Ashes of the Earth

by Eliot Pattison

  William lowered himself onto a bench again. When he finally spoke it was in a whisper, as if he did not want the lamb to hear. “You mean his murderers paid for my chapel. But why?”

  “They must have an interest in the ridge above. An interest in steering attention away from it, an interest in keeping the suicides coming. No one goes any higher but those suicides. Their families come to mourn but they don’t go beyond your chapel, not as high as your old shrine.” Hadrian kept his eyes on the ground as he explained the map secreted in the mill. “The same people are responsible. They want the ridge to be haunted, a no-man’s land.”

  It was a long time before the monk spoke. “I have a theory about the ending of civilization,” he said quietly. “First you hit a few buttons and millions of strangers die. Then you start cheating at cards and forgetting your mother’s birthday. Before you know it you’re teaching children to commit suicide.”

  Something new rose in William’s eyes when he looked up, a glint of anger. “Christ’s bones! They’ve been using me as another puppet, using the children!” He rose and gestured up the ridge, then set off at a determined pace. Hadrian watched him for a moment, then followed.

  Half an hour later they stood at the little clearing, now overgrown with weeds, that had held the former shrine. Hadrian paced along its perimeter, glancing uncomfortably at the forested slope behind him that had been the site of so many suicides. He mentally cataloged the landscape below. The edge of the town, with its shops and residences. The cemetery, where Jonah’s fresh grave was a brown slash in the scythed grass. The fishery. The ravine, over which towered the gnarled old signal tree.

  “What am I missing?” Hadrian asked. “What else did you see from here?” Then he corrected himself. “Whom did you see?” Perhaps it was not so much a place he sought as the unexplained movement of people. “If I were a smuggler,” he added, “why would I worry about this view?”

  “A smuggler can secretly cross the border in any number of places,” William replied. “But here it makes no sense.” He gestured to the deep chasm that defined the border of the colony below the ridge. “There is no crossing possible over the ravine. I have heard of a bridge being started, but it’s at the south end of the ridge.”

  “But if you were moving goods in and out of boats, this place gives you a bird’s-eye view. It has to be movement from the docks they worry about.”

  “But the new chapel overlooks the road from the docks to town,” William pointed out.

  “Not the road from the docks to the shipyard,” Hadrian said. “Not the road to the icehouse.” He walked to the western edge of the clearing, where the ledge dropped away in a nearly vertical cliff. Far below them, out of sight, was the entrance to the cavern used for storage of the ice blocks cut from the lake in the winter. A well-worn dirt track ran into it. He gestured to a faint line of shadow that ran from the trace and disappeared into a grove of trees.

  “There was another cavern tested first for storage of the ice,” William explained. “They abandoned it because the access to it was too dangerous, a track along the ravine’s edge where wagons could easily slip and fall. They found the one below and just widened its entrance instead.”

  “Show me what they abandoned.”

  William, who often patrolled the ridge for suicides, was more familiar with it than anyone Hadrian knew. The monk silently led him through a labyrinth of winding deer trails, over the crest, and then down a steep slope thick with stunted laurels and evergreens.

  Hadrian’s companion offered not a gasp of surprise when they reached a well-groomed roadbed, but rather the growl of an angry animal. The passage to the cavern may have been abandoned once but it had later been completed, creating a roadbed wide enough for a wagon. Hadrian took a few steps toward the lake and saw how the secret road rose out of the trees near a sharp hairpin curve around a tall outcropping that concealed the remainder of the path. The entire pathway was hidden, both by the outcropping and the steep, nearly vertical slope above. Anyone at the top would assume there was nothing but the ravine below. The only ones who could see it would be exiles looking from across the ravine. He turned and followed the road until it terminated a quarter mile later at a set of heavy timbered doors.

  The double doors were closed with a wooden bar and a lock set in iron staples. He picked up a rock with a sharp edge and began pounding one of the staples. After a minute William raised another, heavier rock, slamming the staple with alternate blows. When the soft metal finally gave way they pushed away the lock, lifted the timber bar, and swung the doors open.

