Freedom: A Futuristic Fantasy

by Jim Proctor

  Pabuli cowered in the corner, arms covering his head.

  Venefica extended one arm toward the door and narrowed her eyes. Pabuli whimpered as, unwillingly, his body stood and began walking toward the door.

  “They always make me do all the work,” she said with a sigh.

  Pabuli crossed the dungeon and began marching stiffly up the steps with Venefica close behind, forcing his body to climb. Emmett followed at a respectful distance. Marching past the door leading to the witch’s dwelling, they continued up the spiral staircase.

  The stairs ended without another door, and Pabuli stopped on the stone floor. The only light came from a torch on the wall a short way back down the staircase, its yellow light flickering on the ceiling.

  Coming behind, Emmett picked up the torch and continued upward. As he reached the top, the light spread across the space, revealing a round chamber. Pabuli turned in place looking into the gloom. Emmett walked around the perimeter of the room lighting more torches. The light grew, revealing a circular wall with many doors, all painted pale gray.

  “This is the Chamber of Doors, Pabuli. There are thirty doors. Twenty-nine lead to a horrible and painful death. One leads to freedom. Choose a door. Once you open it, you must enter and close the door behind you. The hallway beyond may lead to freedom. Choose wisely,” the witch said.

  “My lady,” Pabuli began. Venefica’s hand waved, and his voice became a croak. His hands grasped his throat as he dropped to his knees, eyes bulging in pain and fear.

  “Choose a door,” she said. “One leads to freedom. Certain death by my hand is the penalty for not choosing.” She lowered her hand, and Pabuli gasped, gulping a lungful of air.

  Struggling to his feet, he nodded before turning and walking slowly toward the wall. Moving around the room, he examined the doors. There was no discernible difference. Around the room he continued. Finally stopping at a door, he turned to look at Venefica. Her passive face gave nothing away. Grasping the doorknob, he opened it and stepped through, closing it again.

  Pabuli’s footsteps could be heard, fading away as he proceeded along the hallway beyond the door. Then came the screams of agony.

  Venefica laughed. “Poor Pabuli. He chose the wrong door. That’s what happens to people who disappoint me. Come, Emmett, I need you to unlace my boots.” Turning, she bounded down the stairs, boots clacking on the stone.

  “Quit dawdling, Emmett, or you’ll be choosing a door next.” Then, in a singsong voice, she added, “And since you can’t pass through an exit door, you have no chance of surviving.”

  Emmett began running. Rushing through the door, he closed and bolted it, then ran along the hallway toward Venefica’s bedroom.

  * * * *

  The witch was sitting on the bed, one leg held straight out.

  “Don’t just stand there, unlace my boots,” she commanded.

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Crossing to the bed, he untied the bow of her bootlace and began working the laces, slackening them from top to bottom. Gripping the toe and heel, he gently slipped the boot off her foot. She kept the leg extended and looked at Emmett expectantly. Dropping the boot, he gently massaged her foot. She closed her eyes, and a smile spread across her face. After several minutes, she lowered the leg and extended the other. Emmett quickly removed the boot and began massaging her foot.

  “I think I would like to wear my red shoes, Emmett,” she said sweetly.

  Walking to the closet, he opened the door and looked at the rack filled with pairs of black shoes. He hated this part. She would pretend she could see colors, and he would pretend he didn’t know one color from another as an excuse for picking out the wrong ones. Tentatively, he selected a pair and carried them to her.

  “Very good,” she said. “You’re learning!”

  Emmett sighed with relief. He guessed she had satisfied her need to play games upstairs. She was often more agreeable after feeding a prisoner to one of the demons. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but he would enjoy it while it did. Emmett was shocked at his own thought. Pabuli had died, and he was now glad the witch was not tormenting him as a result. He feared he was losing his humanity.

  While he slipped her shoes onto her feet, she said, “Venandi had better find Angus Beaph and the cumulus, or I’ll feed him to a demon.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Emmett said.

