Clara opened her eyes. “Give me a map,” she demanded. “I need a map of Egypt. Do you have any map that dates to the time of this king?”
The young man handed her a rolled paper. Clara dropped the finger back into the box, and unfurled the map. After scanning the images for a moment, she pointed to one of the cities. “Here,” she said, “go to this city, to the palace…or where the palace used to stand. And when you stand on the palace steps, you will see a mountain to the left, shaped like the head of a jackal. There at that mountain, in the cave, you will find the pharaoh’s lost treasure.”
The old man snatched the map from her hand and held it close to his face, his eyes greedily staring at the jackal mountain.
“I suppose we may leave now, then?” Dr. Gilac asked.
“Yes,” the old man said, his eyes still focused on the map. “I sincerely hope your predictions are correct. I hate to waste time on fruitless expeditions. But at least I never make the same mistake twice.”
Before Clara could reply, something stabbed into her arm.
~
A thud sounded behind him.
Geoffrey spun around from the window where he had been standing, and saw that the girl Clara had fallen unconscious to the floor. He limped towards her as quickly as he could manage, but Dr. Gilac reached her first. Within moments, he had already picked Clara up and headed towards the door.
“Is she all right?” Geoffrey stammered. “What happened to her?”
“Nothing,” Dr. Gilac said quickly. “She just has these fainting spells sometimes. Here, boy—open that door for me. Thank you.” As the doctor exited the room, Geoffrey shut the door again and turned back to his grandfather. “That girl really isn’t well,” Geoffrey remarked. “She needs to see a doctor. It sounds like she has a sleep disorder of some kind.”
“Possibly, possibly,” Grandfather murmured. He was still focused on the map in his hands.
Geoffrey huffed irritably. He hated it when his grandfather ignored him, but somehow it was even worse when Grandfather ignored someone truly in need of help—like that poor girl. “So,” Geoffrey said, rather too loudly, “why do you need the treasures, exactly? I thought that we all get a share of the Family funds, from the community working together.” He sat beside Grandfather and examined the map.
Grandfather chuckled, and tousled Geoffrey’s hair. “Don’t be so naïve, boy,” he laughed. “Yes, the Family shares all its production, and we get our share. But we Benefactors get a little extra. None of the Public knows about that; they think we’re all poor, and live on nothing but beans and bread.”
Geoffrey felt his heart sink. “But I thought everyone had a fair share.”
“Fair? Ha. It’s all an illusion, boy. They think it’s all fair and equal, with food and supplies for everyone; but there’s always the upper hand behind the scenes, moving the funds to and fro as he pleases.”
“Then…then it’s not equal?” Geoffrey stammered. “We’re keeping them from doing what they want? We’re keeping them from finding treasure for themselves!”
“No, boy, it’s not like that at all. They’re happy, believe me. What more can they ask for? They have food and shelter; that makes any dog happy enough.”
“They’re not dogs!” Geoffrey cried angrily. He tore the treasure map from Grandfather’s hands.
“Careful, Geoffrey!” Grandfather scolded. “That map is nearly two centuries old! If you tear it, we have no way to find that lost treasure!”
“I don’t care about the map. Let it crumble to dust, for all I care. I’m worried about the People. They have feelings and wants, and hates and desires! How can you treat them like this? Is this any way for a Benefactor to act?”
“I have to act this way,” Grandfather snapped. He snatched the map from Geoffrey. “Don’t you understand? I have to run a tight ship, boy, if there’s to be equal shares for everyone. If we Benefactors get a bit more on the side, good for me; it’s hard work running this country, you know. Goodness knows, some days I wish for the old days, when we still had elections. Then someone else could have this job once in a while!”
~
“Mocha crème for Evelyn,” Lucy called. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes as she set the cup onto the counter.
A week ago she had taken a job at the subway coffee shop; and already she regretted her decision. Her aching feet felt as though she had been working for twelve hours straight, but only two had passed. I need new shoes, she thought, but I just can’t afford them right now—not with broken faucet, and the rent increase…
“Excuse me!” an angry voice shrieked.
