by Derwin Mak
The woman’s fingers froze in midair on their way to her tongue when she saw Zian. Through the wispy hair streaking her face, through the dirt-encrusted rags, he almost didn’t recognize Mei. Her eyes had lost their mischief. Her posture had lost its firmness. But it was definitely her, staring at him with shock. He had an insane urge to talk to her, to buy her a bowl of warm noodles and see how she was doing, to hold her hand and beg for forgiveness.
Zian turned and quickly walked away, pretending not to recognize her. What could he expect from a conversation with her? Mei with her button nose and long lashes. Mei with her tinkling laugh and gentle voice. That’s how he wanted to remember her. Not as an addict in a stooping body who’d do anything for a grain of pure dust. His childhood friend had grown into a Shadower who had nothing but her broken dreams.
The old guilt threatened to drown him. But for the whim that made his master accept him instead of Mei, he would be the one scrambling in the dirt and she would be the one doling out the dust. Hadn’t he and Mei been inseparable until then?
Zian left the Shadowers to their fevered hallucinations of a sunlit world full of meat pastries and fresh fruit, a full night’s sleep on a soft mat, and even an occasional laugh with someone who loved them.
For every fortune, there is an equal and opposite fortune. For every good thing happening to a Sunshiner, an equally bad thing happened to a Shadower. Zian had heard it said that long before anyone could remember, the two cities—they used to be called something other than Sun City and Shadow City—were once equally balanced. But then war broke out between the cities that lasted seven generations. The Shadowers eventually lost, and a new balance was set. To allow the Sunshiners to live their fortunate lives in Sun City, the Shadowers had to live their unfortunate lives in Shadow City.
Zian walked with one hand on his gatekeeper’s key to show any who might challenge him. His other hand rested on his dust pouch in case he needed to scatter a crowd. He was careful not to touch the dust unless he had to, careful not to caress it with his hungry fingers.
In the city’s skyline, one of the buildings flickered and shifted, at the mercy of dream tides. It was the tallest building in the city, shaped like a cone of hats with the four corners of each brim tapering up like a lady lifting her skirt to avoid the filth of the streets. The binding chants that held together the stone and cement, tinged with the blood of those sacrificed during the inauguration prayers, weren’t working. Zian had never seen it like this. The daily prayers of the monks had always anchored the buildings. Had always anchored the inhabitants.
A crowd gathered across the street from the flickering building. The last of the building’s occupants ran out with their precious belongings tied in a blanket. Everyone stood watching, wondering whether it was an opportunity or a disaster.
Zian recognized the flickering for what it was: an unauthorized gateway. His master had suspected something wasn’t right, but if he had suspected an actual gateway, even if it was weak and flickering, he would have sent someone more senior.
Throat dry, Zian broke out of the crowd and approached the building. He felt the crowd’s eyes following him. Perhaps he should go back and tell his master this task was beyond him? No. That would only prove he was unworthy; that he didn’t belong with the gatekeepers. Zian forced his feet to enter the building.
Inside was an empty vestibule with stairs spiraling up to the living quarters and stairs spiraling down to the basement. He headed down. Beyond the first couple of steps, the feeble light withered and died. It was so dark that Zian had trouble finding his worm pouch as he groped his feet down the stairs. He poured out the mass of worms onto his palm, trying to ignore the shifting sliminess. He tried to forget the story he’d heard of the apprentice who kept the worms in his hand too long without feeding them. That boy ended up with the tiny worms wiggling their way through his skin, living inside him and multiplying until they burst out of every orifice. The boys loved to tell this story late at night, of how the unfortunate apprentice had been eaten hollow from the inside out.
Zian quickly sprinkled dust on the worms. Then, just to be sure they were satisfied, he sprinkled another pinch over them. They immediately began to glow. Their squirming intensified, the pile of worms going into a copulating frenzy. The worm glow grew to illuminate the basement enough for him to see the columns lining the cavernous space.
