by Kim White
As I search for a response to my father’s boast, a command issues from the speakers: “Shut down the scanner and let her in. Make sure she proceeds to checkpoint seven.” The Keres move toward the door, and as we pass underneath my father, he spits at me, shooting a tiny stream of molten metal at my face. It would have burned me if the Ker’s swirling wind hadn’t caught it, swept it around me, and blown it back at him. It splatters against the door, burning a small depression into it.
“Don’t forget what I told you. Don’t—” Minotaur begins to say, but he can’t finish. We’ve crossed over the threshold and into the building. His signal is blocked.
The walls of the rotunda are the same black stone as the outside of the building, but the floor and ceiling are white. It’s brighter in here and I have to squint my eyes—they’ve become so accustomed to the twilight. The alabaster floor shines like milk. My eyes follow the walls up to the high domed ceiling—a white circle framed by the black walls. I want to stop and examine the place, but the Keres rush across the rotunda and into a narrow hallway with black marble floors and white plaster walls. We walk down the clean white hallway until it comes to a dead end where a stainless-steel table is manned by three armed guards. The guard accompanying us steps forward to address them.
“We have orders to take the accused to checkpoint seven,” he says.
It takes me a moment to realize he is talking about me. The accused, I think. What does he mean by that?
“Stand by for clearance,” one of the guards behind the table says. He types something into his handheld device and peers at its tiny screen. Then he addresses the Ker who is holding me. “I need to scan her to confirm,” he says. Then he looks at me. “Give me your hand,” he says.
I try to oblige, but I’m not able to move. Then I feel the Ker open. It’s as though she’s unzipping part of my straitjacket and pushing my hand out. The guard grabs it, turns it over, and scans my palm. As soon as he lets go, the Ker pulls my hand back in and closes up around me.
“It’s a positive match,” the guard says. “You can proceed.”
Proceed where? I think, but the entourage is moving forward. The wall in front of us has somehow disappeared, revealing a longer hallway with another stainless-steel table at the end of it. When we reach the second checkpoint, we replay the scene at the first. The guard scans my hand and another wall opens to let us through.
I’m not a routine prisoner. I can tell by the way the checkpoint guards react when our spokesperson tells them we are going to the seventh checkpoint. Their eyes get wide, or they look away to hide their emotions.
At the seventh checkpoint there’s only one guard and no steel table. The Ker approaches him, pulling my hand out and presenting it to him for scanning.
“The scan key won’t work for this door,” the guard says. “She has to open it herself.”
The Keres drift about for a few moments, confused about what to do.
“Find the door and place her hand directly on it,” he instructs.
The Keres inspect the walls, putting their smoky faces up against them to look as closely as they can. The walls are perfectly flat and white. I don’t see how they can find the right spot, but just as I think that, one of them makes a motion to indicate to the others that she’s found it. The Ker holding me glides over, forces my arm out, and presses my hand flat against the wall in the place the other Ker indicates. The wall is cool, but it heats up quickly when I touch it. The warmth spreads through my hand, travels up my arm, and goes all the way to my chest, where it connects with my heart to verify that I am alive and sends that message back out through my hand, which is now glowing red, like a siren light. A subtle vibration passes through my fingers and out the ends. The light then extends from my fingertips, a thin red laser light that cuts into the wall, moving up, across, and down to carve a door. When the door is finished, the light disappears, the wall cools, and the door swings open. Before I know what’s happening, the Ker ejects me from her body, shooting me into the tiny room like a cannonball. I hit the far wall, and the door slams shut. Its outlines disappear, and I’m sealed inside my cell.
I stand up and rub my bruised shoulder. The room is about ten feet square and twenty feet high. A thin light filters in through a single square window near the ceiling. The place is like a jail cell made of black glass. A bed sticks out from the wall like a shelf, and there’s a black toilet in the corner. There is no way out of here. I sit down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. My fatigue is so intense that I can’t keep my eyes open. I lie down and immediately fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. I sleep soundly until a slamming door awakens me.
A circular peephole has appeared in the wall. On the floor is an onyx tray with a plate of fruit.
