Tower of Mud and Straw

by Yaroslav Barsukov

  “Perhaps,” Shea said. “But what if you get sick? What if something happens at home, and you have to leave in the middle of the day?”

  “Hopefully nothing happens at home.”

  “Yes, but what if…?”

  “Then we’ll deal with it when we get there. Oh, and by the way…” She turned and ran her fingers across the tulip’s surface, now completely dark. “I’ve ordered another thirty devices from the Drakiri settlement in Owenbeg. They’ll arrive in a few days.”

  “What? No! This is my workshop as well as yours, and I forbid it. Even those six…” He glanced at the people trying to get hold of the rotating mahogany table. “…they may’ve been a mistake.”

  Something sparkled in her eyes. “Let’s make a bet.”

  “A bet?”

  “A bet. Like we did when we were children. Give me till tomorrow evening, and I bet you I’ll change your mind about the tulips.”

  Shea chuckled. “What do you…?”

  She smiled dreamily. “I have an idea.” Without warning, she stepped forward and squeezed him in an embrace. “Everything will be beautiful. You’ll see, brother.”

  6

  The carriage took them from the port’s breeze into Oakville’s narrow, sand-colored streets.

  In no particular order: sunlight-watered shadows under the house bridges; a barber on the corner catching the clouds with his mirror; a bigger dog chasing a smaller one; a woman, her hand on her hip, talking to a man with bald temples.

  Inconceivable how something could carry the sugary-powder flavor of childhood and, at the same time, a much more bitter, corroding taste.

  “I never wanted to return,” he said.

  Aidan didn’t respond.

  Sun Plaza. Memory lane zigzagged around striped market stands, past doors the color of green bottle-glass. Summer always managed to prolong its stay here: yellow leaves on the cherry trees seemed simply an extension of daylight.

  The driver half-turned to them. “Where to now?”

  “Ashcr…” Damn it. Something made him swallow the word—whether it was the sun that stung his eyes, or all the things rising up his chest. “Ashcroft family workshop.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The furniture shop a few streets away.”

  “Oh.” The man pursed his lips. “Oh. You mean Imogen’s.”

  “I mean that street, right ahead. I’ll show you the way from there.”

  What had he expected? After a decade—dead windows, still criss-crossed by wooden boards? Of course the place had a new owner, and he could only hope they hadn’t discovered the rosewood trapdoor.

  “You’ve mentioned the proprietor’s name,” he said.

  “A gal called Imogen.” The driver smacked his lips. “That shop, after what had happened, folks were afraid it was cursed or something. All those people who died—”

  “What did happen there?” Aidan said.

  The man shrugged. “People died. You know. Anyway, no one wanted to buy the place until Imogen came along and made it into a clothing store.”

  The carriage drove into a small square in front of a building which still reminded Shea—even though his young, romantic self had long faded—of a yacht: the dark wood of the first floor and the white sail of the second.

  The sign read ‘Flying Tulip Dresses.’ Imogen hadn’t simply bought the workshop—she’d bought its history, too.

  Leaving the black gloves to meter out the coins, Shea hopped off the carriage.

  “What do you have in mind?” Aidan called out to him.

  “To talk.”

  The doorbell silver-chimed.

  The main hall wasn’t the way he remembered it: no more wheels under the ceiling—or ropes—no scent of resin and finished wood. No laughter; no clinking, somewhere in the corner, of beer mugs. People in white stood at equal distances from one another, each hunched over their own small table. Neat, clean, an invisible checkerboard.

  A tall woman sailed up to him. “May I help you?”

  “Good afternoon.” Shea looked around, remembering. “I…”

  “Are you here to order a dress?”

  “No… Maybe. I would be interested in a guided tour.”

  “We don’t offer tours, I’m afraid. But if you’re looking to buy a dress, I can show you our fabrics.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Thank you.” That door, across the hall. Still there. Here’s hoping they hadn’t tried to change the floorboards—

  “This is cotton with lozenges, and here’s some striped linen. It’s particularly beautiful with…”

  There was zero chance they would get to the trapdoor with all those people around.

