Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  “You want to pick at the scab. I understand.” Darius nods. “Well, quarrying is lonely and dangerous work. A visit from you would be very affirming. And who knows, perhaps the country air would be good for you as well. When would you like to go?”

  Stowe smiles. Her most childlike smile. At least what she imagines a child’s smile to be. Innocent, enthusiastic, and devoid of all suspicion, malice, and fear.

  The drive to the Quarry is lovely but sedate. Stowe, in a near perfect mood, is happy to contemplate the endless flatlands, all overhung with gray looming skies. Today, her cumbersome, heavy dress feels comfortable and warm, the air of the car well ventilated and fresh. It’s a wonderful day. Clearly this plan is perfect, for it has settled her mind. She has no reason to argue with herself, because both sides of her are in total agreement. She is ready and Dirt is the answer.

  Willum looks sullenly out his window. He hasn’t spoken to her since he was informed of this outing.

  “Don’t pout, Willum.”

  “Forgive me, Our Stowe, for being so deep in thought. I am here only to share in the glow of your presence.”

  Stowe smiles in the face of his sarcasm. “Willum, there is no need to be so formal.”

  “No?”

  “I need to tempt myself so that I can resist. There’s no challenge otherwise.”

  “Your wisdom in this matter is unassailable, My Lady.”

  Stowe glowers. If he wishes to act like a servant, why should she care? Why does it unnerve her so? He’s probably just angry, worried about her, but never mind. She has other concerns. She will think about how to deal with him later, but for now she can simper as obsequiously as he.

  “I am honored, my Primary, by your trust.”

  The vehicles stop at a security point, where heavily armed clerics carefully examine everyone’s identification. One more sign of the Masters’ growing fear of the Eaters. For years, the Eaters have found ways to smuggle Dirt out of this facility, the only place in the world where it is mined and stored. Darius would like to starve them out of the Dreamfield—the way she’s being starved right now.

  She wishes her eyes would stop aching. Dr. Arcanthas has prescribed drops, but they do nothing. Nothing!

  The guards wave them on to the second of the five gates. Each inspection promises to be as long and tedious as the last, but Stowe is sanguine. With every security check, they draw closer to the source. She can sense it. There’s Dirt in the air.

  At last the vehicles arrive in front of a small concrete bunker. The reinforced steel doors are thrown open and Master Fileth, the new Overseer of the Quarry, emerges.

  “Our Stowe,” he says, with a reverential bow. “We are honored by this visit. So happy to see you have recovered from your illness. You’ve been in the thoughts of us all.”

  Darius has high hopes for Master Fileth, the latest in a long line of Overseers of the Quarry. His predecessors have all failed to stem the leakage of Dirt, but Fileth has already implemented exceptional security measures and this has raised the Eldest’s expectations. How sad it will be for poor Fileth if he fails. Judging from his appearance and demeanor, though, Fileth has every intention of making his appointment a success. He’s exceedingly self-assured, a small, elegant man who looks to have retained his original external parts. Stowe wonders if torture hurts more when your body’s still completely your own.

  “Thank you, Master Fileth. I have waited too long to visit the quarry and its workers.”

  “You give us nothing but pleasure.”

  You must see every inch of the complex.

  “I want to see every inch of the complex.”

  “Then you shall.”

  The entourage walks behind the building and through another high fence, this one electrified, its wiring being repaired by two of those brain-addled Gunthers, with their hideous eyeglasses scrunched up their noses. Darius says there’s only a few dozen of these wretches, that they perform a valuable function and should be tolerated. But to Stowe’s eyes they’re everywhere, and loathsome like insects—she would like to stamp them all out.

  At the next gate, Stowe watches as workers pass through security on their way out of the facility. Everything they carry is being investigated, and one by one each is escorted into a hut, to be strip-searched, no doubt. Will the guards dare be so brazen with Our Stowe?

  With every step, Stowe’s sensitivity to the Dirt increases. Her body trembles with anticipation. Though she can feel Willum’s eyes on her, she is unconcerned. What could he possibly see that he doesn’t already know?