I run over and peer through the peephole. On the other side, an eye looks back at me.
“Hello!” I yell through the wall. “Who are you?”
The eye blinks nervously, but there is no response.
“Don’t be frightened,” I say. “Did you give me the fruit?” I wait for an answer, but the eye just stares and blinks. Whoever it is, is not going to talk to me.
I pick up the tray and take it over to my bed. Three round fruits have been sliced in half. In the half light, the fruit glows with life and color. The insides are blood red and filled with seeds the size and shape of pearls. They glisten with ruby red juice. I pick one up. It’s soft and ripe. The aroma of citrus and honey fills the room and my mouth waters. I remember Minotaur’s warning, but the smell and appearance of the fruit has provoked a craving that I can’t subdue. When I put a seed on my tongue, the desire intensifies. The inside of my mouth shivers with pleasure as the jelly-sweet casing melts on my tongue, leaving a tart, woody core. When I crunch it between my teeth an intense sweet-sourness spreads down into my jaw, up the sides of my face, to the top of my head, where the substance from the seeds soaks into my brain. I quickly eat everything on the plate except for three seeds, which I hope to cultivate when I get back aboveground. It takes all my willpower to keep from eating them. I stash them in my pocket and their juices make a small red stain at the seam.
Saving the seeds is the last coherent thing I do; the fruit is affecting my mind. I can observe my own thoughts, and I have the creepiest feeling that some of the thoughts aren’t mine. My whole body tingles with the same sensation I felt on my tongue, and my limbs feel heavy and strange, as if they belong to someone else’s body. I stare at my arm and tell it to move, but it doesn’t.
My dark cell is changing. The floors become a grassy lawn. The walls disappear and the ceiling becomes a bright blue sky. I am aboveground once again. The warmth of the sun is on my face, and when I open my mouth to take a deep breath, the golden twig leaps out and begins boring a hole in the dirt.
I lean over to retrieve it, afraid of losing it, but it’s spinning like a drill so I can’t touch it. In a moment, it has burrowed through the topsoil. As the ground begins to fall away, I see that the earth’s crust is as thin as an eggshell; the twig dances along the edge of the break, widening the hole. I peer down and see the underworld City rotating in the darkness like a glistening iron ball at the bottom of a well. The sphere is open on top and the inhabitants are staring up at me. The golden twig is no longer spinning. It teeters at the edge of the hole, and I grab it just as it begins to fall in.
The twig becomes part of my hand the way it had become part of my tooth. My fingers transform into twigs. As I pull on the golden twig, trying to separate it from my stiffening hand, the ground crumbles under me and my legs fall into the hole. But only my legs fall—that’s the strange part. I’m hovering above the City. Everything from my waist up is aboveground, and the rest of me is below. My hands and arms continue their transformation, and now my legs are changing, too. They merge and stretch downward, like a taproot. As soon as I touch the City, a network of roots blooms outward, filling the sphere and then spreading further. Souls are drawn up through the capillaries of the roots as my aboveground parts fi
nish their transformation. My torso has grown and hardened into a trunk, and my arms and head are the branches. I can feel the souls flowing through me like water, pulled up from below and aspirating out through my leaves. My thirst is unquenchable. I drink up every soul in hell. Thirsty still, I drink from the foul river Tartarus. It turns my leaves black, but still I can’t get enough. With each soul, I grow a little, until I’m huge. My roots spread across Asphodel and dip into the river underneath the White Oak. I extend myself south, until my roots reach a vast red desert, but the moment the roots touch the red sand, the spell is broken and I begin to shrink, expelling the souls and recovering my human form, falling through the hole and landing, with a painful thud, on the floor of my empty cell.
On Trial for My Life
I lie on the floor for a moment, trying to understand what just happened. My belly is swollen and distended, and I feel as if I’ve been stretched and pummeled. Every part of my body aches. The hallucination is still vivid, and I try to figure out what it meant. It reminds me of a dream I had when I was a little girl—I was swallowed whole by the White Oak, and my family members were caught in its branches like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I shiver slightly as I wait for my breathing to return to normal. The underworld feels utterly strange and, at the same time, familiar.
