Memory Seed

by Stephen Palmer

  Soon the Cemetery became tangled. There were many trees, not just yew but laburnam, birch and sycamore, and between these stood tombs, ruined mausoleums, the remains of old walls and rusting signposts with their signs missing. ‘Careful where you tread,’ Zinina warned, ‘there’s hundreds of open graves around here. You could easy fall in one.’

  DeKray seemed to be examining one particular grave. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rejoining Zinina. ‘I shall exercise caution.’

  ‘See that mausoleum over there?’ Zinina said, pointing to a violet and yellow mosaic roof just visible through the yews. ‘That’s something I’d like to show you.’

  The mausoleum’s one door stood open. Zinina peered inside. ‘Nobody here.’ No encampments lay nearby; they should be safe.

  Zinina motioned him in before her, following on when he was well inside. She watched him study the place. It presented a crowded interior, piles of smashed rubble and metal contrasting with pristine statues, a central domed tomb with three carved figures on top, some smaller tombs, and a series of peculiar stone ottomans around the edges. All in all there was not much of the floor left unoccupied. Zinina waited.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, obviously at a loss.

  She wondered if he could act well enough to fool her. ‘You mean you don’t recognise all these statues? Them murals on the wall?’ She looked up to the groined ceiling. ‘Them fighting women up there?’

  ‘No. Should I recognise them?’

  So, unless he was lying – and Zinina did not think he was – deKray had never been a reveller: he was not an agent of her family out to recapture her for the tribe. He was genuine. ‘You been an independent all your life?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, indeed. All other opinions are nugatory, Zinina. There is no doubt of my status.’

  Zinina sat him down on one of the marble ottomans and said, ‘But it’s so odd. Who are your parents?’

  ‘As with many Krayans their precise identity is unrecorded.’

  ‘But who brought you up when you were a kid?’

  ‘An unrelated independent. She was scratched by a cat when I was eleven, twenty-nine years ago that would be, and died that same day. I have lived alone ever since, accepting those modest offerings of liquids and comestibles from the Citadel. The life of an independent is difficult.’

  Zinina considered this story. He said he had lived at Cochineal Mews, the lane running off Sphagnum Street just opposite the path to the Cowhorn Tower. ‘Haven’t you ever gone back to your old home to hunt around for clues?’

  ‘Clues, Zinina? To what?’

  ‘Your real parent. You must have had one. Maybe even two.’

  ‘I care not. I am myself. My genetic heritage is of no interest to any woman of Kray, presuming I follow the masculine norm of infertility. No, what is important is the quality of my future life, not my past life. What interests me now is the Portreeve’s plan, and our broader options for surviving this final year.’

  ‘You reckons it is the final year?’

  He nodded. ‘But there must be a way out.’

  ‘Must there?’

  ‘Oh, indeed. The question is, what path are we all missing?’

  As he said this Zinina caught the sound of voices outside, shouting from some distance; and she also thought she heard a reveller bugle, the signal for danger. ‘We better go,’ she said. ‘Back to my place. We’ve got lots to talk about.’

  ‘We have.’

  Zinina stood, then gazed around at the mausoleum. ‘I used to come here a lot. Silly nostalgia–’

  There was a detonation outside the mausoleum door. Zinina jumped, automatically reaching down for the needle rifle at her belt. DeKray also stood.

  ‘What was–’ he began.

  A group of revellers ran into the mausoleum, armed with projectile throwers, slings and poisoned darts, but they did not see Zinina and deKray.

  ‘Hack ’em off at the pass,’ hissed one.

  ‘No. They know we’re prockin’ here. Dyquoll will speed over the mackers. Jaybrinn’ll flock their meat. We’ll ambush the rest here, oiks an’ all.’

  ‘Meat! Flock their meat roight off!’

  Zinina was noticed. ‘Hoy, who’re you–’

  No time to answer. Five women – five girls – appeared outside the mausoleum door, saw the revellers, then disappeared behind cover.

