A mother and six pups had been taken by the thieves. Their skins had been scraped, dried and prepared to wear as disguises. With skins tied over them, the thieves were ready to approach the herd of beefalo.

  "Why don't they eat the old ones that die?" Eron asked over their dinner. "You know, before they turn carrion?" The juicy meat tasted divine, but the thought of the poor pup gnawed at him.

 
"What? Wait around for one to keel over?" chuckled a short bearded, stocky thief.

  Amit might have been sitting beside him again that night around their fire, but that didn't stop him from laughing at Eron along with the others. Amit could fit in there. He never would.

  “You’d rather read about beefalo than shootimacate one," said the thief.

  "I'd have to think about that," said Eron.

  The thief stood and pushed his stump behind him, "You wouldn't slice its heart from its chest." He breathed in and pretended to grasp a heart in his hand. "Feel it beating as the blood ran down your arm.”

  Wild eyes. Eron didn't like him.

  Approaching the edge of the fire, Able, a dark and unusually distinct looking man with heavy brows, pointed at three of the eleven seated. They would be joining the hunt.

  “Here, give this a good scrubimacation,” said the stocky thief drinking the drippings from the dog meat and root vegetable medley. He tossed the bowl at Eron's feet. "I need to sleep."

  The other two who had been selected left as well. Amit didn't seem crushed about not getting chosen until Eron caught him slamming dishes into the washtubs later that night.

  “Can you hunt large game with your slingshot?” said Eron.

  “No, but I can cut anything,” shouted Amit waving a dripping kitchen knife through the air. "With this."

  "Able took the men who had real weapons," said Eron.

  The boy looked crestfallen. Whereas Eron thought he'd given him hope for being part of the hunt in years to come, Amit, like the child he was, only felt the pain of missed opportunity more deeply.

  "We can watch from the cliff tomorrow," he blurted.

  Amit’s golden eyes widened and before Eron could take it back, the boy had loaded a stack of pots to soak and pulled off his apron.

  "I'm going to get some wine," said the boy.

  He pushed past Ester who was on her way to the ring of basins where they'd been working.

  "Am I the only one who thinks its wrong to let him drink?" asked Eron, exasperated.

  "It's only berry juice," she said.

  "But, he gets drunk!" said Eron, watching the boy rush toward the rabble of men who hadn't yet retired for the night.

  "Here," she said, handing him her greasy dish. "I've got to get to sleep."

  "Oh," said Eron, taking the familiar clay bowl in hand. "You're going on the hunt."

  She nodded and grinned.

  At first light, Amit dragged Eron through the tall grasses upward to the vantage point that overlooked the herds. From the cliff top, they could see purple spots galloping together below looking more like raisins than real food.

  “There,” said Amit pointing.

  Hardly distinguishable from the other dark masses, about fifteen thieves with loogaroo furs tied to their shoulders were creeping slowly toward the outliers of the herd on the far side of the valley. The beefalo had trodden and munched the ground in the valley nearly bare in trail of endless consumption. As soon as they noticed the thieves, bellowing, the beasts charged together like debris gathering in a stream. They turned their horns outward toward the advancing men. Later, the thieves on horseback would drive the herd into a narrow passage where the others waited on the rocks to pick off the ones most likely to fall.

  “I’m going down there,” said the boy.

  Eron gripped his shoulder.

  “With only your slingshot?”

  But, the boy broke free and skidded down the loose earth, like a rolling rock, toward the passage where the others were assembling. Dust flew up behind him.

  Eron followed.

  But, he hadn't realized he'd lost weight. Though belted, his trousers slid down and gaped at his hips. He grabbed them and held them tightly with one arm as he ran after Amit. They sprinted over a footpath that veered through brambles that scraped the skin on his arms. Amit, much swifter and nimble than he was, easily pulled ahead. And soon was nothing more than a yellow spot hurdling itself ever closer to the action.

  Alongside the herd, the dust swirled. Eron heard the horsemen shouting. They were on the move. The hunt had began. The dense horns of the beefalo stuck out from the darker fur that massed on their great purple foreheads and sharp shoulders. Its hunch impressive, like a hill of fur that tapered downward to their minuscule hind legs and meager tails. But, when they ran together, they swarmed and tore the earth apart. The ground shook. The sky blurred with dust and it engulfed the wild boy.

  Eron froze.

  One of the beefalo, still running, with uncountable wooden shafts and feathers jutting out of its dying frame, had turned back from the narrow passage along with a small portion of the herd divided from their fellows. Weakening, it slowed and the other beefalo blew past it. With bloodlust on his face, Eron watched the stocky thief from the previous night, drop from his horse and shove a knife in the animal's side.

  He knew it was time to retreat before getting caught in the stampede.

  That night, the sun set in hues of pink and orange like pigment dropped onto wet paper by the gawds. Eron promised them everything if they'd bring the boy back from the hunt intact. He was responsible. And that night amid the revelry of feasting thieves, the gawds granted most of his prayer. The cries of women often cut through the ruckus, the loud booms of baritones and tenors, and often lingered long after the others had faded. He heard Ester calling his name.

  Amit had been taken to a tent with three other injured. His yellow hair matted against the ground, glistening with sweat by the gentle glow of a glass container full of luminescent dust someone had brought from the den.

  “The fracture on his left leg is anticomplete,” said highway man tending him. “And he crackedified four ribs.”

  “It’s broken all the way through or not?” said Eron confused.

  “I said it was complete.”

  A cold sweat. Amit was slippery and his cheeks were chilled. Eron wiped his hand on the boy's sleeve just as Amit would have done.