The dark walls of my cell begin to lighten. They slowly change from black to gray to clear glass. The effect is like smoke clearing from a room. I stand up slowly and look around. My glass cage is sitting in the middle of a large room with high, coffered ceilings decorated with gargoyles and cherubs. The marble floors are paved with diamond-shaped black and white tiles. The smooth plaster walls are adorned with marble pilasters.
I’m in a courtroom, where a trial is about to be conducted. Behind me is a gallery for the spectators, with rows of seats separated from the front of the room by a marble bar. A large wooden table and a podium stand in front of my cell. On the left side of the courtroom, two creatures with the bodies of humans but the heads of squirrels are working at a small desk. They thumb frantically through papers in preparation for the trial. One of them has a large rubber stamp, which she pounds on the lower right corner of every form. The other is feeding a thin sheet of paper into a device that reminds me of an old typewriter. They turn to look at me, frowning and shaking their furry heads in disapproval.
At the front of the room the judges’ bench stands about seven feet high and spans the width of the room. It curves slightly, like a great crescent moon, clear and black. It reminds me of a large computer monitor or a panoramic movie screen. Seven tall chairs are spaced along the bench. In front of each a different image glows. They belong to each jurisdiction, and it’s hard to tell if they are corporate logos or government seals. The names of the regions appear above the icons, and woven into the images are mottoes.
Behind me, a door creaks open and I hear the click, click, click of heels on tile as someone approaches. I turn to look, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. He or she stops in front of me and glances at me without looking directly into my eyes. His or her face has the quality of water, shifting and changing form as though constantly fitting itself to a new container. I watch as the face blurs and then comes into focus, the features taking an angular, masculine shape. His hair is short, dark, and styled with thick ringlets. He is fine-boned, with pale skin and precise hands. “I am the attorney assigned to your case,” he says. Then his face softens and becomes female. “I am the attorney assigned to your case,” she says, looking directly into my eyes. “I advise you to remain silent during the proceedings.” I look at her watery skin and have the eerie feeling that she knows me, but how could she? I want to ask her, but other questions need answering first.
“Am I on trial?” I ask.
She laughs. “What do you think?” she says. “They don’t bring prisoners to court just to watch.” She is mocking me, but I try not to let that provoke me. Something in her sarcastic smile reminds me of someone. I just can’t figure out whom.
She walks over to the table, sits down, and takes two manila folders out of her briefcase, setting both on the table, one in front of her seat, and the other in front of the empty seat next to her. Her perfectly manicured fingers hold an engraved silver pen that she writes with briskly and precisely.
“What’s going on?” I say. “If you’re my lawyer, why aren’t you talking to me?”
She doesn’t answer but turns to look at me briefly, still smiling slyly, as she stands up to switch chairs. I know that smile, but I can’t place it.
As she takes the opposing counsel’s seat, she transforms into a man. He opens his folder and makes some notes. When he’s finished, he turns to look at me, but the sly smile is gone. His gaze is openly hostile, so much so that I back away and turn around to face the opposite side of the courtroom. I’m wishing Minotaur were here to explain what’s going on.
The large doors at the back of the courtroom swing open, and a tall man dressed in a police officer’s uniform enters and stands by the door as the spectators file in. Some greet him with “Hello, Marshal” as they take their seats. They act as though they come here all the time. I wonder if these ghosts are trapped in the courtroom theater.
They push and shove, moving to the front of the courtroom, where they lean over the bar to gawk at me. I turn away and stare at the back of my lawyer’s head. To get my attention, one of the ghosts reaches over and knocks on the glass. Reflexively, I turn to look, and frown when I see them crowded together making faces at me as if I’m an infant in an incubator. They laugh when they see that they’ve upset me. The more I react, the more excited they become. Every movement I make provokes a chorus of jeers. I feel like an animal in a zoo. I go to the other side of my cage and face the front of the courtroom, pressing against the glass and blinking back hot tears that are stinging my eyes, threatening to roll down my cheeks. I hate being teased.