He had expected the building’s anchors to be columns of stone or some other practically shaped object tethering the building, but these anchors were anything but practical. They were shaped like people, contorted to wrap their stretched arms around the stalactites of the basement ceiling like ivy clinging to a post. The anchors stretched and strained, impossibly strong. Their legs reached and twisted around stalagmites in the foundation. The sculptures were so realistic, so full of pain. Excruciating expressions were carved with the finest detail into their stone faces. Lines of anguish shaped their tapering eyes and elongated cheeks. Their mouths were open in eternal screams.
Near the corner, the grid pattern of the anchors was broken by a missing support. Zian walked past the sculptures to the empty spot. The statues around that spot seemed even more contorted than the rest. In the empty blotch, the stalagmites on the floor were ripped and amputated, covered in a thick, dark ooze. The stalactite on the ceiling still had a sculpted hand grabbing it, with part of the forearm wrapped around it. The forearm ended in a ragged edge, more like flesh than stone. Dark goo oozed out of the torn arm and dripped onto the darkness below.
He backed away from the gap. His shoulder brushed against something. He jumped away, thinking someone was behind him, but it was only a statue.
A low moan sounded above him. It sounded as if it were coming from the gaping mouth of the statue he had bumped into. An echo bounced off a nearby anchor. Then another. Then another, until the basement filled with moans from every direction.
Zian ran, trying to ignore the nightmare image of a stretched hand reaching for him. The moans chased him through the basement and up the stairs.
He stopped running only when he burst through the doors out into the flickering light. In his palm lay the remains of a few crushed glowworms. He must have dropped the rest in the basement when he ran. He frantically checked the dust pouch. It was still tethered to his belt. Enormous relief flooded through him. He could take the punishment of losing glowworms in a deserted basement, but if he had lost his dust, he’d have to go back into the building and search for it, groping in the dark along the feet of the moaning statues.
Zian walked toward the crowd, composing himself. A gatekeeper had an image to keep, and looking scared and confused was not part of it. But no one was looking at him. They were all looking up at the flickering tower. An old couple looked out the window from the second floor, too old to walk down the stairs to escape the unstable building. They clung together, apparently trying to give each other enough courage to jump out of the window. They flickered ... here for a moment ... gone ... then back again. Then, in a flicker that was no different than the others, the old man disappeared and did not come back. The old woman wailed over her empty arms.
The words, “Sun City,” spread through the rabble.
Breaking out from the safety of the huddled masses, a thin woman ran toward the building. Her bare feet slapped the concrete, her colorless shirt flapped to show the bones of her ribs. This time, Zian recognized Mei immediately.
Two men, well fed and wearing new clothes, grabbed her before she made it into the building.
“You think a chance to go to Sun City would be free for a dirt smear like you?” asked a woman. She was positively chubby, with rosy lips and puffy wrists. She wore a yellow dress, wrapped fashionably tightly around her body to show off the ridges of flesh bulging along her back and sides. It was said that the only fat people in Shadow City were politicians and gangsters.
“This area,” announced the chubby woman to the crowd, “is now under our protection.” A man in an accountant’s robe
stepped behind the woman. He held a pen poised over a ledger. An accountant signified an official gang presence, one in which all events and transactions would be recorded.
Mei looked back and forth between the gangsters with wide eyes, her long lashes making her look impossibly innocent. “What do you want?” she asked.
“What do you have for me?” asked the fat woman.
“I have nothing left,” said Mei, as though only now realizing it.
“Then what are you wasting my time for? Get out of here.”
The beefy men shoved her away.
“Please! Please,” said Mei, her expression dark and needy.
“Ah,” said the gangster woman, her chubby cheeks dimpling in a grin. “You got something. You know what they say, ‘a desperate girl is a rich girl.’ ”
“I can’t,” said Mei. “It’s the only dream I have left. Please.”
“So what’s the problem?” asked the fat woman. “You don’t trust us to help you reach your goal if you give us your dream?” She put on a hurt expression.