  The chamber inside was packed with goods for as far as they could see. A battered armchair stood at one side of the entry, opposite the stuffed head of a moose suspended from one of the beams that supported the door frame. Tables were stacked with clothing, candlesticks, paintings, lamps, kitchen utensils, and hundreds of other items. Along the wall under the moose was a long workbench. At its near end was one of the crude stamping machines used to forge customs seals. At the other was a hand-powered grinding stone. Beside it were three swords, one of which had been cut down to the size of a knife. Hadrian’s hand trembled as he lifted the blade. “One of these,” he declared, “was used by Jonah’s killers.”

  He wasn’t sure Father William heard him. The monk stared numbly at the smugglers’ trove, then slowly backed out of the cavern. As he retreated down the road Hadrian wandered along the tables, pausing over a table of mint-condition toys, most still in their original packages. The ghosts were subverting the children with such treasures. The next table was stacked high with small wooden boxes such as he’d seen in the kitchen of the smugglers’ apartment. They were filled with the mélange of spices that had been the black market’s premier product for years, a composite of whatever a salvage party might find and the powder used to dilute them. The men signaling at the cliff above town had smelled of spice. Emily had said the fishermen who had watched Jamie before his murder had smelled of cloves and cinnamon. Jansen had had powder on his fingers when he had been killed.

  Hadrian searched in vain for weapons or more ammunition, then moved back to the table of new toys and began stacking them in his arms. Carrying them to the ravine, he tossed them over the side. It took him five trips to clear the table.

  When he was done he collapsed into the overstuffed chair by the door, feeling weak. He had been so blind, they had all been so blind, obsessing over politics while organized crime was extending its tentacles into the colony. He extracted Jonah’s worry stone and began rubbing it, staring into the mocking eyes of the moose.

  Finally he rose, shut the doors, and secured them with the bar, then slowly made his way over the ridge. When he first glimpsed the little chapel from above, William was moving frantically in and out of the doorway, carrying armloads of objects outside. As he reached the ledge just above it, the building exploded into flame. William stood with one of the stone cherubs cradled in his arms as if comforting it, watching his precious chapel burn. What a piece of work was man.

  HADRIAN PAUSED AT the top of the hill that adjoined the fishery compound. The sprawling complex of stone, wood, and salvaged metal sheets had quickly become the colony’s industrial anchor after Jonah had perfected the steam engines that enabled the fleet to reach farther, with larger loads, than the older sailing vessels. Production of fish for food had been the priority, but soon processes were developed for fish oil to fuel lamps, fish meal to fertilize crops, and half a dozen other products like sturgeon-skin purses and Angel Polish, the shimmering cosmetic cream that was all the rage among the growing number of women with uneven skin pigments.

  The night trawlers had emptied their holds and were cruising back toward the fishing grounds, a line of four steamers with two sail skipjacks staggered behind. Four tall brick chimneys coughed up smoke from the factory boilers. He could hear the low, heavy wheeze as the steam pipes leading to the meal plant began to build pressure for the next processing run. A wagon appeared below him, bearing a delive
ry from the icehouse. Another dropped lumber near the ship works, where the wrights were crafting a long, narrow hull for one of the iceboat freighters that brought salt from up the coast in the winter.

  The big wooden pier was alive with activity. Mates yelled orders as a net was arranged on the deck of one trawler, firewood unloaded onto another. Hadrian picked up one of the empty baskets used to haul fish and walked with a deliberate air, reading the nameplates on the berths. He balanced the basket on his shoulder and kept his head down.

  The slip where he finally stopped was at the end of the wharf reserved for the skipjacks, the sailing trawlers. The name he stared at was the one he’d seen inscribed on the wooden fish at the dead sailor’s apartment. Zeus. He glanced back toward the other berths he had passed. Perseus. Prometheus. Jupiter. Poseidon. Carthage’s first generation had a classical education second to none.

  “They’re gone,” came a voice behind him. “Out with the first run this morning. Poor swabs are working almost round the clock these days, trying to beat the cold. Double shifts.”

  Hadrian turned to face a man with an unkempt beard, a leather bag of shipwright’s tools slung over his shoulder, clutching a large hand auger. He’d been replacing one of the wharf boards.

  Another man with tools paused behind the first, eyeing Hadrian suspiciously.

  “I thought they might be having some sort of service for the boy who died.”