  ‘Youthmeat!’ cried Zinina. The revellers, hearing her speak, also took cover, and began firing out of the mausoleum door.

  Zinina pushed deKray behind the ottoman. ‘Them revellers are being attacked by Youth priestesses. We’re in trouble. Arm yourself.’

  Incoming fire, mostly needles and stones, but also energy from a laser pistol, began to knock chunks from surrounding masonry. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  Zinina breathed. ‘If that youthmeat beats them blooms, we’re bathing in old water.'

  ‘Are we attacked only by those five girls?’ deKray asked.

  ‘No. If this Dyquoll woman is speeding over the mackers – over to the big encampments down by the posh tombs – then there’s bound to be more.’

  DeKray began to fumble inside his greatcoat. ‘I really must roll a cigarette,’ he said.

  The noise began to deafen Zinina. Spent needles plinked onto the ottoman in front of her. She peered over the edge, saw movement behind a bush, and fired, but the narrow range, limited by the mausoleum door, meant that she stood little chance of hitting.

  ‘Why do these Youth girls so hate revellers?’ deKray asked.

  ‘Cemetery revellers live old,’ Zinina replied. ‘Youthmeat is young. Now shut up and concentrate on shooting.’

  Explosions sounded nearby. A major battle was beginning. Zinina cursed to herself, reloading her needle rifle and trying to think of an alternative way out.

  ‘You creep around the back and see if you can see any vents in the ceiling,’ she said.

  ‘Vents?’ he said, puffing away.

  ‘Yes, vents. Some mausoleums have vents to allow people’s souls in and out.’

  He took a final drag of the cigarette and went.

  Zinina shouted to the revellers. ‘Hoy, blooms! Splick them slings and chuck out some needles. It’s only youthmeat! Poison their blood then speed down the mackers fast as green gob, yeah?’

  ‘Back off, shouster!’

  ‘You can’t ambush ’em from the inside!’

  But they ignored her, although they did fire more needles out into the bushes where the Youth girls sheltered. The laser beam hacked off more statue masonry and the dust began making everybody cough.

  Crawling out from the ottoman adjacent to Zinina, deKray said, ‘I have located an array of these vent things.’

  ‘Well take us there,’ Zinina said.

  She followed him to the rear of the mausoleum. In the roof three vents had been made, one for each of the people buried here, but they were only a yard or so wide.

  ‘We’ll climb up that,’ Zinina said, pointing to a wall with crumbling brickwork, ‘then crawl along to the vents.’

  DeKray hesitated. More explosions outside, and then automatic gunfire. ‘What if there is no exit route?’ he asked.

  ‘Just go.’

  He climbed first and Zinina followed. The ascent was easy, but crawling along the upper ledge was difficult. The mausoleum vents had been designed for spiritual presences, not corporeal escapees. But eventually they were sitting on the mausoleum roof.

  ‘Shimmy down that guttering,’ Zinina instructed deKray. He did as she said.

  Halfway down, the front of the mausoleum collapsed as a bomb detonated. The boom deafened Zinina and the wall shook. Masonry thunked to the ground. Automatic gunfire increased to a crescendo, and she heard triumphant, screaming voices.

  As the rest of the mausoleum fell, they fell with it. Landing in rhododendron bushes, dust flying everywhere, Zinina crawled over to the prone deKray and urged him to his feet. They fought their way out of the tangled branches and into a grove of weeping willow.

/>   Zinina heard pursuit. ‘Shush,’ she hissed, as deKray opened his mouth to say something. She looked around; there, another mausoleum, a smaller one. Better hide up awhile.

  They ran through the trees at the edge of the grove, through thickets of ivy, then along a path to the mausoleum. It was little more than a ruin, with no roof and no door.

  ‘Hide in here,’ Zinina said. ‘If anyone’s after us, they’ll not see us. They’ll go back to the main battle.’