  “When do you close?” Shea asked.

  “…purple velvet. I beg your pardon?”

  “When do you close the workshop?”

  “At six. But it’s still plenty of time to take your measurements if—”

  “Listen, I’ve some money with me. I know it sounds very strange, but I assure you, there’s no malicious intent involved.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You just need to let me in after your close. I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

  “Let you in?”

  Shea lowered his voice. “I won’t take anything from the workshop. I’m not trying to rob you. I only require ten minutes … I’ll pay you, okay? I promise I won’t get you into trouble.”

  She nodded slowly, staring at him. “Please give me a second.”

  A guy at one of the tables cursed loudly and puffed at his fingers—for a moment, that distracted Shea, and then the woman wasn’t there anymore. When he caught sight of her again, she stood at the other side of the hall next to a bulky fellow with hands that, from the looks of them, could bend small trees.

  Shea saw her say something and point at him.

  Fuck.

  The bell chimed again as he tumbled out into the street.

  “Find out anything?” Aidan said.

  “Found out we need to scramble, fast.”

  Rushing toward a back alley, déjà vu gripped him that he first couldn’t place; then he remembered—catch it, Danny, catch it. The sudden influx of memory was so painful that he doubled over, palms on his knees.

  Aidan interpreted this in his own way. “You should exercise more, my friend.”

  From the shadows, they watched the ‘bouncer’ step out through the front door, scan the street, disappear back into the shop.

  Catch it, Danny.

  “Let’s forget the entire thing,” Shea said. “Do you hear me, Aidan? Let’s forget it and return to Owenbeg.”

  Aidan slowly turned his head and chuckled in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Coming here was a mistake.”

  “Do you realize—damn it, I’m repeating myself—do you realize what’s at stake? This is our future, combined. And the country’s future—”

  “No, this is your belief.” Shea pressed his back against the wall and slid down into a crouch. “Or Daelyn’s belief. Against someone else’s. You believe Duma would instigate a world war. The queen believes her legacy is a two thousand foot monstrosity. Drakiri believe that same monstrosity will bring about the apocalypse. One belief against the other.”

  “Except some beliefs have foundation in reality and some are pure superstition. What’s the deal with the Drakiri, you said?”

  “They’re convinced…” Shea sighed. “They’re convinced that once the tower is finished, another will materialize. They even have a name for it—the Mimic Tower. It’s supposed to be a portal to hell.”

  “Surely you realize how crazy this sounds.”

  “Crazy, Aidan?” Shea glanced at him. “Same crazy as in ‘devices we don’t understand that can fly’?”

  “That’s different. That’s technology, as opposed to superstition.”

  It was Shea’s turn to chuckle.

  “Look,” Aidan said, “you have some weaknesses that would make it difficult for you to ru
n the court, should all of this…” He raised his hands, palms up. “Should our plans work. You need to get rid of those weaknesses. Focus on the goal at hand.”

  Take the next step in the golden dance.

  “I’m afraid we’re out of options anyway—we can’t get to the tulips,” Shea said.

  “Have you at least found out when they close?”

  “At six.”

  “Then we’re in luck, cause some of those bloody places stay open through midnight.” Aidan turned around. “Let’s meet here at ten.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You said thirty devices. We’ll need help to transport them.”

  “How would we even get them?”

  “Well, that one’s pretty obvious,” Aidan said. “We break in.”

  7

  “Shea, wake up. Shea.”

  Hands shook him, disembodied hands, with no person behind them. He tried to free himself when things came into focus, arms appeared, then the face framed by strands of red hair.

  Muriel.

  “I had a nightmare,” he said.

  “Forget it. Look out the window.”

  “Let me just lie here for a few minutes.”

  “Wake up, something’s wrong. I think something’s happened in the city.”

