Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  Alive. What a thought!

  “Make the arrangements for an early morning entry.”

  Kordan bows with a flourish and leaves. The moment the door is closed, Darius sits wearily in his chair and reaches for the oxygen mask behind his desk. He takes several deep inhalations, reviving himself.

  So fragile—from where does he draw his strength?

  Why does Darius still trust Kordan to be his assistant when he has failed the Keeper so completely? It is true that Kordan is transparent and his flaws make him easy to control. Could it be that Darius can only abide rank servility? This might be a chink in his armor, a weakness, perhaps fatal, and certainly worth remembering.

  “Come,” the Eldest calls out. Stowe’s startled, fearing that somehow he’s sensed her presence, heard her thoughts, but then Willum enters and she instantly relaxes.

  “You requested me, Keeper?”

  “Sit, Willum, sit,” says Darius. His tone is uncommonly warm. “I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate the care and attention you’ve given Our Stowe. Your report on the overuse of Dirt was most appropriate.”

  “Thank you, Keeper.”

  “The disturbance over those recruits, however, remains a concern.”

  “It is certain, then, that she acted against them?” Willum’s dismay is so sincere even Stowe believes it.

  She studies every nuance, every flicker on Willum’s face, but it reveals nothing.

  “I am afraid, Willum, that I see no alternative to that analysis.”

  “She’s a sensitive child, Keeper. Perhaps she felt your love for her was threatened by their presence.”

  “Perhaps. Yes. Love. It does play some part, I imagine, but I cannot allow such extravagant displays of emotion to interfere with the greater plan. There is a new breed of human come into existence and I must continue to search for specimens. They will assist me with my latest creation.”

  “Has the Eldest conceived a new architecture for the Dreamfield?”

  What had he said to Kordan? “The summation of my architecture depends on Our Stowe.” So, he needs her but also these children. To do what? What can it be?

  Something to ensure his domination of the Dreamfield.

  “I have not called you here to discuss myself but to ask your opinion. Is Stowe ready to Walk again?”

  How impassive Willum looks. You’d think he hasn’t had any thoughts on the matter until now.

  “Perhaps not ready, Keeper, but able.”

  Such a perfectly balanced answer. Worried teacher, yes, but as always the faithful servant.

  “Kordan will provide you with details of the task.”

  “As the Archbishop wills it,” says Willum.

  Stowe follows him down the corridor, drifting close to see what he might betray. A hint of nervousness, of consternation. But Willum’s face is a perfect mask.

  Too perfect.

  THE BESPECTACLED MAN

  THE AIDING AND ABETTING OF UNAUTHORIZED IMMIGRANTS IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN BY THE CONURBATION. MEMBERS OF THE CONGREGATION FOUND GUILTY OF THIS CRIME WILL BE CAST OUT AND THE RESIDENT PERMITS OF ALL EXISTING MEMBERS OF THEIR FAMILIES PERMANENTLY REVOKED.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  “TODAY’S THE DAY,” says Lumpy as he pokes his head through the tall grass that’s provided both bed and concealment for them. “Crickets have been going crazy. Hopping around, wiggling, singing. I think the City’s giving them the heebie-jeebies.”

  Roan drags himself out of his bedroll. His head feels dense, his limbs heavy, as if he got no sleep at all. He stretches, hoping it will help him shake his grogginess, and from under an arm he raises an eyebrow at Lumpy. “What about you?”

  “Oh, me? I’ve got it all worked out with Kamyar.”

  As if on cue, Kamyar brays loudly into the morning haze. “Enough beauty sleep, my uglies, it’s time to rise out of the weeds and move on. The festivities in the City await us!”

  Careful to make her approach heard, Mabatan joins them. “You slept a long time. Food’s all gone,” she says as she hands a few of her charred eggs to Roan.

  But Roan has little appetite—the closer they get to the City, the more Stowe’s face, or fragments of her thoughts, flash through his dreams, and whether sleeping or awake, the torment is unbearable. Not his, Stowe’s. He’s not sure if she’s doing something to others or something is being done to her. But the pain, confusion, and fury are unmistakable.

  “You sense her. So do the crickets. Her mood is dark.”