  Far off, there were many rumbles and sounds of clattering. Flickering lines, perfectly straight and spectral red, appeared and disappeared in the distance, and although cloud was low Zinina could see black smoke billowing over the Cemetery.

  Old tombs, many with open lids, lay within the mausoleum. DeKray, who seemed frightened, perhaps shocked, tripped over rubbish on the floor and accidentally knocked off a tomb lid.

  ‘We better go,’ Zinina muttered, as the noise of gunfire and detonations intensified.

  Nobody halted them. At the southern gate they followed a covered passage leading down to Sphagnum Street, a thoroughfare still clear of reveller encampments. They were safe.

  CHAPTER 14

  Blackness; but now it was pricked with glimmers. Arrahaquen regained consciousness.

  Something pulled at her thighs, under her arms, and around her waist. She smelled decay, rot, sewage.

  She moved and swung. The glimmers remained steady and, orientating herself, she discovered she was vertical, hanging in blighted air.

  She was naked in a suit of leather straps suspended by a rope. Around her she could make out other shapes, and by analogy with her own position she knew they were other people, some bulky, others skeletons. As she watched, a thigh bone fell, followed by a splash seconds later, then more, then a crack or two.

  Plop, snap, splash: something tried to reach her toes.

  She could not believe she was in such a place. She felt no fear, only confusion, a sense of fantasy. But when her crotch and legs began to ache and there was no sound other than ripples from below, then she began to fear. An hour passed in which she tried to see around her, so that she would know everything there was to know about the place. She felt that she had to know everything, whatever the cost. Her thought was short-term.

  She was not sure what the glimmers were. Above, on what she presumed was a ceiling, patches of quite strong light failed to reach down; at her level only glimmers showed. She caught no reflections below, but knew it was putrid water of some sort.

  ‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Hello?’

  Somebody answered, but the voice, from far away, was lost in echoes. She called again, and there was no reply. The cavern seemed vast.

  Then she felt a touch of panic. A few seconds passed, and she cried out, wailed for half a minute like a mourner, until the sensation had gone. A surge of exhilaration then passed through her, as though she had communicated something of profound importance. Her fear seemed to be understandable fear, not a threat. It was vital that she express her emotion and bear its consequences.

  Even in such straits, a glimmer of thought struck her; that understanding was fundamental to the mind, that in a sense it was the mind. She treasured this thought as though it had been won through decades of work.

  She turned her thoughts to escape. While she was fit and alert she had to escape.

  The harness was composed of strips of boiled leather, in places repaired with fresh straps and steel bolts. There were no buckles or padlocks. Examining the whole with her hands – her arms were free to move – she understood that she had been bolted in and would remain here for weeks until she died, most likely of dehydration. She looked around, imagining the others, perhaps hundreds, now alive or half-alive or newly dead in their death costumes, shrinking in decay. Again she felt fear, and she expressed this, communicating to herself, until she had quietened. In her mind, death-grey skulls containing shrieking minds receded.

  It was clear that there was no way out. But nobody could rescue her. Effort would have to come from herself.

  She heard a plop, but no after-sounds. Her intuition made the connection between her movements and the sound. She jiggled herself and felt something bounce off her now bald head, then felt dust across her face, as of stone from above. From points of thought oscillating at the top of her mind she drew an image of herself, suspended, arm outstretched that way – and caught something.

  It was a stone chip. Some part of the suspending device was jostling rock to fragment it.

  She could not see the chip, but she touched it to her lips, smelled it, then tested it with her tongue. It was as long as her thumb, ovoid, with one sharp edge and a flaky surface. ‘I’ve found what I need,’ she told herself.

  She felt at her shoulders and neck to discover where she should cut. There seemed to be two major straps, one new, under each armpit, with a third at the back and a cord around her neck. Imagining this illuminated, then checking with further tactile explorations, she decided that by cutting the shoulder straps and the neck cord she should be able to haul herself out, provided she could grip the rope.

  She felt disgust that she should have to endure this; but felt hope too, rooted in an image of the future, of her crouching naked behind a clock’s dial.

