by A. Sparrow
The stone pillar and gargoyles that had dominated the middle of the platform were gone, replaced by a tall oak, probably woven from the same material that had comprised them. The tree seemed to sprout straight out of the stone.
Luther paced back and forth, wearing a jacket with red and gold epaulets that would have looked at home on Michael Jackson. He held a shepherd’s crook tucked over his shoulder. He had reverted to a human shape with almost sane proportions, though his physique was a mite too buff for good taste. His pecs and biceps threatened to burst the seams of his white dress shirt. A tiny bow tie looked lost against a stout neck bulging with supernumerary cords and sinews.
“Well, well, here come the ne’er-do-wells!” he said, wheeling to face us “Late, as usual. Out in the tunnels again I see, tampering with the offerings. No wonder the Reapers are restless.” His roving eyes homed in on me. “What happened? Wonder boy lose his touch?”
A man—a black man—the first I had seen in Luthersburg, sat at the base of the tree, his shirt torn to shreds, his hands chained together over his head and behind the bole. His ankles were tucked and secured in a pair of rough-hewn notches between two massive rail ties. Metal spikes pinned the assemblage together and into the faux stone of the central platform.
Harvald stood over him rolling a small baton-like club in his hands. The man’s face displayed no signs of distress. He sported bright, curious eyes and a faint smile. He had the bored air of a father doing his best to remain polite at a family picnic he would rather not attend—this despite the nasty lumps and welts on his head and back where Harvald had apparently struck him repeatedly.
“Oh my,” said Bern. “Who do we have here?”
“A man,” said Astrid.
“Obviously,” said Lille.
“An interloper,” said Luther. “I caught him trespassing.”
“Why the chains, Luther?” said Lille. “Oh, and that nasty bump on his brow. You’ve been hitting him. Why?”
“He deserved it,” said Luther. “I didn’t like his attitude.”
The captive’s eyes met mine and his gaze was so intense, I couldn’t hold it. I had to blink and look away.
“To better his treatment, he needs to talk,” said Luther. “But no, he keeps looking up his nose at me with this … audacity … this air of superiority.”
“What do you want him to say?” said Lille.
“Simple. He needs to tell us who he is, where he came from and what he wants. Look at his eyes. The way he looks at me. This is not just any negro. This is an old soul here. This man has experienced Root. Look at that disdain! We need to know his designs. He obviously has hostile intentions in his heart.”
The man smirked, and as soon as he did, Harvald rapped his ear with the baton. The man hardly flinched at the blow, which only seemed to inflame Harvald more. He cocked his arm to strike again, but Lille seized the baton.
“Enough!” she said. “Give him space! You ask him to speak but then you attack him when he so much as blinks. Give him a chance to state his case.”
“He’s had plenty of chances,” said Luther. “But alright, let’s try again. Speak man, speak.”
The man glanced up. A faint smile creased his face. “I have nothing to say.”
“See!” said Luther. “Don’t go making me into the monster here. I am not the trespasser.”
“Please,” said Lille. “Who are you? Why did you come?”
“I just came here to see if you all were ready … for us. It’s what I do.”
Luther guffawed. “Ah! He is an angel come to vet us, to open the gates of Heaven for the worthy.” He slipped his crook under the man’s chin and lifted gently. “Am I right? Are you an emissary, sent by the Lord?”
“No,” he said, maintaining his calm smile.
“From where then, Hell?”
“I am from Frelsi. A community of free souls. We have no binds to any world but this.”
“Free? You mean dead? Preposterous.”
The man just stared back with his indelible, inscrutable, unflappable smile.
“What makes your community any better than ours?”
“We are not bound to flesh and we rule by consensus. We believe in anarchy and equity.”
“Nonsense! People need leaders to get things done. This place would be chaos without my vision. Look around you. Behold my creations!”
“Quaint,” said the man. “But it’s mostly façade. You people basically live in caves.”
“Caves? I’ll give you caves!” Harvald whacked the back of his shoulder with his baton.
“Stop it, Harvald!” said Lille.
Luther scowled. “We’re not done interrogating!”
“Come, let the man go. He’s done no harm,” said Bern.
Luther stood over his prisoner and pointed at his bony finger down at his face. “How … did you find us?” he hissed.
“It wasn’t difficult. We see you about the tunnels.”
“See!” said Luther, erupting. He wheeled about, eyes accusing. “See what your wanderings cause? I bet they want our space.”
“No,” said the man, still smiling. “Space is not limiting here.”
“Souls, then. You’ve come to recruit … or enslave.”
“Those who belong with us will find us. You, however, would not be welcome.”
“Not welcome,” said Luther. “Did you hear that? This trespasser has the gall to say we are not welcome. Well sir, you are not welcome here in Luthersburg, and yet you trespass.” Luther turned to us. “Well, I say that deserves fifty lashes! Fifty days in the dungeon. What say you all?”
“Set him free,” said Bern. “For goodness sakes, the man was simply curious. How is that a crime?”
“This man is a violator! He must pay,” said Luther, glaring at Bern. He glanced over at the captive, who remained as calm as ever. “You! Stop looking at me like that!”
