Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  “I don’t remember a map.”

  “You will.”

  “A map? Maybe it’ll help us free the children.” The eagerness in Lumpy’s voice betrays the anxiety he’s been repressing.

  Mabatan places a reassuring hand on Lumpy’s arm. “They are the ones for whom Willum paves the way.”

  Their pace is swift and silence settles over the troupe. Their careworn expressions and fixed concentration show their concern over the riot and all its possible repercussions. Roan wonders what else was revealed to the Storytellers in the City. Humor may dominate their conversations, but their eyes look deeply into everything that crosses their path. What tales will they weave from this experience?

  Under the unrelenting banks of yellow light that line the passages, Roan’s thoughts shift from the Storytellers to the Novakin. He had not thought much past his hopes of finding his sister and enlisting her help. And now that he’s failed, he’s lost his direction and he fears he may have made the wrong decision. Having learned, time and again, not to trust strangers, leaving Stowe in the hands of one could be one of the most foolish things he’s ever done. But Mabatan and Kamyar trust Willum, and Roan has a greater responsibility—or so he’s told: Guardian of the Novakin. But what kind of guardian is he when he’s constantly questioning the virtue of his abilities and whether to use them? How can he help the children if he has no idea where to begin?

  Shanah picks up her pace, trotting through the tunnel. Dobbs, panting, runs past the Gunther to follow her.

  “The animal has a highly efficient sense of smell. The exitway is just a few paces ahead,” says Gunther Number Six.

  When they catch up to the pony, Shanah is softly bumping her head against a circular metal door, Dobbs gently patting her neck, trying to soothe her. “I’ll be glad to get outta this place too, Shanah,” he coos.

  The Gunther, squeezing by the horse, reaches up to the middle of the door and slides open a small peephole. He puts his eye to it. Nods to himself, then reaches into his cart and takes out a long, thin tube. He pushes it through the hole and looks again, twisting the tube this way and that. Pulling it out, he replaces it tidily in the cart. Only then is he ready for his eager audience.

  “All clear,” he says. “In theory.” He unbolts the door and swings it open. The pony gallops out, followed by the troupe, all gratefully breathing in the cool night air. A sliver of moon casts its pale shadow along the trench of a steep ravine.

  “Follow this east. It should take you safely to the edge of the Farlands.” Reaching into his cart, the Gunther presents them with a box. “This contains nutritious and appetizing energy bars for your consumption, a twenty-day supply.”

  Kamyar offers effusive thanks, which only seems to make Number Six uncomfortable. Scooting around Kamyar, he points a finger at Roan. “You must stay. In the morning, I will give you the thing you need.”

  “Thing?” Lumpy asks.

  “In the morning,” says the Gunther.

  “My assumption,” says Kamyar, “is that your journey takes you in another direction, so here is where we part ways. It was good to see you, Roan of Longlight. With any luck, our paths will cross again.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Roan says, and takes his hand. “You were right about so much.”

  “That could always change, but for the moment I will accept your gratitude. Though I do have one regret.” Kamyar pauses dramatically before turning to Lumpy. “You never got your opening night. And you would have been marvelous, Lump. You’re a natural if I ever saw one.”

  “One of these days we’ll get our chance,” says Mejan, giving Lumpy a hug. After many thumps on the back and friendly punches, Talia and Dobbs also make their farewells, and with promises to journey safely, the Storytellers, knitting needles at the ready, set off down the ravine.

  “I must leave as well,” says Mabatan. “Roan, you will find your strength in the song that speaks most powerfully to your heart. Listen well, so that you may hear it.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Willum has asked me to help him find your sister.”

  Surprised, Lumpy says, “I didn’t see you talk to him.”

  “Words are not always necessary, dear friend. Be well.” Mabatan bows her head to both of them, and without a sound, disappears into the night.

  “You must stay inside for the night,” says Gunther Number Six. “Come.”

  But Lumpy doesn’t move, straining his eyes for a glimpse of Mabatan. “Just making sure she gets out safe.”

  “She was on her own for a long time before we came along,” says Roan. “She’ll be alright.”

  “Based on our current information, there is a high probability of her safe passage. Go inside now,” the Gunther presses.