Lucy glanced upward. A woman had thrust the coffee cup marked “Evelyn” beneath Lucy’s chin. “Smell it,” the woman barked, her brown eyes flashing angrily. “It has dairy milk in it. Didn’t I tell you to use almond milk?”
Lucy gulped. “I…I’m sorry,” she stammered, reaching for the coffee cup. “I thought I put almond into it. I’ll get you a new one right away.”
“You should’ve done it right the first time,” the woman grumbled, rolling her eyes. “But you young people don’t care about anything.”
With a stifled sob, Lucy tossed the cup into the sink. “I’ll fix it,” she mumbled aloud.
“Forget it!” snapped the woman. “You clearly don’t know what you’re doing! For God’s sake, get me someone who can help. I’m late for work already.”
“I said I’ll fix it,” Lucy persisted. She filled a new cup and added the almond milk.
The woman grabbed the cup. “If you think I’m paying for this lousy service, you got something else coming,” she growled, holding out her hand. “Give me back my money.”
Refunds were not allowed, but Lucy was not willing to argue; she reached into her own pocket and handed the woman a few bills. With a last angry huff, the woman stomped away towards the train.
Lucy stepped behind the pile of coffee boxes and let the tears flow. That woman was right; Lucy did not know what she was doing. Her mind strayed to a better day when she was the best at her job, when she was a respected teacher with students who loved her. But all that was over now. Pangaea did not respect her, and she did not respect Pangaea. Yet as long as she was still free to remain apart from them and choose her own path, she would. No matter how terrible the consequences.
She reached beneath her collar and pulled out the string round her neck. In the center hung the puzzle piece, from Father McCall. The edges of the piece were now worn, and the cardboard was beginning to flake apart, but Lucy had bound it with tape to hold it together. God, she thought. What do you want from me? If You’re going to make me suffer like this, at least show me why. I believe in Something Greater than what I can see. Show me how to reach those Greater Things. Guide me.
“Lucy,” a voice called.
It was Jeff, the other barista on duty.
“Lucy, I’m sorry she yelled at you. But we have to get back to work.” He glanced behind himself. Already a swarm of angry red faces had crowded along the countertop. “The customers are getting impatient!”
“I know, I know.” Lucy wiped her eyes, and tucked the puzzle piece back under her collar. “I’m coming.”
Jeff handed her a napkin. “Here, dry your eyes, and think of something else. Hey, look at the TV screen—looks like they arrested some guy.”
As Lucy blotted her eyes, she glanced up at the TV. Onscreen, she could see police officers leading a man in handcuffs through a crowd of reporters. At the sight of the arrested suspect, Lucy gasped in horror. “They’ve arrested Father McCall!”
“Yeah, I can’t believe it,” Jeff said, shaking his head. “I used to go to his church when I was a kid.”
“But why was he arrested?” Lucy demanded.
“For murder,” Jeff said curtly. “Hey, are you going to help me make these coffees or not?”
Lucy tossed the napkin aside and resumed preparing the drinks, but she kept one eye on the television screen overhead.
“…A very grue
some discovery,” the reporter continued, rather too passionately. “A body was found behind Father McCall’s church just yesterday. The deceased has not yet been identified, but the cause of death was severe blood loss from a wound in the right arm. An anonymous tip, phoned into the police station, has put Father McCall as the primary suspect.”
~
Ever since Lucy had left her teaching position, the eighth grade class had devolved into an unruly anarchy—even young Timmy, the so-called class prude. He began meeting with a group of boys for a daily smoke, in an abandoned barn near the school. Sometimes he would think of how Miss Lucy would have scolded him for such behavior, but then he shrugged the thought aside; she didn’t care about him, so why should he care about her? If her students truly mattered to her, she wouldn’t have run off like that.