  She began to work at the leather. After ten seconds she felt to see if it had cut; but she felt nothing. She worried again with the chip while counting to thirty, then felt again. There was a gash. Plop, snap, splash: something had detected her.

  The darkness helped. She felt that, if she was able to see the water below, and the decomposing bodies sprawled in their harnesses, then she would be too afraid to work. Though her imagination was vivid, it had the human limitation of requiring at least a little input.

  She thought three hours had passed. Or it might have been half an hour. She continued to cut.

  With a creak the right strap broke. She felt the harness give, creaking in response, and reached out to grab a second falling chip.

  The second strap was harder to cut. When she pressed the chip to her lips to feel if it was blunt or sharp she burnt herself, and her lip throbbed with pain for some seconds. There after it twinged if she grimaced or talked to herself.

  ‘You’ve done it,’ she said, letting joy flood her voice. ‘You have done it, you have quite definitely done it. Goddess!’

  She paused: she was talking to herself. But she had cut both shoulder straps.

  By holding her waist straps and twisting herself she was able to determine what effect she had had. The harness was creaking, and touch indicated a gap around her shoulders; but the back strap was now pulled up by her weight, and would bar exit.

  With one arm over her shoulder and the other holding the back strap from below, she cut with her last chip. She wondered if it was a flint. It seemed smooth, like plastic. The action this time was harder, making the inside of her elbows hurt, making her wrists ache. Soon she was pausing a minute between thirty-second cuts.

  ‘Come on, Arrahaquen, come on.’

  With a snap it gave. She fell slightly and held herself rigid in case the whole gave way. She was now suspended by the front strap alone. The neck cord pulled at her throat.

  The centre of the chip edge seemed worn so she used the extreme ends to cut the cord. It went in seconds and she smelled leather dust, as though it had been old.

  Now she realised that she was cold, and that her bladder was full. She released a stream of urine. Then she wondered if it might draw creatures. She heard splashes, ripples and snapping jaws.

  She did not want to be cold. It hindered her, made her less effective. She shouted, cursing her captors with oaths, letting herself go for a few seconds. Rage did her good.

  She stretched herself and lifted her arms, getting a good grip on the rope, then pulling. Nothing much happened. She tried a better position, curving her back a little and pulling into her chest, and was able to lift herself. Making an effort she pulled, then felt around with her feet for a grip, until her right foot
caught the lower thigh strap and she was able to push up.

  She stood on these straps, feeling them bow inwards. Her legs were bent and she realised that her hips were caught in the hole that she had made. It was not wide enough. Her stomach began to ache with the muscular effort.

  She decided to shuffle herself through and take full advantage of her legs. Pushing first left then right, toes outstretched, she tried to squeeze through. After a few minutes she guessed that she was halfway there.

  Now her legs were aching and she made a frantic effort, as if a final attempt, to get through. She felt something give, and then the whole harness fell away, flopping, suspended from the uncut front straps, bolts tinkling as they hit one another.

  She was grasping the rope, holding herself up, only a loose grip from her feet on the ruined leather. She knew that she would have to climb now.

  In childhood, she had like other children been taught rope drill to escape houses. Now those memories came back with a vitality unknown to her. Every nuance of her teacher’s voice, of the rope under her palms, of the way her tiny body had swarmed up the rope, returned to her mind. Her body did not seem cold, nor did it seem so very heavy as it had just now. She swarmed up the rope, muscles in unison, unfatigued. Before she knew that she had climbed any distance cold metal hit the bridge of her nose.

  This brought her round. She saw by fungus light a ledge. Gripping the metal strut she pulled herself over and lay on the ledge, rapidly breathing, then sneezing.

  Horizontal, she wept. The thought of not escaping had so far not occurred to her. Now the horror of what could have been rushed through her mind, inspiring anger and tears together. She embraced the rock ledge with her arms, stomach and legs.

  Time passed. Images of outside played across her mind’s eye.