The White Oak

by Kim White

  “We have to be the first off the boat,” Lucas whispers. The raft is almost at the dock when he lets go of the post and says, “Follow me.” Lucas starts toward the side of the raft, but the moment he moves away, the boatswain is on me, pressing me against the post, holding my arms and loosening my hair. As my long hair catches on the wind and drifts toward the fans he whispers, “You’ll be scalped. When your hair twists around those blades, the skin on your head—maybe your whole head—will be pulled right off.” Then he laughs, holding my arms tighter and pressing my face into the ropes so that I can’t scream for Lucas.

  My hair is being drawn into the fan cage. The blades beat against the ends. Any moment they will catch—and that will be the end of me. I’m seething with hatred for the boatswain, but then an idea comes to me. I reach my foot back and stomp with all my strength, hoping to pound his injured foot. I hit the mark and the boatswain screams in pain and loosens his grip for a moment. I manage to wrench my head free to yell, and Lucas is there in an instant, pulling the boatswain off me and grabbing my hair from the fan cage.

  The dock is only a few feet away. The ferryman is yelling at the distracted boatswain to slow the fans and prepare to dock. The boatswain leaves us alone to focus on his work, his fear of the ferryman greater than his game with Lucas and me.

  “Come on,” Lucas says, taking my hand and pulling me toward the edge of the raft. It slams into the pier a moment later and we jump off. Everyone behind us begins pushing and shoving to get away from that horrible craft.

  Trespassing at the Gates

  From a distance, the sphere looked solid, but up close I see that it’s made of thousands of parts. The outer shell is formed by thick cast-iron plates that shift continuously in response to movement underneath. Several of the metal plates screech and clank, then pull apart, creating a gate about the size of a two-story building. Lucas and I run along the dock to be among the first to get to the gate. Iron bars with a single cagelike turnstile block the entrance. The crowd swarms and pushes on the turnstile, but it’s locked in place. The metal pier continues into the sphere about a hundred feet, forming a walkway through the shell that’s as treacherous as the river. The bands of metal that form the inner shell of the globe spin at different speeds, cutting through the walkway like guillotine blades. Some move so quickly that they’re only a blur. It’s like a giant armillary sphere with orbiting rings and metal plates that shuffle like puzzle pieces to open at the waterline and close again as the sphere plunges into the river, its wake rippling under the dock.

  Lucas and I stand on tiptoe and try to peer through the gate. I see that the globe is an old machine. It must have been shiny and perfect when it was first made, but now it’s rusty, and it groans and clanks like an old tractor.

  Behind us, shades push and clamor to get away from the ferry, off the dock, and through the metal turnstile. They’re crammed up against the iron bars, waiting to get in.

  “Form a line!” a squeaky voice yells from above. The shades look up to see a troll-like man in a metal basket looking down at them. The basket, attached to a swiveling hydraulic arm, holds the little man high above the crowd. “I am the gatekeeper,” he says, as his basket swoops down and hovers above them, then glides down to lock into place next to the turnstile. His flabby body protrudes between the metal slats of the basket. He has thick, wrinkled skin and a flat head, and his toad eyes stare, unblinking, from behind tiny rectangular glasses. “Single file,” he croaks.

  The crowd pushes and stumbles until an acceptable line is formed. It snakes down the dock all the way back to the ferry. Anxious to get inside, the crowd pushes the first shade toward the turnstile.

  “Hold it!” the gatekeeper yells. “We can’t start without the scanner. Where’s the boatswain?”

  We all turn to look for the boatswain. He is making his way slowly, insolently, toward the gatekeeper. As he passes, I can see how much he enjoys the distress he’s causing. Walking as slowly as possible, he carries his black box, and the scanner he used to check our coins. As soon as he is within range of the mechanical basket, the troll swoops over and snatches the mechanism from his hands, dropping an identical box at his feet. The boatswain ignores it, turning to harass one of the shades, pushing her backward and toward the edge of the pier.

