The Forgotten World

by R Gene Curtis

  “Why?”

  “Valley people hate mountain people. At least Wynn does. When I was pregnant, they found Anu and killed him. I hoped they wouldn’t harm the baby, but just days before Jarra was born, the man in magenta arrived in town.

  “I tried to get away, but then I went into labor. As soon as Jarra was born, I heard a commotion at the front door. I was still in pain from the delivery, but I had to act, or I would lose Jarra. I grabbed him from the midwife’s hands and ran. Without traveling papers, I couldn’t go to anywhere else in the valley. My only hope was to hide in the forest.”

  “How do you know he came for the baby?”

  “There was no other reason for him to be there. And he chased me. Since I know the forest so well, I thought I could find a place to hide. But the man in magenta was too quick for me.”

  “You’d just had a baby!” The look in Mara’s eyes tells me her story is not exaggerated. I’m not sure who the man in magenta is, but he doesn’t sound like someone I want to meet.

  “I was close to the mountain border without anywhere else to go. That was when I remembered an old tale Anu found shortly before he was killed. It said that someone from outside the mountains could cross the barrier if they stood on someone from the mountains. If they were not forced, that is. We had planned to try it after the baby was born, back before Anu was killed.

  “I ran the last few steps to the border and put Jarra on the ground. I stepped on his screaming little body, and the barrier to the mountain disappeared. I’d been at the border hundreds of times, and the barrier kept me out every time. That night, standing on Jarra, it let me and Jarra in, just as the tale from Anu said it might. The man in magenta was stuck outside. He yelled and slammed his ax on the invisible wall. I left him there and wandered to the village. That’s where you found me.”

  And saved her life. Again.

  “I wish I knew how to help you,” Mara says quietly.

  “You need to take care of yourself,” I say. “But we can help each other. I’m not sure if the mountain is a safer place than the valley.”

  “I think it is,” Mara says. “I’ve never seen people worked up about a beaten woman before. Did you see how many people gathered? And how they were all angry at Karu?”

  “It wasn’t Karu who did it.”

  “Well, in the valley it wouldn’t matter who did it.”

  I shudder. “Is it true that Wynn has been alive for hundreds of years?”

  Mara shrugs. “I think so.”

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “No. I’ve just seen the Man of Wynn, the one who wears magenta. He comes to our town to talk to the town authority, who is my father.”

  “What is a Man of Wynn?”

  “The most powerful men in the world. Well, except for Wynn. My dad is powerful when the Man of Wynn is away, but he has to do things the man in magenta would like.”

  “What is the man in magenta’s name?”

  “We don’t call the Men of Wynn by their names—only by their color.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever known,” Mara says. “I didn’t know that things could be different.”

  That is a pleasant thought—things being different. I think back to my last Thanksgiving with Mom. We stayed at home that year. Dessert was lemon meringue pie. Everything was perfect: the sweet aromas, Mom’s laughter, the security of my home.

  I hadn’t known things could be different.

  But they are. When I came through the portal, I felt like I belonged here. Do I still feel that way? Cadah is dead, and Mara’s story doesn’t give me a lot of hope for Karl.

  Mara and I sit in silence, holding hands. Taking solace in each other’s company. It’s another few hours before the men wake up. Ler and Tran strap the new fuma skin to their shoulders and Ziru puts me on it. It makes a hammock, and I’m going to lie in it all the way to Keeper.

  I feel every bump and twist as a stab of pain in my leg as the cave disappears. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. 100 miles to Keeper.

  28 Recovery

  Karl

  I groan in pain as the cart hits yet another bump in the road. I’ve whacked my head so many times, and still each new bump manages to hurt. It won’t be long before I sustain a brain injury and lose my ability to think.

  Not that it matters. No one cares how well your brain works when you’re dead. You spend an entire lifetime storing memories and facts and experiences inside that brain. Then, in a matter of seconds all of it is gone. You can’t upload the memories to another system, you can’t share them with anyone else. All that work. All that memory. Gone.