Mei was too smart to become prey to her hopes. Everyone knew it was a bad bargain to sell your last dream to the gangs. They would let her pass but wouldn’t bother to remind her that she had been willing to do anything to get into that tower. Having sold her last dream, she no longer remembered why she wanted to go there.
“No, no,” said Mei, taking a step back. “Of course I trust you. It’s just ... I don’t know if I want it bad enough to give up my dream. That’s all.”
“Well, we’re not unreasonable. We would accept several smaller dreams.”
“I don’t have any. I already sold them all.” She hung her head. “Or I’ve lost them.” Mei used to dream about being a gatekeeper. She’d regaled little Zian with fantasies of majestic halls and pretty dresses, of endless tables laden with food, and parties attended by regal people. Zian now knew that her dreams had been far more grand than reality. At the time, though, her dream had been enormous and all encompassing. They had treasured it, and it had nurtured them through their darkest times. Somehow, she must have lost it through the years, along with her firm gaze and glossy hair.
The gangster woman twitched her head toward the street. Her boys threw Mei away.
Mei stood there, staring up at the flickering tower, a tear streaking down her face.A few brave people stepped up to the gangsters and commenced negotiations. The crowd jostled Mei until she turned and shuffled away.
Zian grabbed her as she passed. She was as light as a bird with hollow bones. She looked up at him with a child’s eyes, filled with anger and disappointment.
“How are you, Mei?” As soon as the words left him, he regretted it. How was she? Did he really need to ask? He’d become soft over the years, steeping his life in meaningless niceties spoken only by Sunshiners and politicians’ daughters. Mei stared at him as though he’d just spoken in another language.
“Have you seen anyone leave with a statue?” asked Zian.
Mei’s eyes rolled white, her head lolled, greasy strands of hair sliding over her face. Fainting from hunger was something Zian remembered well.
“Wake up,” said Zian, shaking her and feeling her bones rattle. Terrible things could happen to an unconscious woman on the street. She slumped, her bones melting, and sat on the stained ground like a pile of discarded rags.
Zian dug into his robe pocket for his lunch. He pulled out a sandwich, a delicacy of the Sunshiners. He unwrapped it from the waxed paper, realizing that the exotic paper alone would be worth a meal to her if she traded it. He waved the sandwich in front of her. She opened her eyes and looked at it, indifferent. He opened the bread pieces for her, showing her the meat in between. Still, she gazed through it with no interest, as if she had forgotten what real food looked like.
He reached into his pouch with his other hand, pulled out a pinch of dust, and showed her the sparkling crystals. Her attention was immediate, her eyes sharp and focused as she reached for it. Zian snatched his hand away. “First, you eat this.” He handed her the sandwich.
She accepted the food without hesitation, her eyes still on his pinch of dust. She bit into the sandwich and chewed. He remembered his first taste of Sunshiner food. Who could forget that first burst of flavor, the incredible taste of the bundle of nutrition that the Sunshiners called food. He had crammed the sandwich into his mouth, convinced someone would take it away from him. Had he expected the same of Mei? Had he been hoping for a glimpse of the old Mei with an echo of her old dream shining in her eyes?
She chewed mechanically, showing no more enthusiasm than she would when eating refuse. She did, however, lick off every scrap and crumb. But she would have done that as well with a rotting piece of fruit found in a gangster’s trash.
“Someone stole an anchor out of that building,” said Zian. “A statue without a hand. Do you know anything about it?”
She nodded, all her concentration on Zian’s dust pouch. He had brushed the dust back into the pouch so his hungry fingers wouldn’t be too tempted. A single taste of dust was enough to expel an apprentice. And expelled apprentices were thrown back to the streets of Shadow City.
“Can I have some dust now?”
Zian hesitated. “Do you know where the statue is?”
She nodded. “I can take you there. I just need a tiny bit of dust to get me going.”
“Take me to the statue first, then you get the dust.”