  "I'm sorry," said Ester, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  Bones could be set. People could heal. But, injuries had a tendency to fester and turn septic. Infections killed more people than injury. In modern times, they had medicines to stop it. Eron and Amit lived in the wrong time for that. Tunkukush’s tube pinged once. Right. There was no time to waste.

  "Watch him," said Eron who charged out of the tent.

  The celebration churned wildly around the camp. They'd cut and piled meat in the wheel barrows. One purple beefalo filled a single wooden cart. Eron plodded past them. Their furs could warm a person during the worst part of winter. Eron darted around the frames on which the thieves had started to cure the thick curly mats. They were threaded and pulled tight. The flesh side had already been scraped.

  Eron had taken to hiding his bundle in a bush whenever the caravan stopped. It was too troublesome to carry while he was scrubbing things. After fetching the vial, which he suspected contained Ishim coffee, he brought it to Amit. The boy moaned as he opened his mouth. A few thick dark drops of that and the poppy concoction carried Amit’s suffering away into the plush warm dreams of total inebriation. As he drifted, he fought a friendly battle to keep his eyelids open. One he lost while Eron took Tunkukush's tube.

  “What did you give him?" the highway man, a woman with sharp features and brown hair and skin, demanded.

  Eron showed her the vial containing the Dunedin herbalist’s pain killer while he slipped the other one into his pocket.

  "Give it to me," she said.

  Eron handed it to her and she opened it and sniffed.

  “Don't,” said Ester. But, it was too late.

  Outside the fires roared and so did the thieves with glorious undulations of the tongue. Distracted for a moment, Eron did see the woman put the little red bottle to her lips, but it was quickly drained. The woman didn't make eye contact as she quit the tent.

  “She must have already finished the rest of the supplies,” said Ester riffling thr
ough the baskets.

  Only empty bottles remained.

  “Why would she do that?” said Eron.

  “The addicts always volunteer for this job,” said a puff of mist. The freshly formed arachnid settled itself on Eron’s arm. He was never going to get used to that, but it didn't seem to phase Ester.

  "She was the only one who volunteered," she said, sighing, and surveying the other wounded. "They'll be in terrible pain soon."

  Four in all. Twelve broken bones between them. Not enough coffee for all. Eron hated the brutality of it. The mathematics of surviving. How much can you spare. How much do you need.

  Tunkukush crawled down his hand while Eron fought a very natural reaction to brush the thing away as it’s spiky legs tickled the hairs. It disappeared into his pocket, but Eron lifted both the spider and vial out where he could see them. Sampling the residue, which had dried against the lip just beneath the stopper, the spider put his leg to its mouth.

  “This coffee is old,” it said.

  “You don't mean Ishim coffee?” said Ester surprised. “Micha said every strain died of disease during the revolt years ago.”

  "Give him the rest," the spider instructed Eron.

  “Tunkukush, weren’t you banished?” boomed Able, pulling back the tent flap. He was decked in leather armor, a dark brown weave over a red tunic probably taken from a guard. "Again?" Eron wanted to go, but Able was effectively blocking the exit.

  “Only from the den,” said Tunkukush popping suddenly into human form.

  Able grinned. The scar across his bulbous nose bunched.

  "I'm glad you're here, old friend," he said. "Plans have changed. We're going to find Uri."

  "Not the whole camp?” said Tunkukush.

  “The rumor on the road is that Grey Camp was raided last night," said Able strolling between the men to peek at their injuries. "Uri’s forrest is the only safe place left on the island. That's where the new refugees are going. And that's where we're bringing the plunder.”

  "It's not plunder if you come by it-" Ester kicked him.

  “If Micah is against it,” said the Ishim, “I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  “The only thing Micah cares about is smoking and steam bathes," said Able. "When was the last time he left the Den?”

  “It’s been a while,” agreed the Ishim, reluctantly. Apparently, it wasn't even a real question.

  “The highway men maintain the balance," Able said. His tone struck hard though his words didn't sound aggressive. "Remember that."

  Since the Ishim and Ester both nodded, Eron followed along even though he had no idea what they were talking about.

  Tunkukush reverted to an arachnid. “They could only be expected to tolerate our laxity for so long," it said, crawling onto Eron's shoulder. "I don't think Micah or Malak remember what being flesh is like anymore.”

  “Malak is not an Ishim,” said Eron. “He’s only been the Auckian Administrator for ten years.”

  "You can't believe that," scoffed Ester.

  Whatever they had to say, Eron wasn't ready to hear it. Part of him needed to believe them. The other part needed more evidence. He leaned over Amit and started to pour the rest of the coffee through his lips.

  “When the Alliance first crashed, Malak was known as Bruce Thornton," said the Ishim. The spider flung itself onto the boy’s cheek.

  Amit flinched and scratched his nose.

  "I don’t even know his real name,” said Eron.

  “What is your name?” said the spider loudly mouthing each syllable.

  “Amit,” said Amit.

  Ester suppressed a giggle, “He’s growing facial hair. Look.”

  It was true. A reddish fuzz had sprouted along his jaw.

  “He does seem bigger,” said Eron looking at the boy’s nose. “Is that acne?“

  It was.

  "We’ve probably aged him two years,” grumbled the Ishim dematerializing back onto his house though the air holes. "But, he'll still be a boy inside," rang the the metallic echo. "I have good reasons to believe the human brain doesn't mature until a person reaches two fifty.”

  "Two hundred and fifty?" Eron mouthed to Ester.

  She nodded.

  Eron pulled Amit into a sitting position, but he wasn't able to bring him to a standing position under his own power.

  "Get a wheelbarrow before they fill them all with meat," Eron instructed Ester. She nodded. "And we need to thank whoever found him and brought him back to camp. They probably saved his life."

  "That was me," she said, letting the flap close on Eron's nearly palpable embarrassment.