  “We have to get her out of there.”

  Lumpy grins ruefully. “Yeah, if we survive meeting her.”

  They secure their packs as they step out to face the road before them. Far in the distance, a waning crescent moon hovers over the towers of the City, ghost-like in the livid dawn.

  Ruins of neighborhoods that once extended around the City’s core litter the landscape, and the dust rising from them streaks the sky in shades of burgundy and mauve. At the sight, Roan experiences an unsettling déjà vu until he remembers the journey he made here with Alandra just over a year ago—but that was in the Dreamfield.

  Alandra. Roan felt that since she’d nursed him back from the edge of death, salved the pain of Lumpy’s scars, and risked all to help them rescue the children, she was too good a friend to choose any side but his. At least that’s what he’d hoped. Maybe it was too much to ask. He supposes he cannot blame her for her commitment to the Forgotten. Kamyar’s right: they saved her life, were her second family.

  Looking around, he can tell Kamyar and his troupe are growing increasingly uneasy. Even Mabatan’s usual serenity has been superseded by a grim alertness. Everyone is on edge. Including him.

  “Mabatan, is it the approach to the City that’s worrying everyone?”

  “Your sister affects them also, but they cannot tell her feelings from their own.”

  “It’s not as if the walk through these ruins is lifting anybody’s spirits either,” chimes in Lumpy.

  “I know something that might lift the mood,” says Roan. But when he takes out his recorder, instead of smiles, he’s greeted with a chorus of groans.

  Dobbs rises to Roan’s defense. “Now, hey, hey, be easy on the boy, come now!”

  Mejan’s in no mood for compromise. “For the last two days, you’ve played nothing but dirges.”

  Talia agrees. “All those doleful notes have been killing me.”

  “I believe a few died at your last performance, Talia,” quips Kamyar.

  She launches a pebble at him, hitting him squarely on the nose. Nursing his bruised snout, Kamyar ambles up to Roan.

  “Take pity on us, would you, and sweeten the bitter tea so we may all swallow it.”

  Roan can’t help but laugh and launches into a snappy reel. Mejan quicksteps to the beat, shouting happily, “That’s more like it!”

  Midday finds much of the good humor roused by Roan’s music evaporated in the sun’s unrelenting heat. Initially grateful that Kamyar halts the caravan, the troupe heaves a collective sigh when he announces, “Time to costume up.”

  But when Dobbs opens his trunk, the performer in all of them rises to meet the challenge. Circled around a gaudy array of masks, fingers twitch until they reverentially make their selections. A glittery human half-mask is chosen for the pony after an intricately constructed horse mask is donned by Dobbs himself. “Neigh!” he whinnies, then trots after Mejan, who kicks him away. Roan absently takes the first mask he touches. A glowing spectrum of red, orange, and yellow, it sets his face alight with flames.

  “These are all half-masks,” Lumpy complains. “They’ll show too much of my face.”

  “But these are not for you,” says Kamyar. “For you we have a new creation.” Opening another box, he pulls out a gorilla head.

  Lumpy groans.

  “Tsk, tsk, be more appreciative, Lump. You are to have the privilege of resurrecting the spirit of this regrettably extinct species.”

  “An inspired choice,” says
Talia, wickedly.

  “I was about to say the same, only humility hindered me,” Kamyar demures.

  Mabatan shudders. “So many animals gone,” she says softly.

  Ever practical, Lumpy asks, “How do I breathe in this thing?”

  “There’s plenty of ventilation built in,” says Dobbs. “Try it on.”

  Lumpy does, and immediately starts prancing around. Talia chuckles and hands him a tambourine. “Since you’ll be getting all the attention!”

  Kamyar, sporting a devil mask complete with horns, inspects the company. “Good. We look every inch the revelers.”

  “Thrilled to be celebrating year one hundred and ten of the Consolidation,” mutters Mejan.

  “Come, come, everyone loves the jollification of the Archbishop’s Triumph!” shouts Kamyar.

  “Exalted for crushing the rebel traitors!” adds Dobbs.

  “Adored for his beneficence!” Talia pitches in.

  “He raises the City up!” chants Mejan. “He saves the people!”

