Within moments all the windows are closed off, refusing to allow even the most prying of eyes a glimpse into the secrets within this home. Luther turns on the lamp, allowing its weak, yellow light to create a small dome around us at the table, as he places some bandages, antibiotic ointment, a bowl of water, and a towel on its nicked surface. A part of me wonders whom he had paid to get the ointment and bandages as they are also considered contraband; Arel didn’t want her people to be too independent, otherwise they might get ideas. I lift my shirt up, not caring if the others see my naked body—it’s not as though no one has seen it, since privacy is a foreign notion among arbiters—and dip the towel in the bowl of water before dabbing it on my wound to wipe away the blood. As I examine it in the faint light, I can see that it isn’t too deep, but will require stitches.
“Seems like you got yourself into a bit of trouble,” comments Luther.
I glare at him. Nothing like stating the obvious. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I have gotten myself into a situation that I no longer know how to control. “Do you have any thread and a needle?”
Without a word, Luther goes to a drawer in the room and pulls out a spool of thread and a small, wooden box with a floral design etched into it and places them on the table in front of me. Before he shuts the drawer, I manage to catch a glimpse of a scrap of blue paisley fabric and a pin cushion and wonder if that had been something used by his wife before she died. I grab the box and open it, revealing needles, and thread one, knowing full well that what comes next is going to be a bitch. Stitch by stitch, I push the needle through my skin, gritting my teeth each time the needle pierces me and droplets of blood coat my fingers, making them slippery.
“They taught you well at that training facility,” mutters Luther. “Not even one utterance of discomfort leaves your mouth as you stab yourself with that needle.”
My eyes meet his, and I watch him as he studies me as though I am a spectacle meant to be observed and not a human being, but as I also study his face, I remember that he has a reason not to trust arbiters and to view them as specimens, fighting machines that possess no humanity, only the skills to subdue a riotous population, and a fighting force meant to carry out orders, not question them: only one fate awaits those who start to wonder if such a life is worthwhile.
“Back at the training facility,” I begin, not knowing why I tell them this, “we are taught to ignore pain. Before we are five, our instructors swat our hands with a metal pipe, until we no longer flinch or utter a sound. If you cry, you are considered weak. Weakness is…”
“…failure, and failure is death,” Luther finishes in a drawn-out tone. “They cannot stay here.” He glances at the people surrounding us, wondering what is to become of them.
“I know,” I whisper as I finish the last stich and tie off the thread. It looks like a mess, as though an untrained hand tried to stitch themselves up, and… well… it’s true. But it will have to do. As I try to find the right words to ask for help from a man I do not know well, but trust more than anyone else at this moment, I place some ointment on my wound with its zigzag stich job and cover it with a clean bandage. “I need to get them out.”
“No one leaves Arel,” says Luther.
“You know that’s not true.”
“Well, it seems that you have cut off your only way out.”
I don’t have time for these games. Leaning on the table so that I can look into his eyes, I keep my voice low so that the others cannot hear me. “Something tells me that you know another way out of the city.”
“An act that is met with one end,” says Luther.
Before I can think of what to say, I notice a flask for the first time and the aroma of alcohol, and a picture of a young woman, vibrant, full of life, and unafraid. Luther hadn’t been asleep like I had first thought; he had been up, reminiscing, remembering when his daughter had been alive, before she had been taken to the crematorium to be burned as though she were trash whose only value was that as fuel for a never-ending fire.
“If you want to honor her memory,” I say, pointing at the photograph, “help us.”
“Don’t you—”
“What was she arrested for?” I challenge him. “You know full well she was doing exactly what I am trying to do now. You have a chance to carry on her work, or you can sit here wallowing in your own grief and self-pity, shaming her and her memory.” I stop myself, wondering where this emotion comes from, where these words are coming from. I have never acted like this before. What has changed?