Today Timmy was passing through the woods toward the old barn. The path was dimly lit in the setting sun, but Timmy felt safe enough. He had passed this way dozens of times before, and the worst danger he encountered was the scrape of an overgrown tree branch.
A thin whistle broke through the air. Timmy glanced to his left, where the sound seemed to be flowing. It might have been a bird, but he saw no bird. And he had never heard any sound like that in his entire life! He yearned to see what could possibly be producing the strange noise, but an odd fear swept over him, and held him back. That sound could be anything, he thought. Even something dangerous.
But no. It was too pleasant, too calming to be dangerous.
If it did turn out to be dangerous, he would leave. Straightaway. He could escape if he had too.
The curiosity won. Timmy dashed forward, nearly tripping in his excitement. He could tell exactly where the sound was located now—behind that gnarled old pine tree. Just as he came within ten feet of the tree, he slowed his steps to a cautious tiptoe. Maybe he could capture the creature, if he were careful.
Almost there now. The sound grew stronger. Timmy could scarcely contain his excitement. In a single jump, he rounded the tree.
There was no creature.
There was only a middle-aged woman, with a metal radio grasped in her hands. It was playing that strange, hypnotic music. She nodded at Timmy, as though she had been expecting him for quite some time.
Before he could react, the woman covered his mouth with a towel. The cloth had been drenched in something sticky and cloying—like cough syrup. As the thick fumes flowed into his nostrils, Timmy fell unconscious.
~
Clara lay on her bunk bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Almost a full year had now passed since her memory loss, and still she had no recollection of any life prior to her work for the Benefactors. Although she could not remember, at least she could still imagine. And her imagination was in high demand these days, as Bertie requested a story every night, since the day Clara first dreamed about the bottomless pit. Clara never dreamed of that dark hole again; now she had different dreams—very peculiar ones. She dreamed that she had a mother: a mother who took long walks with her along the river, and built mud castles. As time passed, the dreams became more vivid; sometimes Clara even believed they had actually happened—and then she would wake up, and that wonderful, peaceful world vanished instantly.
But oh, how she wished the dreams were real!
6.
Clara felt someone lifting her from her bed—the sort of sensation that one gets when he is about to nod off, and thinks he is falling. But she did not fall; the arms held her steady. She struggled to open her eyes, but her lids were heavy with sleep. Someone must have drugged me again. Yet she hardly cared; she only wanted to sleep. At least in her dreams, she could do as she pleased, and go where she wished.
She felt the rumble of a car engine, and the forward jolt.
~
The old man tapped his glass. An instant quiet fell across the ballroom as hundreds of faces turned in his direction. “All of us have faced a very difficult month indeed,” he began. “But I am very pleased you came to this event tonight.”
~
Clara had been stood upright, but her legs felt stiff and wooden, like the joints of a puppet. Her vision was still very fuzzy, and her mind cloudy, but she could tell that someone was guiding her up the front steps of a large brick house, with white pillars and bright yellow lights. “Turn off the lights,” Clara begged. “They’re too bright. Turn them off.”
“Shut up,” a voice said curtly. It sounded like Miss Dorrod, but Clara could not be sure.
Clara groaned. “I just want to sleep,” she begged. “Why did you wake me up?”
No one answered. They were now walking through a large hallway, towards a set of double doors.
~
“The mind becomes so clouded with stress and worries,” the old man continued, “especially as we grow older. People never know what tomorrow will bring.”
The guests nodded in agreement.
He smiled. “But we know.”
Everyone chuckled in amusement.
The old man raised his cup. “To the future.”
At this instant, the double doors opened.
~
Hundreds of faces were staring at her, like wooden dolls with blank, staring eyes. All so perfect. Most of the mouths were upturned in grins.
Laughing, laughing—so much laughing—about nothing.
A blonde doll sunk her red claws into Clara’s palm, and dragged her forward. “So, my sorceress,” the doll giggled. “Go on. Read my fortune first.” She spread her other hand open for Clara to see. The hand was unrealistically white and smooth, without a single line in it—as though it had been stretched taut as a tent tarp.