  But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the quarry. It is a massive deep hole as large as the entire village of Longlight. At its edges caves have been dug out, great stone arches supporting the ground above. The workers all wear goggles and masks, identical to the ones that Felith is passing out now.

  “You will need these. Inhaling Dirt makes one an excellent candidate for early lung replacement.”

  Stowe examines the equipment, then looks up into Willum’s watchful eyes.

  “Better eaten than breathed,” she says to her guardian. And with a mischievous grin, she dons the goggle and mask, then fairly bounces after Felith down the steps into the excavation.

  “As far as we can tell, the meteor struck somewhere in the center of this area. As it blasted apart, it irradiated the earth’s crust up to a depth of approximately three stories, over the entire impact perimeter. Gleaning the Dirt from the soil was not difficult, though purification proved a challenge. But about three years ago, that supply was exhausted, and we were forced to start excavating from the stone.”

  Exhausted three years ago. It wasn’t long after that they invaded Longlight and took her and Roan. Could there be a connection? Could they have—

  Keep your eyes focused on your surroundings. Observe carefully. Every nook. Each crevice.

  What was it? She lost the thought. Something about her brother. No matter, it will come back to her.

  Felith guides them through the first sandstone arch into a shallow cave, where workers painstakingly scrape with flat metal sticks at the purple veins in the rock. Bits of stone corrupt the crystalline powder collecting on the oilcloth that’s spread at their feet. Every few minutes the material is carefully swept up and placed in a large metal jar.

  “These jars are transported hourly to Processing. Shall we continue?”

  Stowe doesn’t reply. Instead, she edges closer to the workers. “How did the Dirt come to be mixed with stone?” she asks, the urge to stick her hand in one of the containers and gorge almost overwhelming.

  “The simple truth is that we do not know. There are many theories. Some believe the heat at impact melted parts of the stone, weakening it, permitting the surrounding soil to penetrate. Others think that in the explosion, fragments of the meteor fused with the softer rock in the ground. There has been a great deal of investigation attempting to determine relative potency. But as our supply of Dirt is finite, caution has slowed the process somewhat.”

  Explore. There must be a stockpile. Open every door.

  Indicating that they should proceed, Stowe presents her arm to Fileth.

  “I am honored, Our Stowe,” he says, awe in his voice as he proudly extends his wrist.

  Not so honored if he knew she only offered because she can barely stand, her head spinning from the proximity of the Dirt. It must permeate her whole body, because her every cell is screaming, demanding that she join with the Dirt in the rocks. Lick it, rub it on her face, squeeze it in her fists, roll in it.

  Breathe. Breathe. Control.

  She allows Fileth to guide her back to the small concrete building. More guards. Steel doors. Inside, additional security people and yet another set of metal doors. Felith and one of the guards each place a key in separate locks, together they turn them, and the doors slide open. An elevator. The members of her entourage paste themselves against its walls to make room for her voluminous skirts as they descend several levels. When they step
out into a huge, brightly lit room, their relief is visible.

  Here, the floor, walls, and ceiling are a pristine white, as are the fully hooded suits worn by the dozens of workers who stand over conveyor belts, sifting through the violet compound.

  “This is the epicenter,” says Felith. “All the Dirt that exists in the world is refined in this room.”

  “How much do you process each day?” asks Stowe, now grateful for the mask, as she struggles to control the twitch in her cheek.

  “There was a time when this facility produced a pound a day. But since we have resorted to drilling the rock, we are lucky to garner a pound in a week.”

  Stowe stares at him, appalled. “That’s all?” she whispers. That’s how much she’s been eating for the last six months.

  No wonder Willum was able to expose Kordan so easily. An even greater wonder Kordan took the risk at all.

  “When production was higher, the wisdom of past Masters demanded the Dirt be stockpiled. There are well over a thousand pounds in safe storage.”

  A thousand pounds!

  “Though the amount appears generous, at our current rate of consumption, it will be depleted in the next five years.”

  “But surely what the workers draw from the stone will continue to serve, used more prudently.”