He cocks his head to the side as though seeing me for the first time. “The fierceness is still there,” he muses, “The unwillingness to give into fear is still there, but so is something else. Some sort of conviction that you don’t even realize has already settled in the small semblance of a soul you have managed to maintain, despite their attempts to beat it out of you.” He leans in closer, until his freckled nose almost touches mine, as his eyes pry into the depths of my mind, of my innermost thoughts, the secrets I hide, but he finds them, finds where they are buried, and I cannot tear myself away from him as I find myself hypnotized by his unwavering gaze. “Ah, yes, the killer is still there, but tempered with mercy. What happened to you, to make you go against your programming?”
“I was at the crematorium today,” I reply. There is no point in lying to him.
“As a warning, I’m sure.” He sits back in his chair. “And despite that warning, you have decided to smuggle them out.”
For a moment, I think it strange to be talking about these people as through thy are not here, but my mind reminds me that I have always talked about others as though they could not hear me, unconcerned about their feelings. They know that our lives are in Luther’s hands right now, and at any moment, he, or I, could turn them in. For all they know, this could be an elaborate set up.
I open my mouth to speak, but I have no answer for Luther’s unspoken question. I don’t know why I am helping them, nor do I know the real reason I helped him earlier when his place was scheduled to be searched. I have no explanation for my actions, except this feeling, deep down that people ought to be allowed to make their own choices in life, instead of being forced into a situation that is not of their choosing, a life of burning the bodies of those who were once alive, but were executed for asking questions… or the life of an arbiter, never allowed to have children, to love or feel loved, or to know happiness.
“And once you get them outside of the city,” continues Luther, “what then? Their chance of survival is slim. Most likely they will be killed by the barbarians within a day.”
“Not all barbarians are evil,” I say, remembering the one who had helped Chase and me when we were lost in the wildlands. He could have killed us, but chose to save us instead, and I never thanked him. Will I see him again?
Luther studies me as I ponder that moment, allowing that memory to fill me, and wonder what happened to the one barbarian that prevented Chase from falling to his death, and a part of me wonders if he can read my thoughts. “It does not bother you that they might die out there?”
“They will be killed if they stay here,” I say, my voice firm. I glance at the desperate and frightened eyes watching us, too afraid to speak. “If people wish to leave Arel and take their chances in the wildlands, that is their choice to make. Who am I to stop them?”
A smile creeps across Luther’s lips, as though he is pleased with himself, and I wish I could read him as well as he seems to be able to read me. “You’ve just passed your first lesson.”
Lesson? What lesson? Was this whole conversation nothing more than a test? I am sick to death of tests. I am tired of always having my loyalty and my convictions questioned. Once again, I open my mouth to say something to him, but he raises his hand and silences me as he stands up and stalks over to a cabinet, pulling out a paper map, and places it on the table in front of me. Intrigued, I stare at it, having not seen one in a long time. Arel does not use paper maps. Everything is on a
tablet or holographic. The very thought of using paper seems foreign and archaic. The last time I saw a paper map was when I had snuck into Mandi’s office one night.
It was my tenth year, and I had been looking for snacks, having been forced to skip dinner, a punishment for one of my many discretions. Knowing that some of the instructors at the training facility stored extra treats in their offices—something that is forbidden, but they do it anyway—I had snuck into hers, hoping to find something I could eat, that would stop the incessant growling of my stomach. Upon opening the bottom drawer of her desk, I found a strange piece of paper, folded up with care, and my curiosity forced me to forget about the meal I had missed. I had just pulled it out and unfolded it, recognizing it as a map when Mandi walked in and caught me, causing me to drop the map and stepped back in fear, expecting to be punished for snooping, but she never said a word, never raised her voice. Instead, Mandi took the map, folded it, and placed it back in its drawer, before walking to a bookcase, where she pulled out a couple of books, revealing an apple. She had handed it to me and sent me along my way. I remember hurrying back to my room, eating the apple as I went and disposing of the core in one of the trash chutes, relieved that she had spared me from more punishment. I never spoke of the incident to anyone, and had forgotten about it, until now.