  “Go back to the boat!” the gatekeeper yells. But the boatswain refuses, and the gatekeeper, who hates to lose immigrants, continues to yell at him.

  “The boatswain is delaying things on purpose,” Lucas whispers. “The gate can only stay open for twenty or thirty minutes. The opening and closing puts too much strain on the shell.”

  “What happens if we run out of time?” I say, inching forward in line.

  “We’ll get in before it closes,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

  “Boatswain!” the ferryman yells angrily “Why aren’t you attending to these fans?” The ferryman is inspecting the fan blades. They are thick with tar and need to be cleaned. The boatswain grabs the box the gatekeeper dropped at his feet and hustles back to the ferry.

  With the boatswain gone, the gatekeeper attends to the business of opening the turnstile. He takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks a panel in the gate. A small door opens and he inserts the black box and flips a switch next to the door. Blue lights illuminate the archway above the turnstile. They spell out the words Stand by. The gatekeeper types commands on a keyboard that is mounted on his metal basket. I crane to try to see what he’s typing, but he’s too far away. Wires hang from the basket, and there is a tiny screen above his keyboard that he squints at as he types. When he’s finished, the lights above the gate turn from blue to white and the word Ready appears above the turnstile.

  “Come on then,” the gatekeeper says, motioning to the first shade. I recognize him. He was the angry, impatient man behind me in the ferry line. He steps up to the turnstile. “Put your coin in quickly. We are running behind,” the gatekeeper growls. The shade takes the coin out of his mouth and puts it in the turnstile’s slot. The words in the archway overhead immediately spell out a new message, and a mechanical voice reads it: Valid fare.

  “Step through, step through,” the gatekeeper urges.

  The impatient shade does not need much encouragement; he pushes through the turnstile and stalks off down the walkway.

  “Come back here!” the gatekeeper calls to the soul. He types a command on his keyboard, and the soul is sucked back and rooted in place under the turnstile’s archway. The metal rim activates and a beam of blue light scans the shade. Data are conveyed to the gatekeeper’s screen as the gate apparatus analyzes them.

  “Match verified,” the mechanical voice says. “Admission granted. Destination: Region Six.”

  As soon as his fate is announced, the shade bursts into flame. He screams in pain and falls to the ground, rolling around to try to put out the flames. But the fire cannot be quenched. It’s as if he has become fire. A shadowy creature glides over and lifts him, still burning, off the ground. The ghost, moving like a swirl of black smoke, reaches her arms around the man, but it’s not a pleasant embrace. The burning man screams as his body is engulfed. I can see him inside the shadow creature now, like a fireball behind a dark curtain. The creature carries him through the gate, gliding forward with many well-timed pauses to avoid the guillotine bands.

  “Did you see that?” I whisper. Lucas nods. “What is that thing?”

  “It’s one of the Keres,” Lucas says. “I’ve heard the boatswain try to scare shades by talking about them. They’re like tornadoes—they trap you in their center, but they can also tear you apart.”

  “Next!” the gatekeeper yells.

  The line moves up, and I step inside the sphere, a few feet from the turnstile. As I do, a strange sensation overwhelms me. A cold terror seems to pass from my feet up into my soul. I freeze and gasp for air.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucas says.

  I can’t answer because I can barely breathe. It’s as though my feet are plugged into a
current of suffering that flows, like electricity, through the metal sphere. I can feel it resonate in my body but I can’t move to break the connection. I’m trembling with misery. The golden pen, still wrapped around my tooth, vibrates like a drill.

  “Are you okay?” Lucas asks, putting an arm around me to steady me. I’m rooted in place and shaking violently, but his touch changes something. The circuit is broken—instead of cycling through my body and back into the metal surface, it begins to flow into Lucas. He shivers and stamps his feet to break the connection. “Dance a little,” he says, kicking at my feet. I shuffle a bit and that loosens my paralysis. Lucas smiles as a look of relief passes over my face.

  “How am I going to survive in this place?” I say.

  Lucas’s arm is still around my waist. “You’ll survive,” he says. “I’ll be here to help you.”