  “On the other hand, should he find that little runt and I get the cumulus, I think I’ll feed Beaph to a demon. Won’t that be fun, Emmett?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Do you think Venandi will find him?” Venefica asked.

  “I couldn’t say, mistress. Many have failed.” Feeling her leg tense, he quickly added, “However, I have a good feeling about Venandi. If anyone can find Angus Beaph, he can.” Her muscles relaxed.

  “You know, I have a good feeling about Venandi, also. Once I get the cumulus, I’ll have tremendous power,” she said.

  “But, mistress, I don’t understand. If Angus Beaph has the cumulus, doesn’t that mean he has tremendous power? If so, how can anyone ever find him?” Emmett asked.

  “Fool!” she screamed. Emmett toppled backward onto the floor. “Angus is a weakling. He created the cumulus because he couldn’t handle the power. He won’t attempt to use it. Once he’s here, I’ll destroy him. He’s no match for me!”

  “Yes, mistress,” Emmett said as he got to his feet. “If you won’t be needing further assistance, I’ll go and prepare your lunch.”

  She waved a hand dismissively.

  As Emmett hurried along the hallway toward the kitchen, he reached a decision. Venefica had fed countless bounty hunters to the demons, plus her previous servants. His predecessor, he recalled, had spent a week in the dungeon awaiting his turn to die. Emmett knew a painful death would undoubtedly be his own fate sooner or later. The prospect of her becoming even more powerful was unthinkable. It could not be allowed. He had no idea how he would stop her, but he had to find a way. In the meantime, he would grovel and serve her, while he studied her and worked out her weakness. She was, after all, profoundly color blind. She must have other weaknesses, as well. Pushing aside those thoughts for now, he began preparing lunch.

  * * * *

  As Emmett set the last of the dishes on the table, he heard Venefica approaching. Stepping away and standing against the wall, he waited. The witch sat and looked over the setting.

  “This all looks very nice, Emmett. You are excused. Go and prepare your own plate and eat in the kitchen where I don’t have to see you,” she said.

  “Yes, mistress,” he said. He turned and went into the kitchen. Relieved, he served himself and sat at the small table in an alcove near the window. The bleak landscape reminded him that her good mood would not last. She would tire of being nice to him, and he would pay doubly for this brief respite.

  He wished the kitchen window looked east toward the airship docks. That would be far more interesting than the view to the west, which was nothing but sand dunes and occasional patches of tall grass. The Great Ocean beyond the dunes was not visible from here. Staring out the window, he ate in silence as he imagined running over the dunes, free.

  Freedom. How he yearned for it. There were, he realized, different forms of freedom. If it came to it, he would give his life in taking Venefica’s. That would be freedom of a sort, and he would take it any way he could get it.

  Freedom.

  His daydream was interrupted when Venefica called from the dining room. Jumping up, he hurried to attend to her.

  “I’m finished, Emmett. You can clear the table and wash the dishes,” she said. She stood and walked along the hallway leading to her office.

  Emmett quickly went to work clearing the table. Then, as he had done after every meal, he prepared bowls of food for the prisoners. As he put them onto a tray, he realized he only needed three now. Distributing the contents of one bowl among the others, he carried the tray to the steps and began the descent.

  In the dungeon, he
gave each prisoner a bowl and a spoon. At the last cell, as he turned to walk back to the steps, Victus said, “We heard the screaming. What did she do to him?”

  Emmett paused. He was under strict orders not to answer questions from the prisoners. He looked over his shoulder briefly, and then continued toward the steps.

  “She killed him,” Victus said. “We heard the screaming.”

  Emmett looked back again, nodded solemnly, and began climbing the spiral staircase. His eyes welled up as he walked, and he paused to dry them with a sleeve before the tears could run down his cheeks. He hated Venefica. If he were quiet about it, he could let the remaining prisoners out of the cells, lead them to the front door, and set them free without her knowing. But she would discover what he had done shortly, and she would kill him in a fit of rage. She would get another slave and go back to her usual games. No, he needed to find a way to destroy her, once and for all. Nobody else would stop her. He continued up the steps. Today was not the day to be weak and think only of these three souls.