Luther stretched the map before me, placing the lamp in its center. “There are some abandoned tunnels that run underneath Arel. They are abandoned sewers, and some serve as drains during the rainy season. Few know about them.”
“How many?”
“Huh?”
“How many know about them?” I ask again.
“Four,” replies Luther. “Two are dead. One is on the council. And you are talking with the fourth.” He places a finger on the map, tracing a line. “There is a tunnel that runs through here. You can access it at the western side of the supply store. It is hidden, so you should be safe from prying eyes. The tunnel will take you outside of the wall. After that, you are on your own.”
“Where outside the wall, and how far?” I ask.
“There is only one way to find out,” replies Luther.
I study the map, memorizing the path that Luther has shown me. He hands me the map, but I wave it away. At the training facility, recruits were expected to memorize any layout they were shown, any bit of weaponry, or any bit of instruction upon the first introduction to it. Failure to do so…
“You best get going,” says Luther. “The sun will be up soon.”
He’s right. I’ve wasted too much time here. The arbiters chasing us should have given up by now. They will report the incident, but not that they lost us, because that would be a poor reflection upon them. Instead, they will make up some story about how it was a false alarm, or will just pull people from their homes, saying that they were the perpetrators. A part of me feels terrible about the innocent who will suffer tonight because of me, but what can I do? My choices are to save the ones I have here with me, whom I promised to help, or turn them, Luther, and myself in, to spare a few from being accused of a crime they never committed. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
But I have made my choice.
I turn to the people with me. “Let’s go,” I say to them, and go to the door, hoping that I can uphold my promise and get back to the manor before sunrise.
We hurry outside, making as little noise as possible, for fear of arousing suspicion and attracting unwanted attention. We only have one chance to get this right. Failure means certain death. Once outside in the cool, night air, Luther locks the door behind us, leaving us to our fate, and the mercy of the darkness.
“This way,” I say, heading back the way we came. I know a shortcut to the supply store; I just hope that the arbiters on duty do not know of it as well. We follow the cramped alley that leads to Luther’s back to its beginning, but before reaching it, I dive down a small space between two buildings, pressing my back against one as I step sideways, exhaling more than breathing in in an attempt to squeeze my way through as bits of crumbling brick fall downward, pelting me on the top of my head before rolling down my shoulders and arms, their clacks causing me to cringe as the slightest sound seems louder than a mortar shell detonating. Craning my neck, I look back at the people with me, watching them struggle as they scoot sideways, trying not to become stuck between two dilapidated buildings that could very well become their grave. Focus, I tell myself and continue easing my way to the other side, ignoring the snags on my shirt and hoping that the threads do not get pulled out.
We reach the end, and each of us suck in a lungful of air, glad to be out of the cramped and suffocating space that I had pushed us through. Checking my bearings, I realize that we are not far from the supply shack, and I motion for them to follow after me. Within seconds, one of them steps in a puddle, forcing me to whip around and glare at him, reprimanding him with my cold stare, as the sound of splashing water echoes around us and mingles with the hum of a drone. I push them into the shadows once more as the drone draws closer, hoping that it doesn’t notice it and that it will just hover past, but it stops next to us, floating in the air as its sensors work overtime to try and determine what had drawn its attention in the first place. Pounding thuds in my ears as my heart beats against my chest nd I gulp back air, willing the drone to conclude that nothing is here. Just when I think that we are done for, it flies away, but we haven’t time to be relieved. I hurry down the alley before darting down another, looking back every so often to make sure that my charges are with me. We’re almost there. Just a little bit farther.
I stop.