  But Lumpy, still peering into the darkness, doesn’t respond. The Gunther twitches impatiently.

  Roan nudges his friend. “You know, right now I think you ought to be more worried about Gunther Number Six.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” frowns Lumpy, grudgingly following the Gunther back into the tunnel.

  After securing the circular metal door, Gunther Number Six is noticeably more relaxed. “Sleep. Your departure is scheduled for ten minutes prior to sunrise.” After giving them a few energy bars, the Gunther slumps over his cart, and disappears down the gloomy tunnel.

  “Will we see Mabatan again?” Lumpy’s voice is choked with emotion.

  “I feel certain we will,” says Roan, and strangely enough, he does.

  “Well, you’re usually right about these things,” sighs Lumpy, looking dispiritedly at the bars in his hand. “I suppose a meal before bed wouldn’t hurt. I am starved.” Peeling off the wrapper of one bar, he sniffs it dejectedly, then tries a tiny bite. As he chews, his face lights up. “Bugs!”

  Roan looks grimly at his bar. “Practical folk, those Gunthers.”

  “Delicious,” grins Lumpy, and gulps his down.

  They silently set down their bedrolls on the cold concrete. Still melancholy over Mabatan’s departure, Roan starts thinking about all the people who’ve walked into and then out of his life these past few years: Kira, who might not be who he thought she was; the Forgotten, who’d sheltered him when he was a fugitive from the Brothers—Orin, Haron, and Sari, all three probably Dirt Eaters although they never openly admitted it; Alandra—if he thought he could contact her without the other Dirt Eaters knowing, he would. He imagines she’s still hovering over the children, trying to bring them back. They’d come to him as a surprise, but she’d sacrificed a lot to be there for them when the time came. He wonders if she has any inkling at all of where or who they really are, these Novakin.

  Drifting into sleep, Roan’s shoulder tingles, recalling the sensation he had when Willum touched him there yesterday. Then, in a gathering mist, a gigantic map appears. Rippling, multi-colored light on a transparent, fluid surface, it slowly extends itself to float before him. Focusing at any point on the map, he immediately knows the name and purpose of the site. He recognizes the City and its environs, the Quarry where the Dirt is mined, the approach roads, factories, guard gates, and security walls. Roan imagines himself high above the map and, as the City grows smaller, the surrounding area comes into view. He can see the Farlands, Barren Mountain, and the Devastation beyond. He finds the plateau where he spent a year with the Brothers, then on the distant horizon he sees a triangle of glowing red light. Without question, this is the place Willum wants him to go.

  The sound of Gunther Number Six clearing his throat rouses Roan. “Time to leave.”

  Roan shares a bleary look with Lumpy.

  “But we just went to sleep,” Lumpy yawns.

  “Sunrise in ten minutes, fifteen seconds. Pack up.”

  “Just another fifteen seconds,” moans Lumpy, lying back down.

  Despite Lumpy’s protestations, they roll up their blankets while Number Six slides opens the door, bringing in a welcome draft of fresh air. The pre-dawn damp makes them shiver as they shuffle into
the thinning darkness outside. Chewing on a breakfast bug bar, they watch with growing interest while Number Six negotiates the steep slope of the ravine.

  “This way, this way,” Number Six says, and Roan and Lumpy realize with dismay that they are supposed to follow.

  “By the way, Roan,” asks Lumpy, “do you have any idea where this Kira lives?”

  “Yeh. I had another dream.”

  “You know,” says Lumpy blithely, “sometimes I think you dream too much for your own good—or mine.”

  They scale the top of the ravine just as the pale golden dawn breaks.

  “You’ll want these.” The Gunther hands Roan and Lumpy each a pair of goggles, then walks up to a small tree, kneels down, and starts patting his hands on the ground. Digging his fingers in the soil, he pulls up a flat piece of earth. “Willum requested we design a vehicle for his use, should he ever need to escape.” He puts his hand down a hole and his arm sinks all the way in. “And now he’s asked that we provide it to you.” Gripping some unseen object, Gunther Number Six pulls, and listening intently, waits.