The marshal walks to the front of the courtroom, stands at the right of the bench, and calls the court to order. “All rise and give your attention to the Honorable Justices of the Supreme Court,” he says. A hush falls over the spectators as they stand.
The first justice enters. He’s semitransparent, and his skin is ghostly white with a bluish cast. As he takes his seat at the far end of the bench, he smiles at me in an almost kindly way. I relax a bit. Maybe this trial won’t be so bad after all. The justice’s long white beard makes him look wise. He is exactly what I would expect a judge to look like except for his transparency, which I can’t make sense of. Power equals substance down here, and who could be more powerful than a Supreme Court justice? The crest on the bench in front of him glows when he takes his seat. REGION ONE, it reads. The logo is a black-and-white image of one of Asphodel’s parking spaces with a light gray labyrinth rendered inside it. A tiny blue dot navigates the maze, running the same course over and over. Under the image is the motto, WORK IS ITS OWN REWARD.
The judge smiles and nods. I turn to look at the spectators and notice they are smiling back in an unkind way, whispering to each other and covering their faces to laugh. One of them pantomimes the things the judge does before he does them—he adjusts his chair, lines up his pencils, coughs twice, and preens his beard. They act as if he’s an elderly relative whose habits they’ve tired of.
The second justice enters in visible distress. Something about her reminds me of the flat shades that filled the streets as I fled the Keres. She carries a stack of papers under her arm and mumbles to herself about the work she has to do. On her right wrist is an expensive-looking watch that’s also a shackle—a gold chain dangles from it. A small animal with a long tail clings to her back. I can see bloodstains through her robes where the creature’s claws have pierced the fabric and dug into her flesh. Oddly, she is deferential to it, leaning forward when she sits so as not to crush it. On the bench in front of her chair REGION TWO lights up. The crest depicts a house, a car, a credit card, an airplane, a college diploma, a voting booth, and a bank, all of
which are joined by an interwoven gold chain; the motto reads, ENSLAVE THYSELF.
The doorway widens to accommodate the next justice, an enormous man. He waddles into the courtroom, his voluminous robes flapping open. Underneath he wears nothing. His private parts are hidden by rolls of flesh that flap against his thighs and his dimpled knees. His bald head is dewy with perspiration. Tiny rivulets of sweat run down the sides of his face and slide into the deep folds of flesh under his chin. His robes are damp with sweat. With a grunt, he takes his seat. REGION THREE is displayed above his insignia, an image of a wide-open mouth, black inside and rimmed by fat pink lips. A montage of prepackaged junk-food advertisements plays against the backdrop of the mouth. The motto NEVER ENOUGH is centered under the lower lip in bold lettering.
A handsome judge with a wolf’s head and a man’s body enters the courtroom. He is wearing an expensive suit under his robes, and when he smiles, I can see that his sharp wolf’s teeth are made of gold. He is talking on his mobile phone, and in his eyes is a hunger, a predatory drive. When he sits down, he immediately bends to his keyboard and types. REGION FOUR is displayed on his section of the bench. In place of a logo, a window reveals what he’s working on—the spreadsheets he is constructing, and the ever-changing market data, world news, political speeches, and unemployment numbers that he is scanning. I can see his balance sheet growing and changing as he reacts to the markets and chases the opportunities. At the lower right-hand corner of the window is his motto, GREED IS GOOD.
The next justice walks slowly into the courtroom, finding his way with a cane that is as sharp as a sword at the end. His eye sockets are empty, his eyelids sunk grotesquely into them. He pokes the air in front of him, heedless of the damage he might do to anyone standing in the way. All the while he mutters prayers in an angry voice. He finds his chair by thrusting his rapier through the back of it. He curses as he pulls it out and takes his seat. Rigid and hostile, he calls out the sins of those in the courtroom. REGION FIVE is spelled out on the bench. On his crest, I recognize symbols from lots of different religions, including my own. The motto I PUNISH IN GOD’S STEAD appears beneath it.