  The bystander spat tobacco juice toward Hadrian’s foot and moved on.

  “Too late, friend. Young Jamie was put to his rest the very eve they brought his body up from that damned abattoir of a hospital.”

  “The only fresh grave at the cemetery is the one for the old professor,” Hadrian observed.

  The carpenter rubbed his hand over his brow. “Wrapped in an old sail and taken a mile offshore. His mother said he always enjoyed the view of the ruined lighthouse out there.”

  “Is she here then, his mother?”

  The wright seemed not to hear. “The boy used to come into the shops, when he was no more than knee-high, just to sit and watch. He was there the day we laid the keel for the Zeus. After a few weeks he’d memorized the sequence of the tools I needed, would just hand them to me without my asking. I told his ma he should apprentice to me, that he had an instinct for working with wood. But she said she had to have him on the boat. And there’s no denying Captain Reese.” A steam whistle sounded. The man paused. “She’s the skipper of the Zeus,” he explained, “took over when her husband died years ago. Steer clear of her,” he added before moving away. “She chews fish heads for breakfast.”

  Hadrian lingered at the vacant slip, feeling adrift, not even certain why he felt the need to speak with Reese’s mother. He returned the empty gaze of a seagull on a piling, then wandered to the main wharf and sat on a piling himself to watch the workers passing by. A middle-aged man carrying a basket of fish offal walked past, followed by a youth wearing the heavy gloves of the ice handlers. Then a young woman in sunglasses caught his eye. A familiar medallion hung around her neck. He eased off the piling and followed her into a large stone and timber building at the center of the complex.

  Stacks of empty wooden barrels lined the passage, waiting to be filled. One of the youths heaving a barrel onto a hand truck wore sunglasses too. The woman made for the central hall where workers relaxed between shifts. Hadrian watched as she spoke with two rough-looking bearded men wearing the canvas tunics of fishermen, then she stepped into another passage marked with a sign, WAREHOUSES.

  He followed her down a narrow corridor connecting the structure to a building filled to the walls with barrels, then, as she slowed down, slipped behind a stack of barrels and waited. The air was pungent with the scent of hickory and oak, salt brine, and the onions mixed with pickled fish. Suddenly there were other scents, close by. Beer and unwashed bodies.

  Hadrian spun around to face the pair of bearded men he’d seen chatting with the woman.

  “You were asking about the Reese boy as if you had unfinished business with him,” said the taller of the two, a thin, sour-looking man.

  Hadrian backed along the barrels as the two men closed in. Each wore a brass medallion with a jackal etched on it.

  “It was personal.” Hadrian kept an eye on the woman, who watched with amusement as the second man picked up an iron crowbar.

  “What business do you have with a dead fisherman?”

  “We were friends.”

  A new voice rose from the shadows. “There’s a lie.” The man who stepped into the light had a face that seemed all scar and bone. “The boy wouldn’t have gone anywhere near you, Hadrian Boone. You expelled him from school when he was fourteen.”

  Hadrian’s heart sank as he recognized the man. Fletcher was the head of the fishery guild, and a member of the Council, but the eye patch he wore made him look like a pirate. “If that’s true, it would have been for good reason.” In truth, he’d only expelled students who committed repeated assaults on other students. “And it would have been a long time ago.”

  “Not to him. When his friends were still in school he was out on the water because of you, his hands raw and bleeding from pulling in nets in freezing rain. He was a good lad. A hero. Saved me when the Anna went down.” Fletcher turned toward the woman a moment, then pointed down the passage. Hadrian inched closer to her as she whispered a protest, apparently disappointed at missing the coming entertainment. As Fletcher gestured again, more insistently, Hadrian ducked and darted toward her, brushing her head with his hand so that her glasses fell off. She did not move, only sneered at him.

  Her eyes were nearly entirely white, the irises washed out. Fletcher spat a curse and with remarkable speed slapped the woman. Biting her lip, she retrieved her glasses and retreated. As she left, a teenage boy ran up to Fletcher, whispering close to his ear before speeding back down the passage.

  Fletcher’s smile was cold as ice as he turned back to Hadrian. “You’ve been up on Suicide Ridge. The chapel is burning.”

  “I have a thing about organized religion.”

