The Secret City

by Carol Emshwiller

So they call those boat-like porches “swings.” That’s what they feel like, too.

  “I have a prefer.”

  So we’re raised up again, and, yes, it is as if we’re hanging by something in the sky, but you can’t see what. And then we’re arcing down. He sees me looking up, and says, “It’s just a….” and then a strange combination of words. “Dust hook,” or something of the sort.

  Up in a tower again. (But that’s all there are.) It’s on the thirty-something floor (if I remember my numbers). “Twenty thirteen,” I think he said. When Mollish was teaching me my numbers—trying to, that is—she said the natives do that some places too. She said, “You’d think a civilized country, like France and like us, would have changed it a long time ago.”

  An old man opens the door of the elevator to let us in. I recognize that it’s an office. It’s full of spools of wires as we would have tapes. Up to the ceiling and on three sides, nothing but these spools and their labels. Unlike the room I was in, there’s only one wall that’s a window and not even all of that one.

  Though he’s thin, the man looks soft and weak as they all do. He has the most ridiculous moustache I ever saw or ever thought could be. It curls back and up into his hair. But then I haven’t seen many on any world.

  He’s dressed more simply than anyone I’ve seen so far except his pants have little pockets just the right size for spools all down the sides and make him look bowlegged. He has a sort of clown hat flopping over one ear, but when he sees me staring at it—I must look shocked—he takes it off. He’s bald, with the same little fringe of hair you see on men, both of our kind and on the natives back there.

  The young man leaves with an odd gesture that looks as if he’s tossing something behind him.

  The old man has a nice smile. He says both, “Buenos dias,” and, “Good morning.” Those were the two native languages that our parents learned, though just a little bit of them before they left for their sightseeing trip. They didn’t think they’d need much. Mostly they depended on the little phrase books they always carried.

  When I say, “Hello,” he goes on in English. He says, “I can’t really talk those languages all that goodish. Neither one. Let me know if you don’t understand. I sorry… am. Am I?” Then he laughs. Kind of a giggle.

  Right away I feel almost as if I’m back with Lorpas, and I laugh, too, and then I cry again, but just a little. I don’t know why I seem to cry every time I laugh.

  He notices and hands me a soft paper. They had those back there, too, but I never had one before.

  We sit side by side on a too-soft couch next to a low table facing the one clear wall. He takes out a reedy thing, sucks at it, one long suck, and puts it back in his pocket. Then, in our own language, he says, “This right here is Olowpas.”

  I answer in our language, too, though I know my accent isn’t right. “Does that mean the brightest bird?”

  “How nice of you to remember.”

  “I’m Allush.”

  “The little blue-moon flower. And, so far I mean, how are you?”

  “Fine.”

  I guess I’m fine.

  “Excellent!”

  You’d think that was the best news he’s had all day.

  Then he goes back to English, as if what he wants to say is too important to be misunderstood.

  “Here’s a problem. When you were rescued, two young men were left back by mistake. Those men know nothing of that world and have no homing devices nor are they near any devices so we can’t find them. Would you be willing to go back and try? Find? Our last and only noticing of them was when we rescued you. “

  I start to feel even more trembly than I already do. I start thinking: Lorpas! I wouldn’t have to stay back there. Maybe I can get Lorpas to come home with me.

  “If we put you back exactly where you were, do you think you could find out and pass them a returning device? Their leader, I say, I say, oh I say, returned dead.”

  The way he stutters, he’s obviously upset about the dead man.

  He puts his hand on my arm just like Lorpas often did. I don’t know if he’s being so sweet as a ploy to get me to agree or if he really is this nice.

  Tears start again. He says, “Dear child.” Then says it in Spanish, too. “Querida niña. ¿Mi iha? ¿Miha? How say it? So, so sorry. This must be so strange and so new to you.”

  Though all my life I thought I wanted to come back here, and I am excited to be here—in a way that is—now, suddenly, I feel a great relief. Yes, back! To Lorpas and Mollish.