  As her slave, he was under a spell that prevented him from leaving her dwelling. He had tried often, but found he was unable to step through an exit door. He froze, one foot halfway to the next step. I can’t step through an exit door. He smiled and continued up the steps.

  Reaching the door, he stepped through, closed it, and bolted it. In the kitchen, he began washing the dishes. When they were all put away, he would go back down to retrieve the bowls and spoons and wash them. Then, unless Venefica had some other task for him, he’d begin the preparations for dinner, washing and cutting vegetables, marinating meats, and possibly baking a cake so it would have time to cool before he frosted it.

  After dinner, as always, she would want his help in getting out of her dress and into her nightgown. Exposing herself to him was her favorite way of tormenting him. He couldn’t resist examining her exquisite body, yet he knew he would never have it for himself. Undoubtedly, she would enter his dreams, teasing him relentlessly. He was never sure if this was another of her torments, or if his own mind did this to him. He suspected the latter.

  Looking through the window, he wondered where Venandi was, and if he had found his quarry. Perhaps he might have a private conversation with Angus Beaph. Together, they might find a way to defeat the witch. He hoped so. He had no idea how he could do it on his own.

  He had seen airships heading toward the coast, but knew nothing of what lay beyond the shore. In fact, he had no memory of ever seeing the shore. He struggled to recall anything beyond these walls. Had he even existed before coming to serve the Black Witch? Had she conjured him out of nothing? Was he even real? If she died, would he simply cease to exist?

  Emmett was sure he was losing his mind. He must be real. He had to have existed, had a life, before coming to serve Venefica. He just couldn’t recall it.

  He went to work washing the dishes, though his mind still raced, thinking about killing the witch, and about freedom. He began scrubbing a pan, rubbing it vigorously with a soapy cloth. Suddenly, a vision flashed into his mind—a small boy holding his arms out, wanting to be picked up. He reached down and picked him up, hugging him to his chest. I love you, Emmett said.

  The pan fell from his hand, splashing into the sink. “I had a life,” he said.

  The memory had ended, and no amount of concentration would recall anything further. He felt as though he should know the boy, but he didn’t know why. Picking up the pan, he continued scrubbing.

  Finishing the dishes, he put them away. Then, going to the door, he descended the steps. He went from cell to cell, collecting the bowls and spoons. With the dishes cradled in his arms, he paused.

  In a whisper, he said, “Listen to me very carefully. The witch is color blind.”

  He continued to the steps.

  “What does that mean?” Victus asked.

  Emmett paused, one foot on the bottom step. “It is a piece of information that might save your life if you pay attention to details. This conversation never occurred.” He climbed the steps.

  Reaching the kitchen, he washed the remaining dishes and put them away. Going to the pantry, he gathered ingredients for a cake and took them to the table. From a cabinet, he retrieved a large bowl and some measuring cups and spoons. I love you, too, Daddy, the boy said.

  Emmett froze, trying desperately to hang onto the memory, wanting it to continue. As quickly as it had come, it vanished. Putting the bowl and things on the table, he pulled out a chair, sat, and buried his face in his hands.

  “Emmett, what are you doing?” Venefica asked.

  Startled, he looked up. She was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “I’m getting ready to bake a cake, mistress, for your dessert.”

  “Your eyes are red and puffy, Emmett. Why is that?” she asked.

  “It’s probably just an allergy. I’m sure it will clear up,” he said.

  She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then turned and walked away.

  He gathered the rest of his ingredients and began mixing the cake batter.

  * * * *

  Venefica seemed preoccupied during dinner. She ate quickly in silence, all but ignoring Emmett. He stood against the wall, waiting for her to complain that something was the wrong color or flavor. She even ate her cake without comment.

  “Emmett,” she said, “I’d like you to feed the prisoners, and then come to my room to help me dress for bed before you clean up. I want to turn in early.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he replied.

