Soleil

by Jacqueline Garlick

  I shake it off as Masheck drops to the stone floor beside me, coughin’ and chokin’, overcome by the fumes. Pan topples from my shoulder and collapses on the stone floor, and I join ‘er.

  Silently, I wish the castle ‘ad a cleansin’ room, like the one back home at the Compound. I don’t understand, amid all this lavishness, why the Ruler never built one. Surely ‘is technology is as good as ours. I look around. It’s more likely ‘e believed ‘e ‘ad no reason to fear the reach of the Vapours from where he sat, considerin’ the magnitude of the force field ‘e built ‘round ‘is city. Guess ‘e never figured on that system failin’.

  Though ‘e did order the bunkers built, didn’t ‘e.

  Masheck and I try to stand, then melt down the walls onto our weary bottoms, coughin’ like wild fools. Pan lies next to us on the floor.

  Iris comes a runnin’, ‘er shoes clappin’ stone, her frantic progression echoin’ off the foyer walls. She gasps when she sees us—her eyes jam-jar wide—and nearly drops the wash bucket she ‘s carrin’. Her gaze finds Pan and she gasps again—this time in relief—rushin’ forward and scoopin’ ‘er up in ‘er ‘ands. Iris bends ‘er ‘ead and pulls her close. Pan coos, and dizzily nuzzles Iris’s jawline.

  Where did you find her? Iris signs to me.

  “We didn’t. Pan found us. Isn’t that right, Masheck?” I swat his back.

  Masheck grunts and spits up more Vapour residue.

  Iris pulls back, spying the bump on Pan’s ‘ead ‘er eyes bug curious wide.

  “Windmill,” I tell ‘er. “Whacked her noggin good, comin’ in for a landin’. The winds are ridiculously wicked out there, and gettin’ worse by the minute.” I gaze back at the door frame. Another wild lick slaps against the doors. It’s howl’s ‘eard round the room. I think briefly about Eyelet and Urlick out there in the woods, ‘ow they might be fairin’, surrounded by Vapour and criminals, and scads of Infirmed. I gulp. Flossie’s gonna be a picnic when they find ‘er, after fightin’ their way through all that.

  I’ll get Pan some soup, Iris signs as she stands, and wrap ‘er up warmly.

  “Good idea, but be careful,” I caution. “She’s still a little stunned.”

  Iris nods and ‘urries away, then doubles back. She drops the bucket she’s been ‘oldin’ at my feet.

  “What’s that?”

  She passes me a note. It’s not ‘er writin’.

  “Time is of the essence,” I read. She signs for me to open it up.

  I unfurl it, the brittle paper cracklin’.

  It’s the best I could do on such short notice, though I must say, the supply of medicinal chemicals here is outstanding. Nevertheless, I’ve concocted a detoxifying tincture to help ward off your exposure to the Vapours.

  Use it sparingly, but soon, as it won’t hold its power long. Down the solution, a half a cup each, whilst the solution is still boiling. Then wait for it to cool and use the remainder to scrub your skin clean. Use small, tight, circular motions, brushing toward the heart, never away from it. And don’t miss a spot.

  Don’t worry, the solution is designed to guide you to a thorough cleaning. Remember, be quick.

  Sadar

  How did he know of the Vapours? I look up at, Iris perplexed.

  I glance again at the bucket. Two steel brushes ‘ang tied to either side of the bucket’s metal ‘andle, along with to two silver ladles for drinkin’ cups.

  I look to Masheck. “Yuh ready for this?”

  He stares back. “He wants us to drink down boilin’ water?” Masheck lurches forward, eyein’ the odd bubblin’ brew.

  “You ‘eard the man. It’s either that, or let the bite of the Vapours invade yur system.”

  Iris swoops in, pulls a thimble from her apron, and fills it with enough solution for Pan. Then she slips away, Pan tucked up under her armpit.

  I use me toes to fill a cup for Masheck, then one for meself. “Bottom’s up.” I raise ‘is cup, and clinkin’ it against mine. Purple steam spirals from the tins.

  “Are you sure it said boilin’?” He hovers over the paper.

  I repeat the line to him. “Satisfied?”