  Fletcher’s laugh echoed off the stone floor. “You’re a homeless drunk who stays alive by spying for the governor. How the mighty have fallen, eh?” As he stepped closer, Hadrian saw that Fletcher had a tattoo of a snake on his neck, arranged like a necklace.

  “I’ve heard the best tattoo artists are in the camps on the north coast,” Hadrian observed, ignoring the taunt.

  Fletcher aimed the back of his hand at Hadrian’s cheek. He ducked too slowly, so that it connected with his forehead, the captain’s heavy ring opening the skin. Blood trickled down his temple. “Hold him down, Scanlon!” Fletcher ordered the tall, thin man.

  Scanlon grabbed Hadrian’s arm and gestured for his companion to seize the other. The pair pinned him against a stack of barrels as Fletcher produced a long filet knife. “You will stay out my fishery, Boone.” He sliced open Hadrian’s shirt at the shoulder, then ripped off the sleeve. “You never heard of Jamie Reese or the Zeus. Come back and we’ll drop you in the fish chopper. You’ll end your days as fertilizer for next year’s crops.”

  The tip of the blade pierced the skin over his bicep. Fletcher expertly slid the knife over his skin, making a slit around his entire arm. “Stay the fuck out of other people’s business, schoolteacher! Buchanan may have let you take your armband off but you need a reminder that no one wants you, no one trusts you. Let’s make it permanent.” A second, parallel cut was made three inches below the first.

  Hadrian struggled not to scream. “Their eyes!” he shouted above the searing pain. “What are you doing to their eyes!” The blood was flowing freely now, down his arm as another incision was made connecting the two cuts.

  Fletcher paused, flattening the blade over the skin between the two cuts. With sudden horror Hadrian realized he was going to slice away the skin, make an armband of scar. As Hadrian squirmed the captain gave another raspy laugh.

  “What the—” Scanlon growled as his companio
n buckled at the knees and fell to the floor. With a blur of movement a crowbar pounded into Scanlon’s ribs. When he did not drop an elbow cracked into his chin, throwing him back against the barrels.

  Fletcher spun about with the knife still raised and froze. Jori Waller stood four feet away, holding the bar at arm’s length, ready to swing again.

  “You bitch!” he spat. “You’re another who has a hard time learning her lessons.”

  She raised her other hand, holding something small and dark.

  “It’s a goddamned pistol!” Scanlon gasped as he struggled to his feet.

  “The governor is getting desperate,” Fletcher said with a lightless smile. “But he has more guns than ammunition. He’s not going to trust you with any of his precious bullets.”

  “This man is my prisoner,” Waller declared, gesturing Hadrian behind her.

  Fletcher glanced at the knife in his hand, dripping with Hadrian’s blood. “Boone has no idea of the dangerous ground he treads on. I will gladly save the colony the cost of his prison upkeep.”

  Suddenly another knife appeared, in Scanlon’s hand. There was a click as the hammer of the gun hit an empty chamber. Fletcher grinned and advanced, then the gun gave a short, sharp crack. The knife in Scanlon’s hand flew through the air.

  “Fuck me!” he groaned, and held up his hand. Waller had shot off his little finger.

  The fishermen stood in stunned silence as the sergeant shoved Hadrian toward the passage and began backing away. By the time they were outside her hand was shaking so violently Hadrian had to take the gun from her to get it back in its holster.

  THEY FOUND EMILY rocking on the back veranda of the hospital smoking her pipe, a tall bottle beside her. She raised a hand in warning before Hadrian even put a foot on the steps. “You can’t come in, Hadrian. If I help you again he says he will assign half a dozen policemen to the hospital, hovering over everything we do. In last night’s Council meeting he had us ratify his choice for Jonah’s replacement on the Council. The head of the shipwrights’ guild, who’s probably wrapped around his little finger. Then he announced the Dutchman has died at his farm, so he named another replacement, the new head of the millers’ guild. But he needs us to ratify if the man is to sit for more than an interim period. I said things are moving too fast, that most of the guild heads are now men we don’t know well. When I even hinted at resistance he proposed a new licensing body. Every doctor and nurse to be reviewed by a politically appointed panel to adjudge their fitness for the colony payroll. Then Kenton came by this morning looking for you.”