  He sat on the bed, and a sickening feeling tapped on his abdomen. “Am I still sleeping?”

  “What’s the matter with you? Look out the window.”

  He did. It must’ve been seven or eight in the evening—he’d dozed for an hour, no more, and the void in his body left by the lovemaking had yet to close. In front of him, vineyards stretched down the hill’s slope. A road snaked in the distance, and between it and the sunset orange of the river lay Oakville.

  Against the darkening rim of the sky, a cone of purple light expanded from behind the roofs.

  Give me time till tomorrow evening, she’d told him yesterday.

  “What the hell is that?” said Muriel. “And what are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer, frantically trying to push his right foot into his pants.

  The purple light boiled.

  Heartbeat.

  “I still think we should’ve simply smashed one of the windows,” Aidan said. “Where did you learn to pick locks?”

  “My sister taught me. She used to do it for fun when we were kids.”

  No questions followed: no I didn’t know you had a sister, no where is she now. And anyway, in a few seconds, with a click, the front door opened into the transparent dark of ‘Flying Tulips’.

  “Shall we wait for your people, Aidan?”

  “No, let’s go in. They’ll arrive in ten minutes or so.”

  Tables with fabrics heaped on them, clothing stretchers. A child’s suit hanging from a coat hook. Shea had to remind himself why he wasn’t a thief, why it was all warranted.

  The door at the end of the hall drew closer, and with it, a vomit-inducing, ether-inhaling vertigo. There used to be a workbench here; Danny and himself had drunk beer over there. You’re fine, Danny, you’re fine. Don’t worry. You’ll fit in.

  Voices in the street, Aidan’s whisper: Duck.

  Shea crouched behind a table, praying that the pile of cloth on it would be enough to conceal the top of his head. When the voices gained in force, he peeked over the linen waves.

  A group of young people passed outside the windows. One of them, a girl, got close to the glass, either trying to look inside or examining her own reflection. A man laughed.

  “Let’s go…” Something loud and unintelligible. “Come on.”

  The girl leaned against the window with her palms. Darkness erased all features from her face, and moonlight went right through the hair. Shea imagined her lips moving.

  The next moment, tiny purple garlands stretched among the shadows: Aidan pulled off one of his gloves.

  More laughter. “…Let’s go.”

  “Aidan,” Shea whispered. “It’s okay, they’re leaving.”

  The girl pushed herself away from the window—but the garlands continued to shimmer until the voices outside became an echo.

  Heartbeat.

  The purple light boiled.

  “Lena!”

  In the square before the workshop—hands, more hands, tugging at his biceps, at the lapels of his suit.

  “Get the fuck off of me.” Shea slapped the palms and fingers away, shouldering his way through the crowd. “Lena! Lena!”

  Of course she couldn’t hear him. If she were even inside the workshop—he still clung to the hope that the mammoth vortex boiling purply toward the sky had nothing to do with her.

  Maybe she’d gone to the vineyards. Maybe she’d gone for a drink.

  The building loomed ahead, a shadow stretching over the centipede of the crowd.

  He broke out into the free part of the square suddenly and unexpectedly, stumbling and almost falling. There was no transition, not a single onlooker left; ten feet before the front door, a dead zone started.

  He noticed the details, the way the roof arched, as though crumpled by a giant hand, the way the windows curved inward.

  Someone yelled, Stop him—and yet nobody did.

  A second’s hesitation was all he could afford. He raised his head. Somewhere above, invisible to him now, the purple cone swirled.

  Shea stepped into the workshop.

  Wheels and ropes, tangled into a nightmarish spiderweb. The wall opposite the entrance, grinning, and the wardrobe, no longer flying, squeezed into the hole.

  It looked like something had tried to suck the building in from the inside, and from the ripples frozen into the ceiling, he gauged where this something was.

  The epicenter lay behind the door at the other side of the hall.