  “No.” He brings the steamin’, bubbling brew to his curled and crinkled lips, shuts his eyes, sways slightly, as if countin’ to ten, then gulps down the remedy whole. I plug my nose and do the same. The burn is ridiculous. Like drinkin’ fire straight from a dragon’s throat.

  I choke and sputter, my throat scorched raw. The heat burns a trail straight on down my tubes to my chest.

  Masheck chokes and sputters on his, then fans his mouth, widely. “Gobsmackers! That shite could kill a man!”

  “Or save ‘is life.” I gasp in breath after breath, trying to cool down my esophagus.

  “Guess the gig’s still up on that, idn’t?” Masheck gives me a cheeky brow salute, then stands and begins sheddin’ his clothes. He doesn’t seem the least bit modest about it. Course, if I were as gifted as he, I wouldn’t be either.

  I, on the other hand, am not as blessed.

  Moments later, we’re both stripped naked in the middle of the foyer, wire brushes in hand, vigorously scrubbin’ our skin. We work the solution into our pores in a circular motion, as told, brushing toward the heart, cringin’ under the nip of the steel bristles, tryin’ our best not to miss a patch of skin.

  It becomes quickly apparent what Sadar meant by the solution is designed to assist you with the task. Wherever the solution is applied, the skin glows vibrantly. The two of us are fast becoming a couple of baby-blue, luminescent ghosts.

  “You’ve missed a spot.” Masheck turns. “There.” He points to my scrotum.

  I look down. “You got be kidding, mate.”

  “Sadar said to cover every inch of us.” Masheck smiles.

  I look down and see his wagger and billiards shimmerin’ blue, through a distinctly raw pink undertone.

  “Our whole bodies. Really?” I scowl.

  “Well, only the parts you intend to keep, I suppose.”

  I gulp. He’s got a point there. We’ve no idea what the Vapours might do.

  “The faster you do it, the less it stings.” Masheck says.

  “I can see that by your colourin’.”

  He looks down, inspectin’ his freshly abraded glowing gift.

  I laugh, then draw in a breath, crack my toe joints, and bounce around the foyer floor for a spell, like a prize fighter before a bout, breathin’ in and puffin’ out, psychin’ meself up for the major event. Then, I take the brush, dip it in the pail, and hover it over me goods.

  “My goodness.” A soft, shocked voice floats into the room, drawin’ me eyes back up.

  A swoony-lookin’ Livinea hangs on the doorway, lashes manically flutterin’ over a pair of bowl-sized eyes. Her saucy gaze is fixed on my jolly bits.

  I try my best to quell their response to her, failin’ miserably.

  “Perhaps you need a little ‘elp with that?” She dances her brows.

  Masheck yelps and dives for cover, strikin’ a double-fisted, guilty-lover’s pose. I look down at my package and back up at ‘er.

  “By all means, let me assist.” She moves in, fannin’ her heavy heavin’ bosoms.

  “C.L.?” Masheck elbows me out of me lust-filled trance.

  “Oh, right, yeah…” I stammer. “No. Thanks. I’ve got everythin’ under control ‘ere.”

  “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Livinea drags her eyes over me like smoothed icin’ over ice box cake, and slinks ever closer. “‘Cause I don’t mind to ‘elp you scrub ‘em.” She rests a provocative finger on her bottom lip. It’s more than I can do to contain myself.

  Masheck glances over, snickerin’.

  “Maybe later…” I exhale, all goofy soundin’, me eyes at a dreamy half-mast.

  Masheck kicks me. “Now, if you’ll excuse us,” he says. “We sort of need to finish the job. Time is of the essence.”

  “All right.” She slides her gaze back over my bits and I shiver. “Later then.�
� She gracefully skulks from the room.

  “Later,” I breathe, then have to catch my breath.

  Livinea floats back into the hall, peekin’ back ‘ound the corner one last time before completely disappearin’, her fingertips playfully titillatin’ the doorjamb.

  “I’m gonna need a bath now, as well as a detoxifyin’,” Masheck sighs, and I laugh.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eyelet

  I RUN OUT OF NERVE the second my feet leave the ground, but it’s too late; I’m already falling, end over end, into the belching, black-smoky-mire that is the mysterious pit of Embers. The bottomless, lifeless hole at the end of the earth. The air is filled with the howling voices of the thousands of dead. The sound worms through my pores and infiltrates my brain. Amid them, I hear myself screaming, as I flip and tumble and claw at my ears trying to escape them. But it’s no use; there’s no escaping.