  I’m so glad my brother is with me. His arm is like a wind behind me. I lean into it and try to drive the disturbing sensations out through my feet and back into the ground.

  Lucas stands close to me as we advance in line, watching the shades go through the turnstile. The fate of each one is announced; they are transformed and are escorted away by the Keres. I realize, suddenly panicked, that our coins might assign Lucas and me to different regions.

  “Lucas, what does your coin look like?” I ask, taking mine out of my mouth to examine it. It’s stamped with the image of a lone wolf sitting beneath a tree, howling at the moon. Lucas’s coin depicts a boy running, blindfolded, along the edge of a cliff with a sword in his hand. “What do they mean?” I whisper. “And where will they send us?” I stare at the coins, certain that the images hold some clue to our fate.

  “That coin isn’t yours,” Lucas reminds me. And I realize, with a shudder, that I am about to accept the fate of a killer.

  “Next!” the gatekeeper yells. It’s Lucas’s turn to go through the gate, but he hesitates, worried about losing me.

  I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Don’t worry—the turnstile will say where you’re going, and I’ll come for you. Minotaur said he’d help. I’ll find you, Lucas. I promise.”

  Lucas looks at me doubtfully. I try to seem confident, even though I don’t feel it. I know nothing about the underworld, and I don’t have much faith in Minotaur’s promises, but I’ll find my brother somehow—I have to. His ghostly body breaks my heart. I don’t know how to help him regain substance, and I don’t know what will happen if I do find my way out of this place. Will I be able to take him with me? Will I be able to leave him behind? I fight down rising panic. I’ll figure it out, I tell myself.

  “Step up, young man, or lose your turn,” the gatekeeper says.

  “You have to go, Lucas,” I say. “It will be okay.”

  He nods and gives me a half smile, then steps up to the turnstile and drops in his coin. The whole archway glows as it digests the coin. “Valid fare,” the machine says. Lucas pushes through the turnstile and stands under the scanner, waiting for it to announce his destination. It takes longer than usual. “Access granted,” the machine says. “Destination . . . Classified.” My hands go cold and my heart sinks, but at the same time I’m angry—why are they keeping Lucas’s destiny a secret? How am I going to find him if I don’t know where to look?

  Lucas turns to face me. Even at this distance, I can tell something is wrong. He’s struggling with a decision, measuring his options. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that I’m a factor. “I’ll find you, Cora,” he yells, the resolve apparent on his face. He clenches in pain as his ghostly body begins to transform. His skin goes practically transparent, and his blood vessels start to look more like red and blue wires. His nerves light up like electric circuits. Lucas looks at his arms and legs, horrified by the changes. He scratches at his hands and forearms as small bumps rise on the palms of his hands and his inner arms. He runs his fingers over them and pushes on them as if they were keys on a keyboard. When the change is complete, his skin becomes opaque again, and he looks more solid and substantial than he did before he went through the turnstile. Despite the weird changes inside his body, on the surface he looks more like the Lucas I remember

  He tries to speak, but before he can a dozen Keres surround him. They float above the ground like funnel clouds. Plumes curl outward to grab Lucas by the arms and legs. Two of the creatures merge and draw Lucas in, capturing him in their body; then they begin to move away, stepping deftly through the gauntlet of rotating metal bands.

  “Where are you taking him?!” I yell, as I try to push through the turnstile. It gives me an electric shock that knocks me to the ground. When I get up, Lucas is gone and the gatekeeper is glaring at me.

  “Your coin,” he says.

  I take the coin out of my mouth and put it in the turnstile, my nerves still tingling from the shock.

  “Valid fare,” the mechanical voice says. I push through the turnstile and stand impatiently under the scanner to await my assignment. In front of me is a metal tunnel about a hundred yards long. The Keres are at the end of it. Lucas is still inside the merged ones. I try to run to him, but I’m rooted in place. The metal grate I’m standing on is magnetized. Below me, sparks fly as the sphere welds itself back together. Above, blue acetylene flames rend it apart. The machine has now scanned me twice, and still no destination has been identified. The gatekeeper grumbles and taps his keyboard. After a third scan, there’s finally a response: “Unable to verify.”