  “We can put you so very much exactly where you were when we rescued you.”

  “That was on a narrow scary ledge. Can you get me there in a way I won’t fall over the edge?”

  “We can be exact.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Within a few … you call them feet I believe.” Then he gestures. “This close.”

  It sounds chancy. And then clothes. It’ll be windy and cold up there. Besides, I can hardly walk in these shoes.

  “I’ll need shoes. I’ll need my old deerskin clothes. And can I get rid of this stuff on my hair before I go?”

  I notice he isn’t wearing any on his hair and his is a natural white.

  “As to hair, not yet. As to clothes, I’m afraid your clothes were destroyed, they were too much contaminated, but we’ll get you fitted-out properly.”

  I don’t know what he means by properly.

  “I don’t want to come dressed for Hawaii or as any kind of tourist.”

  “No need.”

  He gets up and brings us both cups with that reddish drink.

  “What is this?”

  “Aqua. Water. I thought to keep it simple for you at the start.”

  I don’t say anything about how awful the food tasted and how this so-called water tastes funny, too. I like him. I don’t want to complain. We sit and sip. We look out towards the one piece of window that’s not covered with shelves of spools.

  He says, “I just, I just, I just,” and waves his hands—that same brushing at flies gesture I saw the people make when I first arrived. “We’ve been bringing all our people, but they have problems. Of course by now they’re all second generation. They have no idea what it’s like here. I’m afraid they have a … what do you call it? … a pink view of our world and the reality is disappointing. We’re going to keep them a while longer—let them get used to us, but you…. You were there when we lost those two. If you would help get them back? So then you can choose to stay or as you wish.”

  He gets a bowl and in it there’s what looks like fruit.

  “Maybe these will be more tasty than….” and another word I don’t know. Does he know I couldn’t eat that goo they gave me?

  I take a tiny tentative bite. It’s like an uncooked quince, hard but not unpleasant. I gnaw at it while he talks and takes another sip from that straw thing.

  “Also there’s a family. Youpas Youpas and Ush Youpas. The branches of them are anxious for news of all their owns. If there were any children they want them returned. You might look into it. Is that possible on that world? Are there lists and regulations? Those children are….” Another word I don’t know.”… and would be…. “ He searches for a word. “… special and splendid also if they could be of return. They would have a tower.”

  “I know someone named Youpas.”

  I find myself blushing because of my dislike for him. Hate actually, and I worry that it will show. I think right away of our murdered white mule. I worry that this man will think we were lovers because I’m so embarrassed, and that makes me blush even more. If I’m going to go back to stay, I’d like nothing better than to have Youpas come to this world.

  Used to be, I could shake my hair over my face when I was embarrassed. I shake my head in my old way, but nothing happens to this stiff short hairdo. I try to hide behind my fruit which, of course, is impossible. I take a big bite and concentrate on chewing.

  “Good,” he says. And says, “And
good again. It would be an important welcome to have him back. Perhaps you’d like to stay and rest a day or two and see what’s here before you go.”

  “I think I can rest better back home.” There, I said it. I called that place home.

  “Come with me and see the sights. Now that we have you, brave person, we want you to know where you come from and perhaps like us enough to want to come back. There’s special. Special music and dancing. Special food. Only for my kind.”

  I like him more and more but I’m worried about myself on this world. I ask him, “What kind? What am I?”

  “It doesn’t matter, you’ll be with me.”

  “What about when I’m not with you?”

  “But you are and will be.”

  “Are kinds so important?”

  Again he waves his hands, brushing flies, and says, “I don’t. I just don’t. I just.”

  LORPAS

  I PASSED THROUGH THIS SAME LITTLE TOWN ON MY way north. Even back then I was thinking of heading west to lose myself in the wilds. Maybe look for the Secret City even though I thought it was a myth. We all wanted a retreat just for us. A place where we’d never have to pretend we were them, even though those of us born here are more them than us. I thought the city was just wishful thinking, but after Ruth and that burning, I wanted to get off alone—anywhere, away from everybody. Now I want to get away in the other direction … lose myself among the natives, try to forget Allush and the claustrophobic warrens of the Secret City and its useless grand entrances.