The supply store is across the street. Peeking around the corner, I search for any signs that an arbiter is nearby, but see nothing, though there is the chance that a couple of them are hiding out of sight just waiting for someone to make the mistake of being out after curfew, but we have to risk it. There is no turning back now. I dart across the street with them behind me and we all hunker by the side of the of the supply store, listening for any indication that our presence has been noticed, that our indiscretion has been realized. Nothing. Taking it as a good omen, I search around the supply store, looking for the entrance to the tunnel that Luther had shown me, growing more frustrated by the second as I find nothing. Could he have lied to me? Did he send me on a fool’s errand to save himself? Will arbiters show up at any moment to arrest us? Scolding myself for allowing my mind to consider one dire scenario after another,—if Luther had wanted to betray me, he could have done it at any moment before now—I tap my foot against the pavement, using the heal of my boot to listen for any difference in the thumping, and stop when a hollow sound reaches my ears. Tucked away in a little nook on the exterior of the supply store is a manhole cover, covered over by debris and garbage, thought of as little more than an abandoned metal plague, and treated as nothing more than an afterthought. I try to pry it up, but it refuses to budge, having not been opened in so long. It has rusted shut.
“Help me” I whisper to the others.
They each bend low and pick up an edge of the cover, and together, we force it loose—bits of copper rust break free, being carted away by the breeze—and scoot the cover over, until the opening beneath it is revealed. The hollow darkness below unnerves me, but I spot the faint glint of light against what must be the rung of a ladder, and all I can do is hope that it is still intact enough for us to use it. I motion for them to enter the tunnel, and they do so without complaint, as I keep watch for signs of danger and move some of the garbage in front of the opening in an effort to disguise its presence. Once they have each disappeared below ground, it is my turn to venture into the unknown. I place my right foot on the top rung, jerking it back a bit as it slips on the grime that has coated it due to neglect and lack of use; steel my nerves, knowing that I must make this descent; and place my foot on it again, shifting it a bit, until it feels firm below me. I place my other foot on the next rung of the ladder and lower myself into the hole, delving into the darkness, as though I
am a miner searching for treasure, and continue feeling my way downward, as grime coats my hands, causing me to grip the ladder even tighter, and relief floods through me when I reach the bottom and the familiar sound of my boots hitting a hard surface reaches my ears, but the moment is short-lived as the musty air strangles my lungs, forcing me to cough, until I become used to it.
Enveloped in darkness’ shroud, I call the map that Luther had shown me earlier to my mind, envisioning it, remembering it and what direction we need to go in. I just hope I can navigate in pitch blackness. My anxiety builds, threatening to overtake me and turn me into a frightened child that is too scared to leave his place of hiding, even if it means certain death, but I cannot give in to the carnal nature of humanity, because if I do, we all die, and I will have broken my promise.
“Follow me,” I whisper, keeping my voice low, but the steel walls of the tunnel reverberate my words and they grow by the second as they echo down the empty expanse before us.
As I feel my way through the darkness, slime coats my fingers, making them about as useful as a wet bar of soap that refuses to remain in your grip, and my hand slips off the wall, causing me to lose my balance and stumble in the mucky sludge that coats the tunnel floor, and I cringe as bits of it drip down the inside of my boots. Refusing to give up, I straighten myself as best I can, though the top of my head smacks the tunnel ceiling, forcing me to hunch over just a bit, and make my way through its mysterious forebodings, looking back every so often. Sometimes, I think I can make out the faint outline of people behind me, but it is so dark, that I cannot be sure if it isn’t just a product of my imagination. Step by step, we trudge through the stagnant mixture of mud, water, and waste, as it tries to hold onto our feet and prevent us from moving onward, but we mustn’t let it succeed. The further we go, the gnawing feeling that we will never reach the end of this tunnel tears at me as precious seconds tick by, and I start to panic, to think that I have made a mistake and gone in the wrong direction, dooming us all, until my nose detects a change in the air. The musty odor that has plagued me since I entered this tomb, changes as a small hint of freshness lingers within it, beckoning us forward, telling me that we are close. My pace quickens, as hope washes over me. We have to be close; I just hope that we are far enough beyond the wall that we are not spotted by the arbiters guarding it.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 30