He began to dance, and before long, driven by the throbbing rhythm of the drum, Payne joined him. The sound was deep and plangent, sometimes like a wave, sometimes a lonely ululation. It was earth-bound and it also rose above the earth. It was simple and it was rich. It was Brand's sound and rhythm, but Payne felt embraced by it. He felt happy and he felt sad, comforted and on the verge of tears, liberated and about to have his poor heart broken.
An hour passed, and then another. He grew weary, but Brand, head thrown back, arms uplifted, seemed, if anything, to gain in strength. He spun like a man from a world of spinners, never tiring and never losing his step. He spun like a master, like a being at the peak of his powers. He spun as though possessed.
In the third hour the ortine began to beat faster. Titter-tat, the heartbeat of a rabbit. T-t-t, of a restless little bird. And faster still, until each beat fused with the one before it and the one after, and the drumming became indistinguishable from a single warbling polyphonic note.
And then, abruptly, it stopped.
Brand spun for half a minute more, then staggered backward. He clutched his heart and then his meli, then stumbled to his knees. He wore a puzzled expression, as if he'd been in some other world and rudely snatched away from it and now didn't know quite where he was. He blinked, as if to clear his vision, and then his eyes met Payne's. Half a second passed, and then he smiled, a broad, luminous, transcendent smile. And then he died.
Payne missed the next meeting of From the Ashes, which was what A New Day had become, and several after it as well. His thoughts were not on party politics but elsewhere. He was taking walks—through the sprawl of Getta, along the cliffs, even over the Bridge to Aksa—retracing steps that he and Brand had taken, remembering his friend and mentor, mourning him, trying to come to terms with the loss. Through the grapevine he heard rumors of a crisis in the party. Several cadre had left or been expelled. One of Shay's principal supporters had fallen victim to the Drain, and another had been arrested. Security in the group had been tightened and direct action curtailed. There'd been no arson now for several weeks, but there was talk of a major offensive being planned. They wanted him back. They needed everyone.
He felt torn. In his current state of mind he had no stomach for the rhetoric of battle, for any rhetoric, or, for that matter, any battle. The group seemed far away, like a place he'd visited, its concerns and now its urgency alien to him. And yet it had given him a home and a purpose when he needed one, and he felt loyal to it. He could imagine how besieged they were feeling, Shay especially, how desperate and backed into a corner. Now was not the time to abandon them, much as he would have liked to. He knew how it felt to be abandoned, and likewise, he knew how it felt to be supported. If there was a battle looming, or the potential for one, the best thing he could do was to go armed with Brand's message of nonviolence.
The crowds around the gaming houses were thick as flies on the night that he returned. Restless too. Something seemed to be in the air. He took great care not to be followed, circling back on himself several times. At the head of the alley next to the Easytime he paused, then again at the underground entrance, making sure he was alone. Slipping silently inside the building, he hurried down the metal stairs.
When he reached the meeting room, the door was locked. For a moment he thought he'd gotten the day wrong. Then he heard voices inside, and he knocked. Instantly, the voices ceased. He knocked again and in a loud whisper announced himself.
Half a minute later, the door cracked open and an eye peered out. The crack widened.
“Payne.” It was one of the younger cadre. “Where have you been?”
“Will you let me in?”
A look of uncertainty crossed her face, and she closed the door. He heard muffled voices, an argument perhaps, and then the door opened and Shay appeared. He was dressed in a heavy black robe and wore a stern expression.
“You've been absent.”
“Brand's dead,” said Payne.
Shay's eyes narrowed. Several seconds passed; then he drew Payne aside and whispered to him.
“We need you, my friend. Now more than ever.”
“I have to talk to you. To everyone. I have something to say.”
“Yes. We will talk. But come in, come in. Join us.”
Throwing open the door, he publicly welcomed Payne back. The room was dark, save for a single candle. Five solemn-faced cadre stood in a circle. There was fear and excitement in the air.
“Open the circle,” said Shay. “Let Payne in.”
This was done, and Shay struck a match and lit the second candle, then raised a glass goblet that Payne had never seen. It was filled to the brim with a clear liquid.
“To democracy,” he intoned.
He drank from the glass, then passed it to the healer on his left, who also drank, then passed it on. As it made the rounds, Payne was reminded of the glass for thirsty travelers outside the Church For Giveness, which was the first thing that had caught his eye about the church and whose simple message of generosity had so enchanted and misguided him. When the goblet came around, he hesitated to drink from it, but under the pressure of the group he relented, tipping the glass up and filling his mouth. The liquid had a fruity foretaste that promised something sweet, but its aftertaste was bitter.
Shay lit the final candle, the one that stood for strength. The goblet was returned to him, still half-full, and he raised it. His face danced in the candlelight. His voice was confident and strong.
“One heart, one mind, one will. The future is in our hands. Loyalty connects us. Unity of purpose binds us. Tonight we take back our lives and gain our freedom. Tonight we rise from the ashes. Tonight a new day dawns.”
He tipped the goblet back and filled his mouth a second time, then passed it around the circle until it was fully drained. Then he handed out a hooded robe to each of them, similar to the one he was wearing. Payne found his heavy and a little stiff, and it gave off a pungent, almost oily, smell. He felt uneasy and decided it was time to speak up.