  “For their parts!” Kamyar counters.

  “Delivers them from evil!” she continues.

  “And into the hands of the devil!” Kamyar shouts, waving his pitchfork.

  “All hail the Archbishop!” the Storytellers shout, and with great gusto, they make the sound of a huge, resounding fart.

  The old highway slopes down. Walls rise on either side, but huge slabs have broken away to create a perimeter of concrete debris.

  “This was a tunnel, once,” says Mabatan. “But the waters dried long ago—” She freezes, listening. Her eyes catch Roan’s. “Clerics coming,” they assert in unison.

  “Our cue!” Kamyar hands Mabatan a drum and Mejan some cymbals. Talia pulls out a ukulele and Dobbs a trombone. After Kamyar plays an introduction with his penny whistle, the unlikely combination of instruments meld to form a peculiarly harmonious band.

  But even the clatter of Mejan’s cymbals is soon topped by the roar of a pair of three-wheeled trucks. Each has a few clerics on board, all heavily armed. They screech to a stop before the revelers. Dobbs welcomes their arrival with a booming run of ear-splitting notes.

  “What is your business?” the foremost cleric demands.

  “We are the Promethean Players,” Kamyar modestly replies. “I’m sure you’ve heard of our ensemble. We are the Archbishop’s favorites.”

  The head cleric gives the others a questioning look. They all shake their heads. He strokes the lump on his neck, thinking. “We have no such information.”

  “Well, for the last five years running we’ve been the mainstay of Consolidation Weekend. You must come and see us this year, all of you. It’s an experience not to be missed.”

  “We’ve been assigned to the Farlands,” a young cleric sighs from the back.

  But he’s quickly brought to attention by the head cleric’s scowl. Turning to the troupe, the older cleric warns, “Do not veer from the main road or you’ll not live to give your performance.”

  “Thank you for the wise advice. A fine day to you all.”

  The clerics roll off. When they are well out of earshot, Talia bursts out laughing. “The Archbishop loves us!”

  “Why aim low, my love?” grins Kamyar, and turns to the group. “But they were an easy test. The true gatekeepers await.”

  The ruined tunnel opens onto a huge steel and concrete bridge that spans the fetid waters surrounding the City. There the Promethean Players stop to gaze awestruck at the metropolis in all its glory. Though Roan has glimpsed it through the lens of the Dreamfield, in reality this island-city of steel and glass is much more impressive, more massive than he ever could have anticipated. Wandering the Farlands with its wasted forests and tiny settlements, he’s rarely seen a structure with more than one floor. Here, towers rise forty stories tall and gargantuan domes and pyramids of glass rival them.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” mutters Lumpy, the apprehension in his voice apparent even through his mask.

  “Yeh,” says Roan.

  At the end of the bridge, a group of glowering clerics, looking very official and very well-armed, stand before a barricade of reinforced concrete. “State your business.”

  Kamyar steps forward. “We’re here for the...”

  “Your papers.”

  Through the holes of their masks, Roan and Lumpy’s eyes meet. Papers?

  With a flourish, Kamyar pulls a scroll out of his coat. “I believe this is what you seek.”

  The cleric unrolls the document and studies it while Kamyar looks steadily at him and elucidates. “As you can see, there are seven in my company. And our visa has been signed by Master Kordan.”

  “Signed by Master Kordan,” the cleric repeats, awestruck. Kamyar plucks the document from his hand.

  “We must not be late.” Kamyar smiles broadly at the cleric, who waves them on.

  “Where did you get that document?” asks Roan.

  “Ah, now, Roan. A magician never reveals his secrets.”

  “It’s real?”

  “When your subject has that little bulge in his neck, real is relative.” Kamyar’s eyes shift to Lumpy, who is craning his neck to take in the height of the tower before him. “Be advised, young Lump, if you lean back much further, the mask’ll fall off your head.”

  “Then you’ll hear screaming like you’ve never heard before,” adds Dobbs.

  Lumpy straightens out. “From far away, it looks so clean, like a crystal. But close-up... it’s more like lead.”

  “I’m glad you’re impressed, but we have things to do, people to see,” says Kamyar.