  “I regret to inform Our Stowe, the trickle we’re mining now will be exhausted in the next decade.”

  The stockpile, you must see it!

  She permits herself a questioning glance in Willum’s direction. But he has forgotten her. As is his normal practice, he is scanning the room, recording everything. Later he will call the information up in perfect detail, perhaps for a report. Is that what these demands are she hears in her head? Have his lessons become so much a part of her they command her from within?

  As they pass door after door, Stowe feels compelled to ask that every one be opened, every room looked at. No, this can’t be Willum and his teachings. She’s searching, but what is she looking for? There’s no Dirt in these rooms. Why is she wasting the time?

  The stockpile. Locate it.

  “I couldn’t have seen everything, could I?”

  Felith smiles. “All that’s left is the safe storage facility. But it is a bit of a journey.”

  Stowe fights hard to keep her voice steady. “I should like to see it.”

  Another elevator shaft, even more cramped and festooned with security devices, plunges them deeper into the earth. Upon arrival, they are greeted by two guards who, after confirming their identities, escort the visitors to a small foyer with walls of thick steel.

  “One moment,” says Felith, pressing a black square on one of the walls. A flat stick, the size of a thumbnail, emerges. Taking a pin from a second packet, Felith pricks his finger, squeezes it, and places a drop of blood on the stick. After a moment, with a clicking sound, the wall slides apart. Moving through a long corridor, they find themselves in an open area surrounded by a transparent material, somewhat like glass but not nearly as fragile, Stowe is certain. For behind it, on all sides, is the violet glow of Dirt. More Dirt than she could ever imagine. Enough to bury herself standing, a hundred times over. She touches the wall, trying to feel for the Dirt’s resonance. Even through this barrier, perhaps it can impart its magic. But the wall is so thick, the Dirt might as well be a million miles away. Stowe’s head starts to throb; her legs shake and sway.

  Who’s laughing? She looks at the people surrounding her. All masked. She can hear them breathe, the trickle of their sweat, their heartbeats. But she cannot tell who’s laughing. The laughter’s so loud she cannot concentrate, she cannot focus, she cannot fly.

  Stowe buckles, but before she falls, a firm hand grips her arm, propping her up.

  “Very impressive, Overseer Felith,” says Willum. “Now I think a bit of fresh air would do us all some good.”

  The ascent in the elevator gives Stowe time to clear her head, but her heart is sinking. So close, so very close.

  There are other places to look. We will investigate them all.

  To look. To look for what?

  Dirt, of course. You must have Dirt.

  Yes. Dirt.

  To return to the Wall.

  Yes.

  Three sets of steel doors open and close and Stowe is outside, blinking in the sunlight, dazed by thunderous applause. All the workers have assembled there to see her. They cheer and shout “Our Stowe!” Every single one of them beaming.

  Willum, still squeezing her arm, hisses, “Smile and wave!”

  Master Felith hands her the ampliphone.

  “Focus yourself,” whispers Willum. “Do it. Now.”

  Trembling, Stowe struggles to twist her lips into something resembling a smile and raises a hand. A hush descends over her audience.

  “You dig and scrape and sift. Labor unceasingly. What you pull from the rock is beauty. It is the life’s blood of our City. Without it, our Masters are nothing. Without you, all would be nothing.”

  Stowe’s voice quavers. “Our thanks to each and every one of you. We are forever in your debt.”

  “Our Stowe! Our Stowe!” the workers chant.

  Willum supports her as she is paraded through the crowd.

  They shake her hand, touch her, praise her. Can they see the desperate pleading in her eyes? The unspeakable need for Dirt? Any Dirt. Just a little Dirt.

  But they’re all enabled, and the eyes she looks into are blank, the smiles hollow. They move in close to her, sniff her scent. But they are deaf and blind to her torment.

  The drive back to the City is an ordeal. The car is stifling, the fabric of her dress unbearably itchy, and the landscape a wasteland. Willum remains silent, removed. It’s just as well, as she cannot meet his eyes.