  “You two should stand next to me,” he suggests offhandedly. There’s a low rumbling, then the ground shakes violently and begins to rise at their feet.

  Scooting behind Number Six, Roan and Lumpy watch in awe as a huge camouflaged platform lifts. Revealed beneath it are two pairs of vast wings made of the translucent material they’d seen in the Gunthers’ manufacturing section the day before.

  Lumpy gently runs his finger down the curve of a wing. “Do these things really do... what they look like they’re supposed to do?”

  “Our proudest accomplishment. A flying device of our own invention using the strong, lightweight material we developed for the Masters. As Seventy-Nine mentioned, they use it for body armor and windows, while we use it for our own purposes.”

  “I see there’s two sets of these,” says Lumpy.

  “Yes.”

  “... Am I supposed to fly one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” asks Lumpy, his anxiety escalating.

  “They are intuitive.”

  “Ah,” he peeps.

  “Watch.” With great precision, the Gunther places his palms over the juncture of two transparent wings. As he raises his hands, the wings lift and seemingly without effort the Gunther maneuvers them until they are perched over Roan’s shoulders. “Extend your arms. Imagine you and the device are one.”

  Their touch is so gentle, Roan has to look to be sure he’s wearing them. He is struck by how weightless they are, as if they were actually a part of him.

  “We’ve embedded sensors in the material that draw the wings toward updrafts and thermals. The reports indicate it will be a hot day, so you should have all the current you need. Your will controls altitude and direction, so your thoughts must be disciplined and focused. The sensors will take care of the rest.”

  “One problem,” says Lumpy. “I’m not exactly what you’d call trained in the mental focus and discipline department.”

  The Gunther slips the other pair of wings over Lumpy’s shoulders. “We have anticipated that inequity. Roan’s wings have been recalibrated to control yours as well.”

  “Here I go, putting my life in your hands again,” mutters Lumpy, with a sideways glance at Roan. He gives the wings a little flap. “So now what?” he asks Number Six.

  “Just jump off the ridge. The wings will find the wind. Once they’ve adjusted to your size and weight, you’ll feel a slight quiver. That means they await a direction. Give it and they will seek out the correct thermal current.”

  “Thank you,” says Roan.

  “The Gunthers wish you good fortune, Roan of Longlight.” And with that, the Gunther steps onto the platform that held the wings and disappears into the ground.

  Careful not to drag their wings, Roan and Lumpy cautiously make their way toward the cliff. Peering over the edge, Lumpy squeaks, “Seems pretty high, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeh,” says Roan. “Good thing you trust me.” And without another thought, he catapults himself into freefall. Just as he’s about to lose his stomach, Roan feels the wings catch the wind. He looks up at Lumpy still staring anxiously over the side.

  “Are you focused?” yells Lumpy.

  “Last call!” shouts Roan as he’s drawn along the flow of warm air.

  Lumpy shakes his fist and Roan laughs, knowing full well the terror his friend has of heights.

  Closing his eyes, Lumpy steps off the cliff. He bellows when he drops like a stone, but moments later, soaring beside Roan, he manages an offhand look. “So exactly what direction are we headed in?”

  Roan calls up Willum’s map. He marvels as it superimposes itself onto the landscape. Whoever this Willum is, he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve that Roan wouldn’t mind knowing.

  “Northwest,” Roan yells, focusing in that direction. The wings instantly respond, tilting slightly and going into a quick ascent.

  Roan has flown in the Dreamfield, but there the wind does not scream through his senses, the cool breeze catch in his breath, nor the sun unite him with the air and the earth under its light. Nothing compares to this, the pure exhilaration and freedom of flight in the real world. He glances back at an ecstatic Lumpy, illuminated in the sunrise, its rays emblazing his diaphanous wings. Like the angels he once read about, they’re flying.

  STOWAWAYS

  TRANSPORT VEHICLE EVALUATION. CONCLUSION: DESPITE POOR ASSESSMENTS IN VEHICLE MANEUVERABILITY AND ENERGY CONSUMPTION, THE EFFICACY OF THE JABBERWOCK FLEET REMAINS UNPARALLELED. REPLACEMENT AT THIS JUNCTURE IS DEEMED INADVISABLE.

