In Veritas

by C. J. Lavigne

  Verity hears Privya’s voice echoing, Jihan almost killed everyone, but finds she can’t say it yet, without knowing; she doesn’t want to see the barbs of the words sinking into Colin’s hopeful flesh. She looks at the floor, but the angel is watching her. His voice is barely louder than the rustles of his patients: “You want answers. So do we all. There’s a reason Jihan wrote your name on the wall.”

  Verity stands silently, and the scents and sounds of coming death surround her in a clingy miasma, slick and dusty on her skin. She isn’t sure if it’s Colin or the magician or the bodies in their beds—or all of these things—but the impossibly tall walls are too close. She meets Santiago’s eyes for an instant; the magician is leaning with his arms folded and one shoulder against the wall. Shadows play around him, there at the edge of the candle’s gleam, but Verity can see the crooked bulge of his nose and the worry lines at the edges of his gaze. Her bemusement must show on her face, because he shrugs.

  She looks away, back to where Colin’s blue exhaustion is sliding across the worn planks of the floor. “There are a lot of questions.”

  “We hear a few stories, here and there, that fill in some blanks. It’s hard; apparently, no one freakin’ well wrote anything down. We’ve found a few bits of stuff on a table—a broken sword, a ripped bit of lace, a blue marble. Someone scrawled ‘library’ on the wall over top, because that’s helpful. Stefan’ll show you, if you like. But mostly, we just have people. It’s hard to separate wishes from real history, so I’m glad we have you. Come on.” Colin holds his free hand out toward Verity this time; after a moment’s surprise, she offers him the crook of her jacket-covered arm, and he takes it. His light is quiet now, offering only the faintest promise of peace in the slow desiccation of the hollowed walls. His weight is nearly indiscernible on her sleeve. “Right over here.” His cane clicks lightly on the floor, and she moves with him as carefully as though he were made of spun glass.

  Alan turns out to be a small huddled lump on one of the cots Verity has already walked by. The lump resolves itself into the shrivelled length of a man who is familiar, now that she takes the time to breathe in the blizzard wisps of hair that brush the tops of his ears. Despite his blankets, he is shivering.

  “There now,” says Colin, who lets go of Verity in order to bend over and rest his palm on the old man’s skull. Alan’s shaking stops almost immediately. He opens his eyes, and the blue of them is bright and pure with the angel’s light; his smile is sweet as a baby’s. “Alan, this is Verity. Alan’s quite special.”

  “The girl from the bus station,” says Alan, comfortably. The hoarseness of his voice comes easier here in the dim hall. “I’m not very special anymore; he just means I’m old. Not very many of us get old. Let go of me, son. Don’t waste yourself on me.”

  “Not a waste at all. You’re all right. Keep resting here.” Colin’s eyes are glowing again. Verity thinks he can’t help it. He smoothes the man’s hair back one more time and then reaches again for Verity’s arm. “Vee,” he continues, “was wondering about our lady of the fractured eyes. You said you’d known her?”

  “Oh. Yes. When I was a child, she looked much the same. Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Alan coughs lightly and smiles. Verity tries to watch the man’s wizened face, though really all she can see are the soporific afterimages of the angel’s power. Colin has damped himself down again, or just lacks the strength to glow. She can feel him trembling against her.

  She considers, then says to Alan, “Your memory is dust shining in the sunlight. I mean, um … yes. Okay.”

  “Oh, I do remember her. I—have you seen Sanna? My granddaughter—”

  “She’s okay,” says Verity hastily, before Alan can move—before he does move, and breaks something in Colin beside her. “I asked some of the children to play with her.”