  He watched as she walked to her bedroom. Going to the kitchen, he filled the bowls and cups and loaded the tray before heading to the dungeon.

  A short while later, he walked along the hallway toward her bedroom and paused at the open door.

  “Come in, Emmett,” she said. As he approached her, she turned around and gathered up her hair. “Unzip me.”

  With shaking hands, he carefully lowered the zipper and then stepped back.

  Dropping her hair and lowering her arms, she let the dress slide off her shoulders and onto the floor. Stepping aside and turning to face him, she said, “Take the dress to be washed.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said. He bent down to pick up the dress, trying and failing not to look at her naked body. Draping the dress over the back of a chair, he went to her dresser and pulled out a nightshirt.

  The witch held out her arms toward him. “I need you to put it on me, Emmett.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said. He grasped the hem in two hands and slipped the nightshirt over her arms. As she slowly raised her arms, he stepped forward and pulled the garment over her head and down her body, his fingers grazing her skin as they went. She pulled the neckband past her head. Pulling her hair out, she let it cascade down her shoulders.

  Smiling, she said, “Thank you, Emmett. You may go.”

  Bowing, he said, “Yes, mistress.” Picking up the dress, he stepped into the hallway and closed the door. He hated her, but her body was exquisite—perfect in every way. It did things to him. His hands were still shaking. Even that gave him hope, though. He must have some memory of life before serving her. If not, why would her body affect him like this? If that boy in his memory fragment was his son, he must have had a wife, and they must have… yes, he must have some memory of that, somewhere.

  Emmett loaded the washing machine and then returned to the kitchen to clean up. He’d collect the dishes from the dungeon next. When he was sure the witch was sound asleep, he had a special project to attend to.

  * * * *

  Emmett was putting the breakfast dishes into the sink when he heard Venefica approaching. She was wearing her special boots, tapping on the hardwood with every step.

  “I’m bored, Emmett. I want to play with one of our guests. I’d like to take Hostia to the Chamber of Doors now. She’s broken, and just isn’t any fun anymore. She doesn’t cower when I approach. She doesn’t cringe when I talk to her. She just sits there. You can finish the dishes after I play. Come wit
h me.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said. He followed her to the staircase. As always, he waited at the door while she descended alone. With his ear pressed against the door, he could hear some of the prisoners whimpering as her boots tapped on the stone. It was always the same. She already knew who she would take, but she’d walk along the row of cells, eyeing them speculatively, letting each of them think that she might choose them this time. The bell rang.

  Hostia was sitting on her bed staring across the cell when Emmett reached the dungeon. The two other prisoners looked relieved. On Venefica’s command, he opened the cell. As always, Venefica had to force her chosen pet out of the cell and up the stairs.

  As Hostia and the witch continued up, Emmett stopped to get the last torch from its sconce. Climbing to join them, he walked around the room lighting all the torches before returning to stand behind Venefica.

  After the usual explanation of the game and some forceful persuasion, Hostia went to the wall and began walking around, examining the doors. Emmett watched as she passed gray door after gray door. She stopped and examined one door closely. Glancing over her shoulder at Emmett, she turned the knob and stepped into the hallway beyond. As the door closed, they heard her rapid footfalls fading away. Venefica waited, a broad smile on her face. As the seconds passed, her smile slowly faded, eventually becoming a frown. It had been so long since a prisoner escaped that even she had forgotten which door led to freedom.

  “It appears our guest has chosen well,” she said.

  Wordlessly, she spun around and stomped down the steps. Emmett jumped when he heard the door slam. Hostia was free, and he would pay the price. There had been no screaming, no crunching of bones, and no death. Her lust for evil unsated, he would be the object of her rage until she decided to play again. Of course, that would only make matters worse. Descending the stairs, he steeled himself for the abuse he would endure.

  As he walked toward the kitchen, he heard Venefica’s bedroom door close. He’d feed the prisoners, the remaining prisoners, and then he’d wash the dishes. Then, unless the witch called for him, he’d have some quiet time to search for more memories before he had to prepare lunch.