  I stop tumbling and begin spiralling head-long toward the bottom of the pit at great speed. I reach out to save myself but I can’t. Hands grab at me from the sides, tearing my clothing, and cutting my skin as I soar violently past. And then I hear them...

  Father, Mother, calling out, followed by Smrt’s laugh.

  I close my eyes and pray to Lord to save me—or kill me—whichever comes first.

  I’m afraid to face what lies ahead.

  Something cold brushes my arm, and my eyes spring open, and through the claustrophobic darkness I see it.

  The necklace.

  It is glowing green, lighting a path for me to follow through the winding, black, oppressive smoke. The end of its chain glints, dancing just far enough away from my outstretched fingertips that I cannot reach it. I lunge, dropping faster, harder, more deliberately toward the bottom, my hands stretching after it. But still, my fingers only come close enough to dust the clasp of the chain before it darts away, playfully, like a puppet on a gilded string.

  I throw myself at it. It spirals, twisting, driving deeper.

  I must reach it. I must have it. I must.

  I twist and thrust, swimming through the black, thick smoke toward the bottom at a dizzying speed, no longer caring what happens to me.

  It grows darker and still darker. The air around me pinches thin.

  There’s a pressure in my head. I clasp the sides of my skull, feeling the contents swelling, about to spill out—and I scream.

  A scream of all screams.

  The sound breaks apart all the other voices, shattering them into flying shards that wheel past my head. They ping through the smoke and burst into dust, then trickle away as laughter.

  Sardonic laughter.

  The laughter of Smrt.

  My stomach betrays me and I throw up a little.

  Solid ground is rising in my view. I kick and scream, and fight against the inevitable consequence of falling. A sudden onslaught of an updraft sends me ballooning backward. It hooks my clothes and tears the hat from my head.

  Shooting up from the bottom, the wind pelts my face. My hair breaks from its clasp and flutters about me. I struggle to breathe against the ferocious gust, gulping and gasping and swallowing.

  At the end of the surge, I begin to descend again, even faster this time.

  It is as though a giant hand is playing with me, tossing me up and then about to catch me again.

  All at once I cannot breathe. My head feels too light, and there’s no air.

  I shudder and gasp and twist.

  I start to spin.

  Then strangely, I’m whirled right-side-up, and thrown down. I fall in a sitting position, my legs stretched out in front of me. A whop, whop, whop sound—like a bullet slicing through the final few waves of air before hitting its target—fills my ears.

  I close my eyes and pray as I drop…landing with a solid but surprisingly painless plunk! on my bottom end.

  A plume of white powder rises all around me, engulfing me in its sugary-tasting smoke.

  I cough, and swing my hands in front of me to clear the powder, but it cakes my face anyway. I reach up, touching the mask of dust and it falls to the ground in clumps around me. Music plays. The light tinny sounds of twittering whistles from a calliope. There’s a giant white light in my eyes.

  I raise a hand, unable to see.

  Gears creak. Children shout and cheer, and frolic with glee.

  The air tastes of candy.

  The hum of voices… oooooh and aaaaaaaah.

  The shunt of engines whirl.

  I blink through the settling dust and look around, stunned to see the trappings of a carnival coming to life, quite literally sprouting up from the ground around me. Performer’s tents, midway games, shouting carnies, buckets of toffee, and kettles teeming with caramel corn.

  And all of it—the whole scene—is cast in a hue of soft grey to white.

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, has any colour to it. Not even their faces. All their skin appears to be translucent, and shimmering, like the surface of a glassy pond.

  I look down at my own hands. They are still flesh toned. My clothing still has colour to it. I am the only one.

  The only colour in this colourless world. What’s happened? What’s is going on here?

  “Get out of the way!” I hear a voice shout. I crank my head that way.

  A mechanical elephant strides toward me, glinting gold in the searing white light. Its trunk is raised. Steam clouds chug from its nostrils. It opens its mouth, exposing a row of shiny glass teeth and a diamond-studded tongue. It bellows, sounding somewhat tinny, but still magically elephant!