  But now, and most important, I need to avoid Youpas. In these little towns he’d have no trouble asking if anyone had seen his brother—two brothers now—and surely somebody would have remembered me and Jack. We sat in the park long enough for half the town to see us.

  The valley is a flat desert with mountains on both sides. Ruth told me it was four hundred miles of valley, never wider than ten miles across. Only two ways out, north and south, above or below the mountain ranges. This town is in the middle.

  We’re pretty well dressed now, especially Jack, and we have our backpacks so we look like hikers just coming off the mountains. The natives always pick up hitchhikers that look like mountain climbers. I hope Jack behaves himself.

  WE’RE PICKED UP BY A PICKUP TRUCK PULLING A big trailer full of horses.

  There’s a teenage girl and a man in the cab. He has one of those handlebar mustaches that’s in style in the west—black, streaked with gray. He has to lean across the girl to talk to us.

  “You’ll have to ride in the truck bed and we’re only going as far as Big Pinetree. Is that OK?”

  While I’m busy thinking: Pinetree is only a half hour down, and about as big as one gas station, it’s Jack says, “OK, OK. Let’s go.”

  He’s getting too comfortable. And the way he stares at the girl…. He’s going to get himself in trouble.

  She is a beautiful example of their kind. Blond—almost white hair, smooth, oval face, blue eyes, sharp features—one of those pixie faces. She ducks her head, shy, and gives Jack a little pixie smile. She’s about as opposite of our women as a native girl could get. Even more opposite because she’s still a child. You can just see the beginnings of breasts under her T-shirt. I can understand why Jack stares.

  Then he turns and points at the horses and says, “What’s that?” Of course it comes out, “Whash shat?”

  The whole upper section of the trailer is windows so you can get a good view. There are five horses in it along with some bales of hay. The horses look out at us. One whinnies. Jack jumps back.

  The man sticks his head farther across the girl to get a better look at Jack. Jack stares back at him. No doubt it’s that handlebar mustache or maybe the cowboy hat. Jack’s expression is bland. He does look feebleminded.

  I say, “It’s OK, he’s harmless.” (I hope he is.) “My brother’s retarded.”

  The man frowns, but if we’re in the back of the truck it shouldn’t bother him too much. He says, “Well… I guess,” and we hop in.

  Jack is beginning to enjoy himself. I felt safer when he was terrified.

  I say, “For heaven’s sake it’s horses. Horses! And keep your mouth shut.” I put my hand over my mouth. “No talking. Ayy yaa talking.” Then I put my hand over his mouth. I make the motion of my uppercut. “No!”

  “OK, OK.”

  “And for heaven’s sake don’t keep saying OK twice all the time. What am I going to do with you?”

  He doesn’t look scared at all, he looks happy to be riding in the back of a truck. When he got in he banged on the metal side hard, three times as if to test what it’s made of. As we drive, he sits with his head out the side, looking forward like a dog enjoying the wind. I wonder what I can do to terrify him again, or at least scare him enough to shut him up. Maybe a horse could do it. Maybe a nice electric shock. But I don’t know enough about the homeworld to know what might work. Could be something silly and little, a spider or a mouse. I wouldn’t wish a snakebite on him, but some kind of bite that hurts a lot but doesn’t kill would be perfect.

  But this man might have some work for me so I could make a little money without stealing for a change. There’ll be these bales of hay to help with, maybe mucking out stalls…. I’ve worked with horses. I can curry them, hose ‘em down, pick their hooves…. When they let us off at Big Pinetree I’ll ask.

  The man will think it odd that a couple of hikers in pretty good outfits (at least Jack is well dressed) are looking for odd jobs. Me…. I look pretty much like somebody who’d be looking for work.

  I have about as many identity documents as a wetback. I’ve driven trucks, but never legally.