The man’s gaze did not waver.
“I said stop! STOP! That’s it! I’m sealing your eyes shut!”
“Luther, no!” said Karla.
Luther fanned his fingers at the captive and held then outstretched until they trembled with strain.
Nothing happened.
“Don’t bother,” said the captive, sighing. “You can’t unweave me. Alright, I’m tired of this. It’s best I leave. I’ve seen all I need to see.”
“Hah!” said Luther. “You will leave only when I say you—”
The links of the chain fastening the man to the tree turned into little silvery moths and fluttered away. The heavy beams holding his legs transformed into thousands of ants that scurried off and dispersed across the square. Astrid squealed and skittered out of their way.
The man got up and strode across the plaza. As he walked, his complexion faded and his body shifted, hips widening, waist narrowing. His hair lengthened. His features became finer, more delicate. A bosom budded beneath his shirt. He became a her.
Those looking on gasped.
“Wait! Tell us your name,” called Lille.
“Victoria,” she said, without looking back.
Luther reared his head, arched his back and flared his fingers. Stalks of rye grass grew along a row of curbing, their plump seed heads morphing into viper skulls. With a swish of his hand, they collapsed into coils, detached their tails and slithered after her.
Victoria sank into the cobbles step by step, as if descending a staircase only she could see. The snakes converged and struck at her face and torso. One by one, each sizzled off into vapor like raindrops on a hot grill. She vanished beneath the square.
Luther rushed over to the spot where she had disappeared, tapping gingerly with his foot, searching for weak spots or hollows. “Petty trickery,” he said, turning to us. He pulled on his jacket and stomped away. Three steps along, he stopped and turned to face us. “From now on, no one leaves the ‘Burg. Never. Not for any reason.”
Chapter 22: Surfing
Layered sheets of charcoal and ash swept in to blot awa
y the snowy puffs that only moments ago had sailed like clipper ships across a crisp, blue artificial sky. The murk and smudge smothered the sunbeams and shadows that had dappled the square and made the cheerful pastels of the stucco façades seem dirty and blighted.
“You should see the weather when he’s mad,” said Bern.
He and Lille said goodbye and strolled off hand in hand to a small cottage that made the only break in an otherwise solid wall of townhouses, shops and churches. The alleys flanking it, bricked off, led nowhere.
Luther’s comeuppance made me see the ‘Burg in a much less flattering light. What Victoria had said was basically true. The place was just a bunch of caves with prettified fronts. I had yet to see a building that went more than one room deep.
This made Luther much less than the god-like figure I made him out to be in my first encounters. The ‘Burg was just a playground and Luther a big kid bullying toddlers until a grownup came by to put him in his place.
I couldn’t imagine the sorts of marvels folks like Victoria could create from the fabric of this world. In my eyes, Root had just become a bigger and more exciting place.
I followed Karla back through the rose garden and into the salmon-colored stucco façade of the townhouse with the sitting room. Her invitation was unspoken but understood. Where else would I go? That chamber was home.
But then I remembered Luther’s edict. “Your place—is that considered part of the ‘Burg?”
She wrinkled her nose and smoothed her hair down. “Who cares?”
“Well, because Luther said we couldn’t—“
“Ah, don’t listen to him. He is nothing but bluster. This lady, Victoria, she hurts his pride. He is just acting out to save face. Always he threatens, but does nothing.”
We pushed through the shaggy corridor until we reached her dome. Patches of shell pulsed with soft, diffused light. Blips like fireflies glided along a network of slender strands threading between the bumps and spines. It looked like a toadstool decorated for Christmas.
Karla touched her fingers to the wall and cracks appeared in the seamless surface, outlining the hatch. She pulled on a loop of root and opened it.
The interior brightened as we entered.
I collapsed among the futons and pillows heaped in the middle of the floor, lying back with my hands tucked behind my head. Rays filtering through the stained glass skylight danced on the wall.
“That window … it’s almost looks like the actual sun is shining behind it. That’s pretty cool. How did you manage that?”
“Ah, it is nothing,” she said, fluffing and stacking the pillows beside me. “It is not as nice as the real one,”
“Real one?”
“I tell you. This is a famous art from Bernini. I make a copy from my memory, but my memory and my skill is not perfect.”
“Are you kidding? It looks great.”
“Thank you. But you should see the real one someday. It is from San Pietro Basilica. Made of stone, not glass you realize. Alabaster. The Piazza San Pietro, it is only a few block away from our flat. When I would go for mass, I would always watch this dove, how it changes in the light. In church, I am always this way, thinking my own thoughts, never paying attention to the priest.”
“Yeah well, join the club. I used to daydream all the time during services. Back when I used to go, that is.”
She sat down directly across from me, fidgeting with the pillows and fussing her bangs until her left eye was well-obscured by a solid wedge of hair. She looked over at me, a grave expression adding years to her looks.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Something about her tone made my stomach go a little queasy. “Okay,” I said.
“About your back slide.”
“My … what?”
“I want to know why you have such a hard time with the Reaper. Where does it come from, this death wish, with such a power? What happened?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just the same old, same old.”