  He uses you. He abuses you. Fills your head with lies. It isn’t Dirt that harms you.

  She needs some Dirt, just a little. Not a whole bowl, just a spoonful. Willum does not mean to hurt her. Of course not. Ridiculous. Willum is her teacher. He’s teaching her right now, with his silence, leaving her to stew in her boundless inadequacy. The best lessons learned are those we discover ourselves. How often has she heard him say that? And he is right. She must gain more control. Her lack of poise at the mine was appalling.

  The power of the Wall can give you the strength you need.

  I discovered the power of the Wall, yes, but I need Dirt to get back there.

  Dirt is where the Walkers are.

  Yes... Yes.

  “Willum.”

  “My lady?”

  “I’d like you to arrange a visit to the Department of Importation.”

  “It is a great honor, Our Stowe, to have you here at our facility,” says Master Watuba. Her head is disproportionately large, seated uncertainly between her narrow shoulders, making her unnervingly frog-like. Watuba oversees the importing of the Masters’ most cherished product from the Outlands: children whose young bodies will be harvested in order to prolong the lives of the Masters.

  Open every door. Look in every room.

  “I am a simple servant of the City,” Stowe says. “Ready to meet the new recruits and give them my blessing.”

  “What lucky few to have such favor bestowed on them.” Watuba, exquisitely mannered, bows. “This way.”

  Like most, this surgical facility is spotless and reeks of antiseptic. Stowe senses she’s being observed, by eyes peeking through spyholes, faces pressed against one-way glass, as she is paraded along the endless array of doors. Doors, doors, and more doors. She knows she tries Master Watuba’s patience as she asks to view what lies behind each and every one. Then she sees a door she remembers. Kordan brought her here soon after her arrival in the City, to meet one of the Nine. This door is black, its handle embossed with the Egyptian hieroglyph for sky. She’d loved running her fingers along its sharp grooves. Within, there is sure to be some ancient one floating in the Dreamfield, waiting for the candidate who will provide his new liver or kidneys or eyes. His rotting, corpse-like hand d
ipping into the precious treasure she seeks.

  “Oh!” she shouts and suddenly stops. Willum and Watuba turn. “I’m sorry, but I must have snapped a button.” She blushes. “Please, excuse me for a moment.”

  Before Watuba can stop her, Stowe steps up to the black door, slides it open, slips through, and snaps it shut. Inside, however, there is not one person, but eight. Sitting in soft leather chairs are children, several years younger than Stowe, younger even than she was when she first ate Dirt. They all look up at her and smile. But Stowe does not smile back, she is too busy stifling a scream.

  “What a surprise,” whines Kordan, stepping out of the shadows. “Children, look, it’s Our Stowe. How nice of you to come, my Lady. The children are about to partake for the first time and your words would be an inspiration.”

  Stowe does not move. She is rigid. Face pallid, she stares at the children.

  They are cultivating your replacements!

  “Stowe?” inquires Kordan, eyes flashing behind a ruinous smile.

  Kill them. Kill them all.

  A thin, high sound emerges from her mouth, a sound that makes the children recoil and slashes Kordan like a surgical blade. The children scream until they collapse. Kordan buckles, falling to the floor.

  She hears the door open. Shut.

  Willum lifts her, slams her against the wall. “Stowe, get hold of yourself!”

  She looks intently at Willum, sees herself reflected in his eyes. Herself calm. Powerful. Silent. Resourceful.

  “You can put me down.”

  Gently lowering her to the floor, Willum rushes to the bodies, touching every one. Their eyes flutter for a moment. “You could have killed these children. And Kordan. Go. Go now! Tell Watuba I have business with Kordan and will follow.”

  Kill them now. You must kill...

  Stowe can feel her mouth opening, another scream welling up. Willum looks up, startled. “NO!” he shouts, but it’s not just his voice that touches her; it’s his mind. He’s pushing her with his mind. How could he do that to her? Not Willum. He moves closer to her, gazing deep in her eyes. A wave of tranquility washes over her. Somehow she feels lighter.