  I wonder if Jack has been trained not to use the freeze. I wonder if, back on the homeworld, they’d use it at the slightest excuse. Would it be an automatic reflex whenever in danger? Except he didn’t use it on me when he thought I was drowning him.

  Before we get to Big Pinetree I make Jack turn away from the wind and look at me. I make that uppercut gesture again. I gesture talking. I gesture stay behind me. I gesture be quiet. I don’t know if any of it gets through.

  When the man stops at the edge of town to drop us off, I tell Jack, “Stay,” with the same gesture as for a dog that I used before. I get out to talk to the man about getting work. I tell him I know how to work with horses. I tell him my brother will be pretty much useless but he won’t hurt anybody.

  Actually, I can’t be sure of that. My parents never thought the natives were worth much consideration, and then look what they did to Ruth. Jack might even be one of them that burned us. I hope I can keep an eye on him.

  The man does have work. Turns out there’s a half-dozen bales of hay in the back of the trailer behind the horses. I jump back in with Jack and the man drives out to the far side of town, towards the mountains. Big barn, little house. Of course there’s a dog and she goes crazy. Especially with Jack. Jack backs up until he’s against the side of the pickup.

  The man and the girl keep calling, “Elizabeth Alice, Elizabeth Alice.” The man says his daughter named her and insists she be called the whole thing.

  Finally the girl grabs the dog, takes her up and shuts her in the house.

  I say, “That always happens with my brother. He’s been away in a home. He must smell funny. Or it could be they can smell that he’s feebleminded.”

  Then I and the girl lead the horses out to pasture while the man moves the tractor to make a place for the bales. Jack watches. Thank goodness the horses do scare him. He sees how a couple throw their heads and paw the ground if they’re not the first to be led out. He sees how we have a hard time holding a couple of them till we get them through the gate. Three other horses have come to meet them. They all whinny to each other and then trot off, two by two.

  But Jack is mostly watching the girl. Easy to see he’s fallen in love at first sight. Or fallen into fascination. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Is she ugly to him or beautiful? Looks like beautiful—worse luck.


  Her father… odd that he’s so dark and she’s so fair… keeps a good watch on Jack.

  The man and I move the bales over near the barn and cover them with a tarp. Jack tries to help, but he can’t even lift one. He sits on a pile of three tires—that’s their mounting block—and watches, not looking ashamed or apologetic. Is that normal for my people? But good: He seems more and more feebleminded.

  The man gives me a look.

  I shake my head. “I know, he’s in bad shape. I was hoping our hike would help. At least he’s better than he was a few days ago. I think he’s lost ten pounds out in the woods.”

  (And that, not only from the hiking, but from hardly daring to eat anything.)

  The girl does everything except lift bales. I’ll bet she’s hardly fourteen. She unhitches the trailer and drives the truck up to the house. Then comes back to put the ramp up and close the horse trailer.

  Jack stares at her the whole time.

  I say, “Sorry. I can’t stop him staring. He was in an institution for years until I took him out. Everything is new to him.” (That’s one true thing at least.)

  After we finish, we sit on a couple of bales and talk and the man smokes a cigar. We watch the color fade on the eastern mountains.

  Jack can’t get over the smoking. He keeps looking at me for some kind of answer. I say, “It’s OK,” and he says, “Wow,” as loud as I did back in the mountains when I saw a good view.

  Jack looks like he wants to try it. The man asks me if he should give him one. I say, “He’ll set the bales on fire or worse.”

  The girl is Emily and the man is Corwin. He and his daughter do all the work, mostly alone except for neighbors’ help now and then. But Emily is in junior high school and doesn’t have much time these days.

  I make up a bunch of half-truths about Jack. How we haven’t had any time together until now. How I took him out of the home because I thought he’d do better having adventures with me. And he is doing better. A lot. He’s talking some which he didn’t do at all before. How he’s never hurt anybody. What I hope for him: more talking, more physical work, adventures that will open the world to him. How I want him to be able to make money on his own. How I think dogs know … can smell his disabilities like Elizabeth Alice did.