  Or rather, a door frame, a twisted and crippled one.

  Heartbeat.

  Aidan pushed on the doorknob.

  It was a small room, twenty by twenty feet. Some shelves, brooms huddled together in thick shadow. Moonlight seeped in through the single window by the ceiling, reflecting off the lacquered floor.

  “Okay, we’re here, apparently.” Aidan said. “So where are the devices?”

  Shea tapped the floorboards with the tip of his boot. “We’ll need a hammer and a crowbar.”

  “Or anything to tear apart wood. It doesn’t have to be clean, you know. You go through those shelves, I’ll look in the adjacent rooms.”

  Aidan’s steps staccatoed through the main hall, and Shea swallowed the lump in his throat, wishing he could do the same with the fit of claustrophobia.

  Forgive me, sis. I never wanted to return. But I need to see the dance to its end.

  “I think this would do,” Aidan said from the door frame, holding up an oil lamp and something that resembled a pair of goat’s legs.

  They worked in the jittering light like two coal miners, taking a pause each time Shea lost the grip or hit his finger—he could no longer feel his hands, heartbeat having occupied the entirety of his body.

  One by one, the floorboards came off and the rosewood trapdoor emerged.

  Aidan slid the crowbar between its edge and the floor.

  “A hand here?” he said. “The damn thing’s heavy.”

  Together, they lifted the door into an upright position. Underneath, a black rectangle gaped at them, all stale air and the reek of mildew. Shea put his foot on the first stair and thought, help me, sis, help me save face, help me not to faint.

  “I can’t see a thing.” Aidan swung the lamp behind him.

  “You will.”

  At this point, Shea didn’t need light. He descended the staircase and took a few blind steps forward.

  His hands found a lever and a valve.

  Forgive me, Lena.

  Then it occurred to him he no longer knew which Lena he was apologizing to.

  The tulip hummed, rising into the air, painting the cellar in purple, rows upon rows of the Drakiri devices stacked on top of each other like wine barrels.

 
Aidan whistled. “Well, I’d be damned.”

  Heartbeat.

  A twisted, crippled door frame. Past it, a small room, twenty by twenty feet. Good for keeping brooms in, good for indoor picnics.

  The ceiling and the top of the walls had been torn off—a sculptor’s mold of a closet, started, but not finished. At head height, a black egg hovered, wobbling and spewing purple light into the sky in a circular pattern.

  Lower, soot covered the plaster where the two oil lamps had smashed into it.

  Even lower lay the chairs with twisted legs—and the bodies.

  Danny was dead, mouth agape in childlike wonder, skin on the right side of his face one big burn—he’d probably held a lamp when everything happened.

  Lena’s chest was still going up and down.

  The only sound Shea could produce was a cawk. He fell on his knees, crawled up to her.

  “Lena, Lena, Lena.”

  He stretched out his hand, then pulled it back, not knowing what to do with that broken flower of a body, whether to try and hold it.

  She opened her left eye. “Shea. Danny… Where’s… Where is he?”

  “Sis, sis, lie still.”

  “Where’s… Danny…”

  “Danny’s dead, Lena. Please, please.” He touched her hair with his fingertips.

  “Wanted… to teach him… show you how easy… that even he could use…” She coughed and spat blood.

  Anyone but my brother, he remembered—and realized she could choke any moment. He gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pressed her face into his chest.

  “You have to stop it,” she mumbled. “Switch off… the device.”

  “Everything will be all right,” Shea said. “We’ll sit here for a while. For a little while. Everything will be okay.”

  “You have… to stop it.”

  “I have to, yes.”

  He never realized tears could flow uninterrupted, without beginning or end, the body simply fulfilling one of its biological functions.

  “I love you, sis.”

  “Love you… too… brother.”

  With his boot, he pulled the remnants of the nearest chair under the tulip. Keeping balance atop that heap of wood proved difficult, but somehow he managed—maybe because he wasn’t thinking anymore.