But before he could, the circle reconvened, the cadre joining hands and breathing, simply breathing, to ground themselves and cement their purpose and resolve. Payne had always enjoyed this part of the meetings, and despite his misgivings, he enjoyed it now. The energy in the group was very strong. He could feel it moving around the circle, gathering power and momentum, rising. Something told him that he should resist it; another voice, that he shouldn't. Soon he had no choice, because he was literally swept away.
It was an extraordinary feeling. Never had he felt so much in common with his friends and comrades. Never so interconnected, unified and intertwined. One heart, yes, they did possess a single heart as Shay had said, a single circulation, and yes, yes, a single body, too. He imagined that he was hearing with his comrades’ ears and seeing with their eyes, and then, miraculously, he was. And thinking their thoughts, too. And feeling their feelings. They were not connected—no, connection implied separation, and they were not separated; they were one. One cell of many parts. One people of many strengths. One single, blissful, inviolate organism.
Shay uttered a word, and they raised their hoods, gathered by the door, then followed him out single-file. Like monks they passed through the tunnel. Payne felt that he was floating on air. The vast pylons and concrete pillars on which the building rested seemed made of liquid. All around him the air crackled with energy and life. Soon, he discovered that he could discern individual molecules, which pulsed and gave off waves of greenish light. The surfaces of objects, of his hands, of the hooded figures in front of him, of the soaring columns, throbbed and melted. The resonating hum of the generators was a hymn that glowed.
Everything had meaning, and meaning was in everything. Their footsteps on the metal staircase were a fanfare and a promise. Shay was a prophet, his wide-set, burning eyes beacons in the night. The other cadre were products of Payne's love and desire. Their ascent from the depths was oracular, ecstatic and preordained.
They reached the surface and assembled in the alley. Then Shay led them around the corner and down the block to the entrance of the Easytime. There they formed a circle, linking arms.
Humans continued to enter and exit the gaming house, but their way was now obstructed, and soon there was an angry crowd. They jeered and hurled insults. Before long, the insults turned to threats.
For Payne, who favored almost anything to confrontation, this ugly turn had a negative effect. The ecstasy that had so bedazzled and enthralled him began to wane. The crowd's rage was disorienting. His fingers, which had been quivering with the blissful force of life, began to quiver with apprehension. His heart pounded in alarm.
He felt assaulted. These were beasts, not human beings. Their snarling, raging faces were a mockery of humanity. And the buildings that they swarmed from, that towered over him and his friends and blotted out the sky, were equally menacing. He felt their weight and their desire to crush him. Like the beasts they were full of malice, and they were alive.
His circle, which only moments before had been a source of strength and power, now seemed on the verge of being overwhelmed. Whatever it was they had hoped to achieve was clearly hopeless. While they still had the chance, they should break ranks and run.
Into this tremor of fear and doubt stepped Shay. From underneath his robe he produced a torch, which he lit and held aloft. The crowd edged back, and in a booming voice he declared the party's creed.
“Justice! Democracy! Steadfastness and Strength!”
In response to his words, the circle tightened. Drawing courage from him, the cadre repeated his cry.
“No more slavery! No more subjugation! We reclaim our bodies! Freedom now and forever. The world is ours! From the ashes a new day dawns!”
All this Shay proclaimed to the now five-deep throng of humans. To his own people he dropped his voice and looked them each in the eye. Eyes, to a one, that were fixed and dilated, as fat as moons and as black as olives. Longing, trusting eyes.
“Strength now, comrades. Who heals us? we ask. Now we answer. We heal ourselves. Our bodies are our own. That is our message, and it will never be forgotten. Never. Be at peace.”
Then one by one, true to the principles of the party, he went around the circle, asking each of them a final time if they consented, and one by one they answered, “Yes, I do.” All save Payne, who asked what he was consenting to. But his voice was drowned out by the crowd; either that, or he was misunderstood. For Shay proceeded with the ceremony, handing each of them in turn the torch, and one by one they lit themselves; and their robes, which had been soaked beforehand, ignited instantly into blue and yellow flame.
The mob erupted, shouting, screaming, but no one stopped the healers; no one intervened. Payne was stricken with his own paralysis, watching in horror as his friends went up in flame.
He was the last one to be offered the torch. Shay faced him, holding it out. “Quickly now. We have little time.”
Payne stared at him, eyes wide, lips frozen. The comrade closest to him had started tottering, and without thinking, he reached out to steady him, a senseless reflex, then quickly drew his hand back but too late, for a tongue of flame leapt out and licked his sleeve. His robe guttered for a second, then burst aflame.
With a cry he broke ranks, stumbling backward and tearing at his garment until he got it off. Shay, who had already ignited himself, seemed to mistake his horror for a loss of nerve and went after him.
“Be strong, my friend. Don't fear. Come, lean on me.”
Grabbing Payne under the arm, he tried to help him back into the fold. Payne resisted, but Shay's grip was like a vice. Payne begged him to stop the conflagration.
“Stop? We cannot stop. Be with us now. Be brave.”