  “Oh.” Alan settles back against the pillows; he is bones drifting downward, much like the skeleton of the angel on Verity’s arm. “Thank you. What were we—yes, Jihan. Is she here? When we came in, she was sitting by the wall. Her hair was all in a tangle and her head was down, but she glanced up, just for a second, and I knew.” He frowns. “I couldn’t remember her name at first. I would have spoken to her, but I hesitated, and then she just got up and left. But I’m sure. I never knew her well, but I was a little boy and she was the same. She used to smile more. She had a fierce smile, but a raspy voice. She was with a woman who had eyes the colour of fog—and there was a girl, I think, from somewhere far.” Alan blinks rheumily, robin’s-egg eyes focused at some vision of his distant past. “My mother said they were going to save us. We all gathered in the city walls, waiting for the right time. A door was going to open.”

  Verity is exquisitely conscious of Colin balancing against her. She doesn’t have to turn her head to know that Santiago is hovering not far behind. The sense of responsibility is strikingly unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome. Still, she concentrates on Alan’s story and the wisps of syllable drifting by. “What happened?”

  “The earthquake happened.” Alan’s smile vanishes, his tone going sober. “All the walls fell in.”

  “San Francisco,” supplies Colin. “1906.”

  “A long time ago,” agrees the old man, sadly. “I should be dead now, and I certainly should’ve been dead then. The city crumbled to pieces, and the rescuers, they weren’t looking for people inside the walls. There weren’t many of us to start, and so much fewer since then. But I remember. The woman with fog eyes, she gave me a piece of taffy once, and said everything would be all right.”

  “Do you remember anything,” asks Verity, “about the door?”

  “I was only a boy. I thought it would be like the between—like crafting a door with only one side that led somewhere wonderful, and the lady with the sword was going to slice it open for us. Like she was fighting a gryphon. She was strong and tall.” Alan sighs. His words come with care, but also a sort of breathless speed, each lungful of air used to best effect. “She doesn’t know me now,” he says again. “Of course, I am older than I have any right to be, and she looks just the same. But she didn’t used to just drift past everyone like that.”

  “Don’t tire yourself,” the angel interjects.

  The man snorts. “You’re one to talk. Let me tell the girl what I can.” He coughs, rolling his head so he can look at Verity. “Can you imagine if we could all just … leave? All I remember is the promise, and that it didn’t work. My mother talked about a chalice. I imagined there was a cup those women would drink from, like a big goblet, and then they would open the door. I don’t know. I wish I did. We waited, and most of us died in the dark.”

  Verity doesn’t say anything. She stands in the gloom of the poorly-lit hall, and the angel on her arm reeks of exhausted decay. Alan, on the cot, sighs and snuffles and the sounds are marked with cobwebbed time.

  “Yes.” Santiago’s voice winds, sardonic velvet, along Verity’s shoulder blades. “We’re all dying in the dark.”

  “She wasn’t going to say it.” Colin’s thin fingers squeeze through Verity’s sleeve. She is surprised at the strength of his grip.

  “But she doesn’t lie, does she?”

  Verity turns her head to see Santiago silhouetted against the faint glow of candlelight behind him. The weariness in his voice belies the arrogant line of his shoulders. The contrast is an unpleasant vibration mingled with the general despair of the old theatre. She can see no sign of Ouroboros.

  Verity says, “No.”

  Alan wheezes again with what might be laughter. Colin touches his cheek and then makes a choking sound. At first, Verity mistakes it for dry amusement, but the choking comes again, and it’s wet and harsh. When the angel doubles over, a clot of blood drips from his lips.

  Santiago is a charcoal blur pushing Verity aside. “Enough. Save your questions for later.” He slides his arm around the smaller man’s chest from behind.

  Colin coughs, and the bubbling hack of it is echoed by someone in a bed further dow
n the hall. The groans come again, whispering, and Verity freezes as the death-webs brush cold across her face and the backs of her hands.

  Santiago snarls, “Go.” He looms over Colin; in his arms, the angel’s light gutters.

  Verity swallows, then turns, hitching her bag over her shoulder. Though the floorboards seem to ripple in front of her, she quickens her steps.

  “Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel, the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond.” ‑Hypatia

  13

  Here’s the thing about the dragons: they aren’t.