  The gatekeeper frowns and types furiously. “Stand still,” he squawks at me. “I’m running the scan one more time.”

  I stand very still as the machine reexamines me.

  “Unrecognized entity,” it says.

  The gatekeeper looks at me and narrows his eyes. Then he types again and squints at the small screen above his keyboard, grumbling all the while about how long this is taking. “What’s your name, child?” He says in his troll-like voice.

  “Cora Alexander,” I reply.

  “Your coin is registered to Simon Goldberg,” he says, without looking up. He is still typing and reading the screen. “Clearly you are not Simon.”

  “He’s my cousin,” I lie. “We switched coins on the boat. We were going to switch back, but he fell in the river.”

  The gatekeeper lowers his spectacles and looks at me, not buying my lie. “I don’t see your name on the ship’s manifest and we all know that nobody gets past Charon.”

  He’s caught me, and I’m not sure what to say or do next. I stand silently as the gatekeeper taps his claw-like fingertip impatiently on one of his basket’s metal slats.

  “Listen, child. Whether you got across the river legitimately or not isn’t my concern. My job is to make sure you get to the proper destination.” He looks down at his keyboard and adjusts his spectacles. “Now, I need to know the date, time, cause, and location of your death.”

  I keep silent, feeling trapped and desperate.

  “If you don’t know the exact details of your death, you can approximate.”

  I look around, wondering how I can escape. I do the little dance Lucas showed me to unlock my feet, but it doesn’t work when he’s not here to help.

  “Young lady,” the troll says impatiently, “There are souls waiting to get through this gate and you are holding them up. Now tell me something about your death and be quick about it.”

  “I’m not dead,” I blurt out.

  The metal basket bounces up in the air, and genuine surprise registers on the troll’s grizzled face. He swings back down and gives me a hard look. In disbelief, he pokes me with his finger.

  “Computer!” he yells. “I need an X-ray scan.” The machine zaps me, and the gatekeeper’s eyes widen as the results appear on his screen.

  “Entry denied!” he bellows, as though my condition were a personal affront. “Get out!” he screams, and my feet are released. Startled by his anger, I try to return through the turnstile, but it won’t go backward. While the gatekeeper tries to figure out how to reverse the turnstile’s
direction, I make a run for it, sprinting down the tunnel toward the Keres, dodging the dangerous spinning bands. It’s like being inside a clockwork—there is logic to it, but I’m not mechanically inclined enough to figure it out. Lucas would be able to. The fact that I don’t get sliced in half is nothing but dumb luck.

  The gatekeeper looks up from what he’s doing and sees me. He curses loudly, and his basket vaults through the air as he comes after me. I duck and he passes over, then bounces up high and circles around to come down for another attack. His basket knocks me off my feet, but I scramble out of reach, and a slow-moving metal band rises between us when he tries to grab me. Getting quickly to my feet, I manage to run to the end of the gate, just out of his range. I stumble out of the metal shell to find myself staring into the vast interior of the turning sphere. Lucas is gone.

  I hear the gatekeeper cursing me as I stand on the inside. A long catwalk of clear glass extends out into the globe. The City is startlingly beautiful. Its buildings are embedded in the walls of the sphere like the crystals of a gigantic geode. It’s a spectacular, terrifying sight. Above and below me the glass buildings glimmer like stars and clink like chandelier crystals as they move past the catwalk.

  Hovering in the center of the hollow sphere is a moon made of mercury. Its silver face is reflected in the glassy streets of the inverted City. It holds its shape despite the pull of the globe, which roots its inhabitants to the metal walls with a powerful centrifugal force.

  Standing on the ledge, I’m awed by the enormity of the curving skyline. I’m not afraid of heights, but when I look down, my palms tingle and I feel dizzy and short of breath. The space below me is so deep it seems bottomless. The lights glimmer faintly, like phosphorescent corals at the bottom of a black ocean.