  That is about to be me. Eaten by the strange bacteria who live in this strange place. My body will puff up as my cells are ingested, and then I’ll be thin again. Skin and bones. And then, bones.

  It’s probably just as well. My brain hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I thought I was going to become a famous scientist. I even had a paper with Tara that could have been good, if it hadn’t all be a fraud. Instead, it led me here. Eight years of post-secondary education and I’m naked, nailed into a box inside a horse-drawn cart that’s bumping down a road.

  My body aches and I’m so hungry that I’ve stopped craving food. My lips are cracked and my mouth is dry. It’s hot in the evenings, cool during the day, and I’m so delirious I don’t know how many days I’ve been here.

  The cart hits another rock, and my head bounces against the hard wood. Again.

  Pain. More pain. It has to end soon. The human body can only take so much before it stops fighting.

  It’s strange, the little things that affect our lives. Evolution makes sense when you think of it as a whole. The strongest and smartest survive. The weak are preyed upon. But that big picture isn’t important for the individuals.

  An aleatory meeting with a soccer girl led me to a world with a recondite culture and language. Despite all my work, I left behind nothing but a sullied reputation due to another chance meeting—with a girl from England. Then I was chased by a snow leopard in the middle of the summer to be captured by a bunch of crazy men.

  Random. Parsimony doesn’t explain it. I didn’t achieve scientific greatness. I didn’t live up to Mom’s expectations.

  No, while life was pushing me around, I spent my life pushing people away. I hated Andrea for years. Did she betray me, or did I abandon her in her moment of need? What would have happened if I had run after her?

  I didn’t call Pearl back. Was she too pushy, or did I just keep her distant?

  I even shoved Tara out of my life at the first chance.

  Dad always told me that a life full of people is a life worth living.

  Now, dying in a cart in the middle of nowhere, I decide he was right. More than anything, I want to let Pearl know where I am. I want to visit Dad and tell him I’m sorry.

  I try to shift my body, but it doesn’t move. It hasn’t moved in days. My left leg is probably broken. I probably have a few cracked ribs.

  My eyes close. I try to stop thinking. Death. Will it take away the pain?

  The cart hits another rock and my head bounces up. Everything goes black.

  ✽✽✽

  I wake up with a stab of pain. My body is covered in sweat. The cart is stopped. I groan. Consciousness brings pain. I close my eyes and wish I was still unconscious.

  People start banging on the box, which doesn’t help me feel any better.

  Light streams into the box, blinding me. In my mind, I hear a flight attendant announcing, “You have reached your final destination.” Flying. I flew in an airplane. I soared high above oceans, traveled across continents. It was fun to fly. Lots of life was good.

  The board cracks as they rip the box open.

  Two men yank me out of the cart by my shoulders. I scream as my body straightens for the first time in days. Then men try to get me to stand, but I can’t put any pressure on my legs and so they drag me across a bridge. Toward a castle.

  I’m pre
tty sure my shoulder is dislocated.

  A castle? I can barely get my eyes open.

  I squint. It’s a castle, like you might see in Europe. Behind it, I see mountains in the distance, barely visible against the horizon.

  The men slow as they approach a large iron gate. Two short men step out and open the doors, bowing slightly as the men drag me past them. We go up a short staircase and into a large room with a high ceiling and open windows.

  The men loosen their grip, and I drop onto the floor.

  This is it. My last moment. I think of Mom, and tears trickle down my face. Will I be with her today?

  I don’t move. Every breath hurts, slow and raspy. It feels good to breathe, despite the pain. Living. It’s a miracle to be alive. I take another breath.

  Footsteps echo in the room. Approach. Stop. Silence.

  Breathe in and out.

  Yelling.

  I force myself to look up, and the pain from the movement nearly makes me pass out. A man with long, greasy hair is standing next to me. He wears a long black robe with a black sash tied around the middle, which sways as he yells at a man across the room, also in a black robe with a yellow sash.

  I’ve seen the man with the yellow sash before—he was the primary interrogator in the mountains after my capture.