  —ECCLESIASTICAL REPORTS

  MEN... THE SOUND OF MEN’S VOICES. Stowe draws herself up slowly, silently. How long has she been sleeping? What are they saying? The words aren’t clear, something about the Farlands, picking up a shipment. Something is jangling. Keys? To this truck? Slipping down to the floor, she creeps to the cabinet where the blankets are stored, crawls in, and closes the door. Huddled in the darkness, she reaches under her robe and touches the doll. The door of the cab opens, then slams shut. The truck shudders as the engine turns over. It rolls slowly forward, then pauses. The gate, they’re opening the gate. It moves again, with more speed now. They’re on one of the service roads; she can feel every bump.

  The smell of filthy water tells her they are traveling by the inlet, through the old industrial section of the City. Willum showed her this place, the way lined with giant rusting silos, while he was instructing her on the history of the City. He explained how mountains of grain or sugar brought in from the east on “trains” were held here until they were taken on huge “freighters” across the Great Ocean. An ocean no one’s traveled since the Abominations.

  This road leads to the highway that will take them to the Farlands. Good. As far away from Darius and the Masters as she can get sounds like the right destination.

  The truck’s on a steep incline, so they must be at the bridge. She knows this place—there’s a major barricade, where all who come and go are investigated. Will the truck be searched? The guards seem to be waving them through. They must know the driver. Of course, he takes this route all the time. They must have been told to keep watch for her, but it would be unthinkable to search for Our Stowe in such a vehicle. She’s too pampered and soft to climb into a truck and head to the Farlands alone. Fools! What better place than an ice cream truck such as this one to hide in, with its blankets and pillows and sweets. It is made for shipping people. Little people. Children who, if they do not pass the tests, will be dismantled and redistributed for the exclusive use of the Masters.

  Stowe opens the cabinet and inches back out. The truck will be empty until the first shipment is picked up. Until then, she’s safe—unless the driver comes back here to eat or sleep. But if he does, the truck will stop first and she will have time to hide. And if she is discovered, there are other options. Lethal options.

  Looking down at her hands, Stowe breathes deeply and watch
es as the amber aura of her shield fades with each exhalation. Prying open the icebox, her still-tingling fingers poke around until they find her favorite: an ice cream sandwich. Pleased with herself, she relaxes on a bench to enjoy it. For the first time since she came to the City, she is free of responsibilities and cares. Our Stowe does not exist in this cabin, Darius cannot reach her here, no one knows where she is. She has finally found freedom.

  You will never be free.

  “Well, well. Ferrell,” she says, with the utmost care. “That is your name, is it not?”

  You have no life outside the City. You won’t survive for a week. If you want to live, you should go back.

  “Why would you want me to do that, Ferrell?”

  As long as you survive, I survive.

  “Yes. To spy on Darius and the Masters and try to force me to kill all his new recruits. You fear them. Why?”

  Ask Darius.

  “What good would that do me, Ferrell? Darius is a liar. It’s over, parasite. Your mission has failed. Go back to where you came from.”

  If only I could, my little house, but alas, I am part of you now.

  “You are nothing but a virus. Willum says there’s a way to get rid of you. I will find it and destroy you if you do not leave willingly.”

  I’m afraid death is the only way out.

  “You are wrong. If I go back to the Dreamfield, back inside the Wall, I could open myself up again and shove you out.”

  How are you to do that without Dirt? Even if you were bright enough to know how, what you so blithely call the Wall is being watched by both Turned and Dirt Eater. You wouldn’t stand a chance. There is only one way.

  “How?”

  I’ve lived long and loved well, but now that Lania is gone my life has lost all meaning. So it would not trouble me if you were to take your own life. You’d be rid of me then.

  Stowe stifles her emotions. She will not believe him. “Willum said—”

  Willum! What does he know? Nothing. I accepted this mission with no hope of return. It was worthwhile, when you consider the benefit. Think of it: inhabiting Our Stowe in the center of the City. Traveling the barricades and barriers Darius constructed on the Turned side of the Field. A wealth of information to be gleaned for the Dirt Eaters. And I wouldn’t be alone for long. Lania was to join me.