“Not ‘same old.’ Don’t give me that. Something is different this time.”
I sighed. “Well, I had a long day. I was tired. Things were getting weirder and scarier … by the minute. I just didn’t want to face it anymore. I thought with a good night’s rest I would—”
“Specifics please. What happened?”
So I told her about all Cleveland and Uncle Ed and the drug runners.
“You were a busy boy,” she said. “But I see no reason for you to give up everything.”
“Like I said … I was tired. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting up with more of this crap. I wasn’t looking forward to the next day at all. Not at all. I just wanted everything to go away.”
“Everything? Including Root? Me? Do you ever consider this?”
“Yeah, but … this place wasn’t even real to me. I couldn’t depend on it. It was fantasy.”
“Fantasy?” she said, her voice rising. “Am I, really? Touch me. Am I not a real person? Is my heart not real? Then why does it beat … like yours? Listen. Here.” She touched a finger to her chest.
“Dreams can seem pretty real sometimes,” I said. “On the other hand, if I could find you … meet you … on the other side…”
“Forget other side. I am right here. Right now.”
Something snapped in my head. I lost all restraint.
“I missed you, Karla. When I went back, I couldn’t stop thinking … about you.”
Her face went blank and slack.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She scootched forward and folded her arms around me, melting into me as if I were her security blanket.
Her action took me by surprise. It sounds odd, but I had never been hugged like that. I’d had plenty of air hugs, shoulder pats and nanosecond bumps, but this was way different.
I didn’t resist but was too startled and uptight to reciprocate. I felt discombobulated, as if my fibers were unraveling.
“Listen,” she said, still clinging to me, her words muffled because her face was pushed against my shoulder. “What happen to you in the tunnel today will never happen again. I will show you how to keep strong in Root. Okay?”
She lifted her head. “Okay?”
“I’m listening,” I said, my hands holding her loosely, hovering about a millimeter above her flesh.
“These feelings inside you that call Root, they are like storms. When Root comes, it comes like a wave from far away. In Florida, do you ever go surfing?”
“Yeah. But I suck.”
“Well, this feeling that brings Root to you, it is like a storm that brings waves. You need to feel the wave coming so it does not crash over your head like today. When you lose control and give up complete, you come here weak and the Reapers they can take you.”
“But … if you want to stay a long time in Root and stay strong, you cannot let the wave wash right past you. You need to ride this wave. Otherwise, your time here will be short.”
“This is not simple. But all of us you see in the ‘Burg, we learn how. Luther, of course, is a Master. He stays here almost all the time. Me, I am okay. Better than Astrid or Xiao Ke. They only stay, like you, for short times.”
She looked up at me.
“It is good you learn this skill, no? When life is so bad, Root is a better place to be. I think you agree, no? Otherwise … there is the Reaper.”
Some of what she said sank in, but I was mostly thinking about those fingers kneading my back, that delicate chin digging into my shoulder.
“Surfing, huh?”
“It should be no problem for someone like you, no? Me, I am not so special, but I learn it. My weaving, it came slow, compared to you. It takes me almost one year. At first, I was like you, a rescue, from the pod, from the tunnel. I was meant for the Reaping. So many visits, maybe ten, before I can do the things you can do already. Bern and Lille had to teach me.”
“Huh,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought, I mean. Look at you now. Look at
this place you made.”
“So I am saying, be careful. We don’t want to lose you. You are special.”
“I wish you guys you stop saying that. I ain’t special. Not one bit.”
“Of course you say this. If you felt good about yourself, you would not be here.”
I held up my hand and looked it over front and back.
“Don’t worry you are not fading. You are still here. But maybe … you are thinking of leaving? Do I bore you?” She started to pull away but I held onto her.
“No, wait! I’m not bored. I’m just scared. I don’t want this to end. I’m not ready to go back to that … life thing. Seems like whenever I start to get comfortable here, I fade away.”
“Were you not listening? I told you. It is all about the surfing. You ride the wave as long as you can. But when it is done, there is nothing you can do. You must go.”
“I’m … still not sure what you mean by a wave. Times I come here, I don’t feel anything. I mean … I’m numb. Things start shutting down. I lose my appetite. I don’t even want to look at the TV.”
“You baccalà. This numbness. That is the wave. That is it.”
“But how do you ride it?”
“Savor it. Enjoy it like some tasty food you do not want to finish. Like sex you don’t want to stop too soon.”
“Can you … make … a wave come? Whenever you want it? Can you call one?”
“Ah … but this is another level of skill, and it depends on the storm inside you. You need a storm to make waves. But storms are dangerous, if you do not know yet how to surf.”
“Whenever I go back, it always feels like I’ll never find my way back here. It feels like it’s over.”
“That is good. If life is good, enjoy it. Root is only for the desperate.”
“But I want to be here … with you.”
“You are welcome. But … I cannot guarantee I will always be here for you. My life has many storms. Many more than you, it seems. And sometimes the storms get very strong, and the waves too big to ride … even for me.”
“What? Are you saying you might get Reaped? No way.”
“It is possible.”
“Karla!”