  It’s him. The elephant from the carnival. My elephant.

  “Eyelet?”

  “Father?” I twist around. Dust billows up from where my hands have landed. I squint and strain to see where the voice has come from.

  The elephant trumpets, sounding sinister this time. It draws close, its giant foot poised overhead, as if to crush me. I scramble backward on elbow and heel, trying to get out from under its shadow.

  “Eyelet?”

  My head turns the other way searching for Father.

  The beast trumpets again.

  “Father?”

  The giant beast’s foot comes down on top of me.

  I shriek and hug my knees, and the elephant’s foot stamps right through me. The earth booms, and a great cloud of dust rises up from his footprint, which I’m left screaming inside of.

  I open my eyes to find myself unharmed. The track of the great elephant’s step is outlined around me.

  I clutch my thundering heart and look back at the trumpeting, elephant, his great metal tail swaying as he meanders away, his alluring, golden brass hue now turned to a dull shade of gun-metal grey. Peering around its chest, from the controls, the face of Smrt greets me, his moustache turned up at the ends into electrified curls. Maniacal laughter pours from his mouth. He’s ghostly white, like everything else in this world. His eyes are molten flame.

  “Smrt.” I draw back, digging my heels into the powder-white dirt, willing myself to a stand, then start to run. My head floats, threatening to take me away.

  “Eyelet?” a voice calls—not my father’s. “Eyelet?” It’s calling from far, far away.

  I stop and turn. “Mother?”

  There she is, waving at me from across the midway, her blue-green eyes flickering in the relentless white light. I raise a hand to my eyes to better see her. She’s standing in the line to buy toffee. She turns, tossing me a light three-finger wave. She wears the same frock she did that day. At the front of the line of faceless people, a carnie hands out candy. His head is down, his moustache twitching.

  “No!” I shout as she approaches the front.

  The carnie lifts his chin. Molten flames flash in his eyes.

  “No!” I lunge.

  He’s got Mother. He throttles her. She gags and chokes and cries out.

  “Mother!” I scream, and launch into a run, but the ground revolves beneath my feet. It won’t allow me to get to her. The harder I run, the fa
rther she’s pulled away. You will be there, won’t you? I hear in my head. It’s me, in my child-voice, in the kitchen of our castle apartment, the last time we were all together.

  How much do you trust me?

  “Father?” I say. I turn and there he is. He’s with my mother, in the kitchen in of our old castle apartment. But the door is locked and I can’t get in. I pound the glass. “Father, let me in!” He stands with his back to me.

  I climb through the window and race up the hall, past my old bedroom. On the night table, next to my bed, my favourite book, Through the Looking Glass: The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carrol lies open. Someone has ripped the pages out.

  Mother screams and I whirl around. “Father! What are you doing?”

  His hands are clasped to either side of her face, as though he’s about to kiss her. But he isn’t. Instead, he squeezes her head in his hands. The door slams shut between us. I struggle with the latch. “Father, don’t. Stop. Please!”

  He spreads his elbows wide for leverage, his biceps trembling.

  “FATHER!” I pound the door and scream.

  He throws his head back, frantically laughing, as my mother’s head explodes. A plume of black smoke rises from her neck. Her face turns to rubble, then crumbles through my father’s hands and to the floor.

  “Mother!” I shriek.

  Father turns around, only it isn’t Father at all. The face of Professor Smrt laughs at me. “No!” I lunge backward. “No, no, no, no, no.” My trembling hands fly to my mouth. The image crashes inside my skull. I bolt back up the stairs and out of the castle, back into the noisy midway of the carnival. I collapse against the wall of the nearest tent, the sound of Smrt’s laughter following me, and fall inside the open flap, my feet tangled in the tethers that peg the tent down.

  I rise and stumble forward, knocking against the shoulders of the patrons as I stagger toward the front trying to escape Smrt’s inescapable voice. I reach the front railing and cling to it, trying to steady my shaking self. A demonstration is taking place. I look up into a faceless carnie, who is striking a fuse on a machine. My mind fills in the blanks. The machine rumbles, a flywheel roars, two great disc-like plates whirl. The machine erupts into a blinding flash.