  The yells rebound around the room as another man enters. This man also wears black. He has an orange sash. He crosses the room, stops in front of the man with the black sash, and bows. His right knee touches the ground; his head touches his left knee.

  The man in orange has glowing blue eyes. Is that how my eyes look in this strange place? I don’t like it. I lower my head, overcome by pain.

  Hands grip my shoulders and push me into a sitting position. I cry out, but the man in black speaks to me quietly, urgently, ignoring my cries. I stare back into his dark eyes. If only there was a way to turn off a few pain neurons.

  The man shakes me, speaking rapidly. “I don’t know what you’re saying, you stupid idiot,” I croak. “Let me lie back down or kill me quickly.”

  My words evoke a smile. I don’t smile back.

  The man in black lowers me gently to the floor. Maybe it’s finally time. I close my eyes and picture Mom standing next to me. I wait. When I was 10, I caught the flu really bad, and Mom spent hours next to my bed talking to me and comforting me while I was sick. Mom is here. She will take care of me.

  My heart beats faster, and I try to swallow my fear. Cold, clammy hands touch my forehead. I don’t move. I won’t fight death. There is no reason to struggle against the inevitable.

  I don’t move a muscle, waiting. Feeling as long as I can feel. Focusing on each breath. There is no sound around me. I breathe in, and out.

  My leg doesn’t hurt as much. Weird. No, my leg doesn’t hurt at all. Maybe the broken bone finally severed the nerve. But no, I feel like I can move it. I do, and it doesn’t hurt. My leg feels whole.

  Impossible.

  I keep my eyes closed and continue breathing. Pain starts to dissipate from the rest of my body. My head clears and my shoulder stops aching.

  The man with the greasy hair sits next to me, his eyes closed as he sits like Siddhartha finding nirvana. The other two men watch, unmoving.

  With each second that passes, I feel strangely stronger. Cuts mend, bruises fade, cracks in my lips seal. I sit up.

  Who is this man? Did he give me some kind of drug? Am I hallucinating?

  I must be despite the fact that my head seems clear. The man’s long, glossy hair hangs over his face, hiding a small nose and dark eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say his facial features look similar to Lydia’s. I must be dreaming. I’m making this all up. Maybe this is what it feels like to be dead.

  I take another deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs. Strong, healthy lungs. Wheezes gone.

  What kind of illusion is this?

  Black eyes suddenly meet mine. The man nods, his face expressionless. He touches his left breast with his right hand. “Wynn,” he says.

  “Karl,” I say, repeating the gesture.

  Wynn smiles and stands to speak to the other two men. They haven’t moved for a long time. “Karu,” he says to them, and they both bow their heads. Wynn starts to speak, his nasal voice loud again, the strange sounds echoing around the large room.

  The walls of the room are made of the same stone as the cool floor. There are no decorations; the only light is provided by a few high windows, which are ten feet off the ground. The ceiling must be at least 25 or 30 feet tall. Wynn’s voice fills all of it.

  He goes to the man with the yellow sash, who has paled considerably. Wynn stops talking as he approaches, and the man with the yellow sash fills the void, speaking rapidly and waving his arms. Wynn reaches down and brushes the stones with his fingers before he gets to the man.

  The man in yellow tries to back away, but he has nowhere to go except into the wall. Wynn reaches out his hand and merely touches him. But the touch is the touch of death. The man screams and drops to the floor. He writhes in pain, and he screams. It can’t be more than a couple minutes, but it feels like forever. Finally, the room goes silent.

  This must be a hallucination. I taste bile and my eyes swim. Is this man me, just meeting the finality of death? Am I outside my body, looking on?

  Wynn unties the sash and pulls the robe from the corpse, leaving it naked in the corner of the room as he walks back to me. The man in orange stands next to me. The breeze blows his robes so they hit my naked body. I must still be alive if I can feel that. I take a step away and I can’t feel the robes anymore. Wynn stops in front of me.

  He speaks softly and the man in orange reaches out his hand and takes the robe from him, turning to me.