“No,” cried Payne. “No. This is wrong. Let me go.”
Shay looked at him strangely, and for a second his face clouded. He was in his own world, deep into it, and it took a monumental effort to tear himself free.
“Go? You wish to go?”
“Yes,” Payne pleaded.
By now the other cadre were losing consciousness but fighting to hold onto one another, to keep what remained of their circle intact. Shay looked at them, then looked at Payne, then, relaxing his grip, released him. Quickly, he rejoined his comrades, completing and then closing the circle just as he became engulfed in flame. For a moment, then, they were united. In spirit and in flesh A New Day, as Payne would ever think of them, burned. It was almost glorious. Their ring of fire, like a flaming crown, like a promise, lit the sky.
Payne was charged with sedition, endangering human lives directly, endangering human lives indirectly, destruction of property (principally, chattel property), unlawful assembly, felonious use of fire, and other crimes too numerous to mention. He was thrown in jail, in a dark and solitary cell, which is where he sat, hungry, alone and nibbled on by vermin, for days and days on end. He was allowed no visitors and had no contact with the outside world. His human guards kept their distance from him, avoiding conversation beyond assuring him that he would never leave that place, never in a thousand years. His fate was sealed by the cruel, self-serving, heinous nature of his crime. Outside, people were clamoring for his death, and the only thing standing in their way were the bars of his cell. That, and the fact that he was valuable as a living lesson.
Deprived of tesque or human contact, and any semblance of a normal life, Payne filled his time with thought, and when thought became too tiresome or painful, with delusion. He imagined he was back at the Pannus mine, huddled in a tunnel, lost but not abandoned, the object of a furious, round-the-clock search. Any moment they would break through the walls, and someone, Vecque maybe, rejuvenated, reborn, would rescue him.
He imagined he was sleeping and any moment would wake up to the world he knew before.
He imagined a plate of food to fill his empty belly.
He imagined sunlight, warmth, a bed that wasn't made of stone.
He imagined he was innocent, and not just that but a hero, that he had saved his friends, not watched them blacken and die.
He imagined that his brother Wyn was alive and would rescue him, and he imagined, too, that Wyn, in fact, did visit, cherished and exalted brother Wyn who could do no wrong. But far from helping him, his brother ridiculed him for making one bad choice after another, for being hopelessly naive, a disgrace to the family, a burden.
He imagined he was not a disgrace. And his tears were not wet. And his fate was not sealed.
He imagined he could walk away and start over.
Strictly speaking, he was not entirely alone. Sharing his body and his cell was an assortment of fleas and lice and spiders. He spoke to them on occasion but found little in the way of common ground. Their thoughts and desires, compared to the labyrinthine twists and turns of his fevered brain, were of a primitive nature. More promising was a rat that scurried out from time to time in search of food. He fed it crumbs, and soon it was eating out of his hand. His burns had mostly healed, and he liked the feel of its tiny feet on his fresh new skin. He liked the tickle of its whiskers and the way its cold nose nuzzled up against his palm.
By placing bits of food in the hollow of his clavicle, he trained it to trot up and down his arm. This he liked most of all. Without realizing it, he had taught his newfound friend to simulate the first stage of a healing.
One day the animal did not appear. When it returned the next day, Payne asked it where it had been.
The rat seemed sullen and did not answer. Payne fed it a crumb and asked again.
Still, the rat offered no explanation, and fearing it had sustained some sort of injury, he examined it. Its beady eyes seemed clear enough, its arms and legs intact. Its tail had not been bitten off, and its coat of fur looked fine. Suspecting trouble of a deeper sort, Payne stroked its back and tried to coax out information. He reminded it that friends did not hold out on friends. He promised to be discreet.
The rat remained close-lipped. Clearly, it wasn't happ
y to be the object of such intense scrutiny and attention. It seemed about to bolt.
On impulse, Payne lifted it by the scruff of its neck and pressed its belly against his healing arm. Immediately, his neuroepidermal buds began to tingle. The rat nipped at him and tried to claw its way free, but Payne would not let go. When eventually it accepted its fate and stilled, he proceeded with the healing.
After that the rat did not resist him. Every day it came and promptly planted itself belly-down on his arm. Sometimes it rubbed against him as if to copulate. Sometimes it nibbled on his skin and nuzzled him.
There was, in fact, no illness in its body, but Payne had cured it anyway, cured it of its wanderlust and absenteeism. In the guise of freedom he had given it a maze of choices, each of which ended up with him. The rat seemed quite content with this, much as humans were with false appearances. It seemed, in fact, quite human in its motives and its needs.
This was the first time Payne had ever used his talents on his own behalf, selfishly, without regard for what was right or best for the one he healed. That the one in this case was a rat did not relieve him of the pangs of guilt at overstepping his mandate and authority. But in the face of such intense and numbing isolation, he could not help himself. He needed contact with the living. Had there been no rat (and at times he thought there wasn't, imagining that this being was something else; a pixie, a fairy princess, a messenger cloaked in a ball of fur, a superior intelligence in disguise), he would have turned to the lice and fleas and spiders for comfort. How they would have responded to a healing was anybody's guess, but he would have found out, because he would have tried.
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