  This is how Verity explained it once: the word isn’t right. They might look like little reptiles with wings, at least to anyone who isn’t mistaking them for rats or pigeons or a stale city breeze. But that word, dragon, it was created by people outside the walls. Dragons are mythical; they aren’t real, and the people who know that don’t believe in things they can’t see.

  The people inside the walls, though, they’ve lost everything. All the pieces of their history have been shredded and scattered, and that includes words for things they used to know. So they forget their old terms and they use the closest one they can think of: ‘dragon.’ They were raised with that word, too. Anyone seen any dragons lately? Watch it, there’s a dragon on that branch. Lousy dragon just stole my sandwich. They forget the ways in which their creatures are distinct.

  Dragon is an easy word. The problem is that it comes with its own connotations: dragons don’t exist. And those unnamed creatures that aren’t really ‘dragons’—they get that imposed on them, little by little, creeping over the years. We push them into the shape of a container that doesn’t quite fit. Language remakes the world.

  If there were more people inside the walls, fewer people outside, then maybe the connotations would change. But the ones who are dying don’t have that power. They just get stuck using words that reinforce the world that’s killing them. It’s killing the dragons, too.

  (See, I’m doing it too. I don’t know what the word should be, either. Vee?)

  i only know the spaces where the syllables used to be even thats wrong though; no sound is ever perfect. one word isnt enough. also not everyone speaks english.

  What if we made up some new words? Never mind what they used to be. Call them kuffles or skjmkk.

  how do you pronounce skjmkk

  Did you actually just make a joke?

  maybe

  the answer is i think its too late; you could try making a new word but not enough people would use it. there are realities drowning in silence, in the wrong phrasings.

  think of it this way: youre telling this story and you could say ‘skjmkk’ but a reader wouldn’t understand and youd say ‘like a dragon’ and you have the same problem

  Is this why writing gives you a headache?

  yes

  mislabelling like a scream

  keep going

  DECEMBER

  Verity does not sleep.

  She lies quietly, letting the sound of Jacob’s steady breathing trickle down the back of her left hand, and the soft bell of the moonlight filter through the slats in the window blinds. She has been nursing a faint hope of the snake, but smells only the smooth texture of the blanket against her legs. There are no golden eyes in the night.

  She rises carefully, taking jeans and an old cotton sweater from the dresser. Behind her, Jacob is still sprawled across the bed, his arm crooked beneath a pillow and his face half-buried. His hair sticks up in clumps that spark unexpected warmth somewhere inside her chest. Verity gnaws at her bottom lip, then glances at the window. She pulls the sweater over her head.

  Minutes later, she is closing the cash drawer, tucking a wad of crumpled bills into her pocket, and locking the office door behind her. The air is bitterly, burningly cold, and her breath frosts as she pulls on a pair of woollen gloves and descends the icy stairs to the street.

  The city’s cacophony is muted in the late hour, though colours still waver in front of Verity’s eyes and the light snowfall is a low-pitched hum just at the edges of her hearing. She takes a breath or two to adjust, then turns right and walks two blocks down toward Bank. She passes beneath snow-laden branches, footsteps cautious on a sidewalk streaked with ice. It is rough with the frozen imprints of prior boots. Streetlights gleam refracted from the half-frosted windows of parked cars. Ahead, she can see the occasional glowing streaks of passing traffic; she swallows the prickling scent of a signal changing from red to green. Her boots crunch in soft whiteness.

  She stops at the corner of Bank and Second and fishes the folded piece of paper from her pocket, checking the address Privya has given her. The letters are neatly written in blue ink that only wriggles minimally on its white background. Verity appreciates the simplicity. She raises her hand to flag a taxi.

  She hands the slip of paper to the driver and settles into the back seat, her attention absently on the window. He says something to her, but the words flow past like so many streaming fish. Little Italy, she thinks. Eventually, she says it. He adds, “Don’t speak English?” and she only rests her gloved fingertips on the strap of her seatbelt. When the car starts moving, she is relieved that further conversation is not forthcoming. She notices the driver’s golf cap, khaki green, stained with wear along the back of his neck. Outside is the quicksilver chaos of the sleeping city.