  Roan stares at a gigantic billboard of Our Stowe, illuminated by a hundred spotlights. Dressed in exquisite clothing, she looks as if she’s been constructed, like some weird artificial flower. As he juxtaposes his memory of Stowe, enthusiastic, intelligent, vulnerable, against this image of her as Our Stowe, deity of the City, he shudders. His emotions have been fluctuating wildly, their intensity and unpredictability demanding a significant portion of his energy to control. If he is experiencing the echo of Stowe’s mental state, then he fears he must prepare himself for the possibility that she has gone insane.

  “... And with a benevolent smile, she watches over all...” intones Kamyar, bowing with a flourish.

  “That’s not the Stowe I knew,” says Roan.

  “Well, she’s on every block, so you’ll have a chance to become better reacquainted. You and Lumpy keep close together. Talia, Mejan, take the rear with Dobbs. Mabatan, you’re with me.”

  Kamyar leads the band of players down a meticulously clean thoroughfare teeming with street cleaners and merchants. Medical personnel roam the boulevard, all identified by large badges sewn into their brightly colored uniforms. Official-looking men and women, dressed in dark suits topped with robes in an array of beiges and browns, clutch their cases as they scurry about their business. What their jobs might be is impossible to discern; perhaps they are bureaucrats. But all passersby lift their eyes and nod respectfully to the blue-robed clerics, guardians of order, and Roan’s peculiarly masked companions are no exception.

  Despite the rush of bodies in these crowded avenues, there is an eerie order and strange listlessness to it all. There are more people here than Roan has ever seen before, and the notion that anyone would seek such a life is difficult for him to comprehend.

  No trace of a tree or bush or blade of grass is in evidence. Roan’s careful not to let himself be jostled and pressed by the crowd, and his discomfort is easily read by Kamyar, who veers off the large street and into an alleyway.

  “One more minute and I was about to start screaming,” groans Dobbs.

  “Oh, you thespians are so hard to please,” says Kamyar. Then he stops and looks around. Colorful facades have given way to nondescript concrete walls, iron bars and grates, large rectangular recesses, and indecipherable signage. Kamyar frowns. “Our contact’s not here.”

  Talia slips in quietly beside him. “I don’t like being o
ut on the streets this long.”

  Dobbs nods. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “Do you want to split up, search in two directions?” asks Mejan.

  “No,” Kamyar says firmly. “We stay together. Keep moving.” And at that very moment, three clerics round the corner, walking pointedly toward them.

  “Our lucky day,” mutters Talia.

  “Do we fight?” asks Roan.

  “Far from it,” replies Kamyar, who strides toward the largest of the Blue Robes, waving. “Thank goodness you’ve found us. We seem to have lost our way.”

  “You certainly have.”

  “We’re such bumpkins and the streets are so many, perhaps you could direct us to Conurbation Park.”

  The cleric points due east.

  “Many thanks,” says Kamyar, and hastily directs the troupe away from the cleric. But it is to no avail, as one of the guards extends an arm to stop them.

  “You there with the monkey head.” He moves in close to Lumpy, who stands rigid and silent. “That looks real.”

  Dobbs steps over, a proud smile adorning his face. “It’s a gorilla actually, mountain gorilla to be precise. I put in every hair individually.”

  Lumpy remains stock-still while the curious clerics touch the mask.

  “Gorillas haven’t been seen on the face of the earth for over a hundred years. This mask is my tribute to their memory. I have more masks if you’d like to see them,” says Dobbs, trying to draw the clerics over to the wagon. But they don’t follow. “I want to try on this one,” says the guard, slipping his fingers under the edge of Lumpy’s mask.

  The self-assured look that usually graces Kamyar’s face is wilting as he tries to insert himself between Lumpy and impending disaster. “We really must be getting back to work. We have papers.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do. You will get back to work, don’t worry.” Nose to nose with Kamyar, the largest cleric shoves him gently but firmly away. “When we tell you to.” He motions to his cohorts. “Take off the mask.”

  Lumpy doesn’t move, though Roan can almost hear the sweat trickle down his back. It’s looking more and more as if Roan’s willingness to battle will be tested sooner than he or Kamyar suspected.