  I would rather stand naked in front of these men, rolls of fat and all, than to wear that dead man’s clothes, but I have no choice. The man in orange forces the robe over my shoulders. I shudder as it comes around me, barely fitting my overweight figure. The robe is moist from the dead man’s sweat and smells like urine.

  Wynn puts a thin hand on my shoulder and studies my expression. Then he takes the man in orange’s arm and puts it around my shoulder.

  “Buen,” he says. He points at me, “Karu,” and then at the other man, “Buen.”

  And with that, he walks out of the room.

  I’m alive.

  Moments ago, all my senses screamed, and I was on the brink of death. Now, I’m healed and whole. It’s impossible, but it’s what my brain says is true.

  Buen says nothing as he leads me out of the great room into a dimly-lit stone corridor. Not that there is anything he could say that I would understand.

  Buen has a scar on his clean-shaven face. He walks with a limp. I think he’s older than me, but I don’t think by much. His body is in much better shape than mine. Tanned skin, sculpted muscles. He could be on the front page of a magazine, except for the scar. Nothing Photoshop couldn’t fix.

  My stomach roars, and Buen smiles as the sound echoes down the hall. He says something I don’t understand.

  At the end of the corridor is another large room. This room is similarly tall and barren of decorations; it has a large table in the center of the room. Buen whistles, and a bald man comes out of a back room. This man has a prominent scar on his cheekbone and wears nothing but a blue wrap around his waist. Buen speaks to him and the man leaves.

  Buen walks over to the table and sits down, motioning for me to follow suit.

  Buen looks at me, and I avert my eyes. It’s disconcerting, how his eyes glow. Can I trust him? I don’t understand why I’m alive. I don’t know why the other man died.

  We sit in silence. Eventually five men enter the room. Each has an identical shorn head and blue waste wrap. They each carry one platter of food and set it on the table. They bow and retreat out of the room. Buen gives no indication that he even sees them enter the room.

  This food smells good—not at all like the garbage they expected me to eat in the mountains.
But Buen doesn’t move, and so I don’t either. Is this a test? Will I kill over dead if I eat this sweet-smelling poison?

  Buen sits still until all the men in blue have left the room. Then he smiles and says something as he fills two glasses with reddish juice. He picks up one glass and motions for me to do the same. This is my new role: mimesis.

  “Piunt Wynn,” Buen says, bowing his face reverently toward the drink and the food.

  I repeat the words, but he shakes his head. “Piunt Wynn,” he says again.

  It takes another five tries before he’s satisfied with the awkward words that come out of my mouth.

  We drink. The cool liquid fills my dry mouth. It’s sweet, but also tart, unlike anything I’ve tasted before. I drink most of it, and then, after checking to make sure that Buen has already done so, dig into the food.

  It’s a feast. Roasted bird, prepared with unique, expensive-tasting spices. A variety of vegetables, and six different kinds of breads.

  The meal highlights the pitiful existence of the mountain people. This world isn’t a world with only bland food and hard labor. This world has luxury.

  I’m full too quickly. Buen whistles and several men in blue wraps enter the room and clear the food away. We walk out of the room.

  I’m clothed, fed, and not in pain. I feel good, though I still smell like urine from the robe. But I’m alive. And healthy. Years of scientific research hasn’t prepared me for this moment. I can’t explain what just happened to me. First the portal, and now this. There must be some kind of explanation, but I don’t know what it is.

  We leave the dining hall and the main castle tower. Our exit leads us onto an uncovered causeway where the sun beats down on us. The breeze cools the sweat on my skin in the places where the robe doesn’t fit too tightly, which isn’t very many places.

  The walkway is made of stone with three-foot walls on each side. Over one wall is a twenty-foot drop down to a moat, which surrounds the castle.

  An open garden is below us to my right. The garden is surrounded by three castle walls and three towers. Long stone paths lead through an assortment of plants, some of which I recognize from my recent meal. Most of them, however, are foreign to me. I don’t see any plants from the mountains. People in the garden care for the plants, all of them with the same shaved head, scar, and blue wrap.