  When the taxi slows to a halt again, the man at the wheel says, “This is Preston. You sure? At this time of night?” Verity pulls the bills from her pocket and sees the driver’s eyes widen slightly in the rear-view mirror. His meter is an indistinct drum beat of green, but she peels two twenties from her roll and holds them forward until she feels them slide from her hand.

  “Hey, thanks,” he says, and she offers him a smile, but she’s already drifting from the back seat, closing the car door behind her. The street is quieter here, though illuminated signs still advertise a bakery, a sandwich shop, an Italian grocery. Half a block down, a bar is still open; light and music spill briefly into the winter cold as a bundled couple scuttles inside, laughing.

  The taxi rolls away; next to Verity, the nearest streetlight abruptly dies.

  “Sorry. That’s me.” Privya is a shadow several feet away, standing with her hands in the pockets of a puffy and surprisingly practical winter coat. She has a knitted cap pulled low over her ears, little strands of hair escaping across her forehead. A scarf covers the lower half of her face; her breath has settled on it in crusts of ice. “Hi. Come on, it’s freezing.” Without waiting, she starts down the street, heading south to the end of the block.

  “Where are we going?” Verity hesitates, but follows. They both walk quickly in the cold. They pass one lone man huddled in a shop doorway, a sleeping bag pulled tightly around himself. His beard is grey with frost and he shivers as he sleeps. Verity pauses to fish another twenty dollars from her coat and tuck the bill into a pocket of his soiled pack.

  Privya pauses obligingly, though she only watches. “We’re going to the river. Did you visit the theatre?”

  “Yes.” Verity blinks; there are tiny spots of white drifting between her and the smaller girl. She realizes that it is only snow, floating flakes glowing in the streetlights and humming in random but pleasant medley. “They’re dying.”

  “Exactly.” Privya shakes her head, then turns again to walk toward Wellington and the broad expanse where the city block ends. “My people. Yours, maybe—I don’t know. I was never sure about Alethea; I’m not sure about you. It must be lonely. Even that broken doll of an angel has figured out where he belongs. You’re somewhere....”

  “Between,” supplies Verity, and Privya snorts.

  “Yeah.”

  “It seems like you must be lonely too. I, um—think that not many people like you get old. And you are very old.”

  “I should probably be offended. But no, you’re right. It’s pretty much down to me and Jihan and
a bunch of sick kids, and Jihan and I are not friends. But I have my crew too. You’re about to meet a few.”

  “Were you there? In San Francisco?”

  Privya misses a step, then half-turns, walking sideways so she can watch Verity. Her face is hidden beneath the scarf. Snowflakes are gathering on her hat. “Yeah. What did he say about it?”

  “Alan?”

  “Who’s Alan? Colin.”

  “Was he in the quake too?”

  “Oh. No. Wait. The quake? You seriously had a survivor come in?”

  “Just one.” Verity’s boot slips on slick pavement and she catches herself, fingers spread for balance, then shakes her head. “He was a boy then.”

  “Huh. He would’ve had to be. Even so, he’s done well to make it this long. We used to live longer, but for most of us, those times have passed.” Privya pauses at the corner of Preston and Booth, watching as a single car pulls slowly by. “Did he tell them about Jihan’s supposed door?”

  “Yes ... so did I.”

  “Mm.” When the street is empty again, Privya crosses, ignoring the red light that dulls briefly as she passes beneath. Before them is a parking lot; farther are trees, and the lights of the buildings far across the broad expanse of the river. Verity trails after. Privya continues, “You should warn them about the rest of it. It’s you I want to talk to, though. I’m going to tell you a story, and I won’t lie to you. You would know, anyway. I got used to that, mostly, with Alethea. Telling the truth. I’d tell her tales of the desert, and she would rest her head in my lap and let me brush her hair.”

  “I won’t do that,” murmurs Verity.