“You’re hurting me!” Clara cried. She tried to pull her hand away, but the doll held her tightly. “What do you mean, your fortune?”
“My fortune!” the doll shrieked impatiently. “What does tomorrow bring for me?”
Clara began to cry. She did not know what all this meant. “Get away from me,” Clara begged. The dolls crowded round her closer, staring at her curiously. “What are you all staring at me for? What do you want?”
“I told you,” the blonde doll persisted. “I want my fortune. We all do. Give it to us. What does my hand tell you?”
Clara stared at the doll’s hand. She knew nothing about reading palms, but maybe she could use that Mind Trick that Dr. Gilac had taught her, the one she had used to find that pharaoh’s treasure.
~
“It doesn’t work like palm reading, Evie,” a man remarked impatiently. “That’s a lot of hokey pokey nonsense. This is the real deal here.”
“How does it work, Albert?” the blonde woman demanded. She stared at the girl holding her hand. “Is she even awake? She looks like she’s half asleep.”
“No,” Albert said, “she is definitely awake: far more awake than you or me will ever be. She is using your hand as a portal to see across time and space: connecting to the atomic consciousness of the molecules.”
“Then it’s physical? It’s not spiritual.”
“Oh, it is spiritual. Make no mistake. What most people don’t realize is how interconnected the spiritual and physical really are; they don’t know where the bridges between these realities lie. If they knew, the power would not be ours alone. You and I would be standing in the ditch right alongside them, wallowing in the mud like pigs. All the People know is the physical: the ration boxes and drugs that they get from us.” He shook his head. “Such idiots. Such fools. They don’t even realize how much they’ve been brainwashed. Taught from birth to death that prayer is for fools, that God is an invention, that the spiritual realm is nothing more than a fairytale to comfort the grieving. All of them—tricked. And meanwhile we use the spiritual realm to build our own power.” He gulped his wine. “They surrendered their greatest weapon. And for what? A box of food and some drugs, because it makes them ‘escape the horror of Reality.’” He snorted. “They’ll never know just how magical Reality truly can be.”
~
Nonsense,
nonsense—so much nonsense flooded into Clara’s mind. It must have been coming from that blonde doll’s head.
Dolls aren’t supposed to think. Why is she even thinking?
A gown fitting…exercise session…birth control pill…hopefully meet someone interesting tonight…but only want fun tonight, not something serious…I’ll think of that a different day…a different day…a different day…a different day…
A sudden crash.
As though a book slammed shut beside her ear.
“So?” the voice of the blonde doll demanded. “What is coming?”
Clara opened her eyes. She looked into the face of the blonde doll. How could she tell her? How was anyone supposed to reveal that someone would die so soon? “Nothing,” she said aloud. “Nothing is going to happen.”
“You’re lying.” The blonde doll gripped Clara’s wrist tighter. “Something terrible is going to happen. I can tell. Your eyes are shaking. Don’t lie to me. What is it?”
“The book…the book will be shut.”
The blonde doll stepped away from Clara. Her perfect face crumpled with horror. “What does that mean?”
She did not answer. She could tell that the doll already knew full well what Clara meant.
The doll’s lower lip trembled. She seized a glass of wine from a nearby tray, and gave a hollow laugh. “Well, then. I will just have to be more careful, I suppose. No book will shut on me.” She drained her glass in one swallow. “I’ve avoided lots of tragedies in my life. This one won’t kill me either.”
“My fortune next,” someone screeched. A hand was pushed into Clara’s, but she could not see the owner.
Clara shut her eyes again. The vision came more readily this time.
A party…the new black dress and white gloves, and hopefully no one notices that stain on the right hand …now wandering away from the crowd…into the hallway…to the desk along the wall…opening the drawer… stealing a string…a ball of twine… unrolling it…wrapping it round something…someone’s neck…tighter…harder…
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