She licked her lips and nodded. When they were kids, she had been the one who made the decisions. She had been the one who kept them fed, secured their shelter for the night, walked the fine balance of negotiating with adults and feral children. All he did was follow her until the day the masters saw them and picked one of them for an apprentice. Deep inside, they both knew it should have been her.
She got up, full of new energy, reminiscent of the old Mei. She slipped through dark alleys between butcher shops and whore houses, through the open market of unidentifiable meats and yellowed vegetables, through the money district where the politicians and gang bosses looked down from their windows, framed by billowing curtains, forgetting what it was like to walk the streets. After a while, Zian realized that Mei was still more clever than he’d thought. She was following a trail of dark ooze, smeared and rubbed into the edge of the grimy streets. He suspected she didn’t know where the statue was; her bravado was enough. He followed her through Shadow City with complete confidence, just like in the old days. They nearly lost the trail when it crossed the streets, where the feet of a thousand people pulling carts ground the trail into nonexistence. But she managed to pick up the trail again every time.
At the riverbank, Mei stopped. She pointed to a couple leaning against the gates around Zian’s barge. They stood looking down at the water, leaning as far as the bars would allow. The woman, who was hardly more than a girl, wore the crimson robe of an apprentice monk, her shaved head still pale and unseasoned. The man—tall and lanky, barely out of childhood—was gray from head to foot. The gray man cradled his arm, which ended in a wet stump covered in a mass of bandages. The woman’s hand reached up and stroked the gray man’s cheek, and he leaned his head toward her. Their tenderness was a sight Zian hadn’t seen in Shadow City since he was a child.
Without thinking, Zian touched Mei’s thin shoulder, feeling her warmth through her rags.
“Can I have my dust now?” asked Mei, her voice empty.
Didn’t she at least want to talk to him a little? Wasn’t she curious to hear about the last few years of his life? Didn’t she want to hear about the marvels of life outside Shadow City?
She watched him with tired eyes. No curiosity, no hope.
Reluctantly, Zian dribbled dust onto her cupped palms. He held himself back from giving her a generous portion and just gave her enough for a few hours of ecstasy. Given more, she could be lost forever. As soon as she got the dust, she turned without a word and ran.
She didn’t look back.
A hot wind blew from the river,
bringing with it the sweet smell of lost dreams, with a hint of rotting flesh.
He watched her disappear into a dark alley. He had a crazy urge to follow her, to let her lead him through the sewers and secret hiding spots of the old days. But, of course, he couldn’t.
Zian took a deep breath, and turned to the strange couple. When they saw him coming, the monk apprentice stepped protectively in front of the man, putting out her hands in a warding gesture. Zian stopped.
“Just let us go,” said the girl. Her hands trembled, and stains of exhaustion circled her eyes. She must have used all her powers to release the anchor, and even then, she couldn’t release all of him.
“Go where?” asked Zian. There was nowhere the gatekeepers wouldn’t find them.
“We’re going to be Sunshiners,” said the man in a voice filled with pain and hope. “We’re going to float down river and make it to Sun City.”
Zian glanced at the girl. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. He guessed that she knew it was suicide. “Everybody drowns in that river,” said Zian to the girl. “You know that.”
“No, some people make it,” said the man who was a boy, gripping the gate with his one hand. “We can make it if we have the barge. She can cast a spell to let us ride it, and we’ll be all right.” He looked at the girl, who gave him a small smile. To Zian, it looked as though that smile cost her last bit of effort. Although she was obviously talented, it would still take more than the skills of an apprentice to navigate the currents of Lost Dreams beyond the regular route between the Gate House and the city.
He thought about showing him a fistful of dust. It would lure him as easily as it lured the addicts. But the girl wouldn’t be tempted, for she knew the secret of the dust and had sworn off it along with the rest of her brethren when she joined the monkhood. It was her he had to convince to put the anchor back in the basement.
“If you’re lucky, they’ll throw you back onto the streets,” Zian said to her. “If you’re not lucky, you could end up as part of a building. Or maybe they’d throw you in the river if you haven’t already drowned. I’m guessing that a drowned monk would be especially valuable.”