The Knowing

by Sharon Cameron

  “How bad do you need to get into your room?”

  “We might as well crawl back Outside if I don’t.”

  I don’t like it. And I like it even less when I see how she means to go up. Sam gets onto the railing and stands, stretching up for the natural rock of the cavern in the space between the balconies. I look over my shoulder, at all the lamps across the water. The light doesn’t penetrate far into the dark, and I don’t think anyone could see us, unless they’re looking close. But that also means Sam wouldn’t be able to see them.

  “Put your hands and feet where I do,” she whispers. The roar of the water is loud, but she’s barely speaking. “And”—she points at the second balcony up, one over—“Thorne Councilman.”

  Great. And his lamps are lit, too.

  She starts up the tumbled rock face of the cavern. She’s fighting her memories. Distracting herself with this climb. I wish she would’ve let me go up. Just told me what she needed, because if I’m remembering her book right, then I think we’re climbing to the room where Nita died.

  I get up on the rail and go after her. It’s easier than it looks. The cavern’s slight slope means that gravity isn’t quite as much of an enemy, and there are only one or two places that are a stretch for her, and not even that for me. What I don’t get is how she’s doing it in the dark. I’ve got the glasses and it’s still careful going. And then I realize. She doesn’t need light. She’s Knowing, and she’s done it before. She remembers every rock and handhold.

  I’m up half a level, and she’s passing the second balcony, the one she said belonged to the Head of Council. The lamps are blinding in the night vision, so I switch and scan it, just to be sure. The balcony is empty. But the double doors beyond it aren’t. There’s a shadow of a figure there, a head and shoulders moving back and forth behind the glass panes, as if someone is pacing, staring out into the cavern.

  Samara goes on climbing, already level with and passing the balcony. I don’t think she can see from her angle, which means the person behind the door can’t see her. But they could see me, if it wasn’t so dark. I stay still, watch the pacing head slow, and then stop, facing me squarely. I wait, pulse ramping. And then the balcony door begins to open.

  I reach up and jerk the glasses off my face. The lenses. They were catching the lamplight. Probably winking out in the dark as much as the rappelling gear would’ve done. I hear the click of a shoe on the stone, and Samara freezes, her feet maybe half a meter above the level of this man’s head.

  His hair is braided, long like all of the Knowing I’ve seen, robes to his ankles, a close-cropped beard, and eyes that are intense, looking through the dark in my direction. I put my face to the cold rock, hoping the black of my hair might camouflage me better than the brown of my skin, waiting, sweating in the chill. It feels like I wait forever. When there’s no noise, no call, no footsteps, I chance a glance up. The balcony is still lit, and there’s nothing. No body at the rail, no shadow of a head behind the door glass. I slip on the glasses, and no, there’s no one, and Samara is two levels up, throwing a leg over her own balcony.

  I switch back to night vision and go much faster, ignoring the thought of the rushing river and what’s becoming a long fall below me, past Thorne Councilman’s railings, up another level, and then I’m over and on Samara’s terrace. I stay on my hands and knees for a minute, letting out my breath. I was more scared than I realized. I’ve got the shakes.

  But I wasn’t scared enough. Not nearly enough. Because Samara is also on her hands and knees, and she is not seeing what’s in front of her. She’s seeing something terrible, doing something terrible. In her mind. She opens her mouth, and I know what kind of sound she is about to make. I’ve heard that scream.

  I tackle her, like a kid in a full-out game of crush-tag, and get a hand over her mouth. She fights me, hard, and we start a silent sort of wrestling match, the only difference being that I’m not willing to hurt her, and she is very willing to hurt me. She slams my head once against the stone, and then I get on top of her and pin her down.

  “Samara,” I whisper directly in her ear. “Wake up.”

  She doesn’t. She struggles. I shake her head, then slap her face once, enough to make it sting. “Sam!”

  The fight goes straight out of her, and I see her eyes focus. Then she closes them again and breathes hard. I let go of her mouth, and still on my knees, hold her half upright with one arm, get a hand on a door latch and push it open, dragging her through without really standing up, keeping us below the sight lines of the railing. The light from the two lamps is dazzling after so much dark. I click the door shut, and pull Sam to one side, away from the paned glass. Samara isn’t calm but she’s silent, two tears streaking down her cheeks. I pull her up high enough to look at me, get her face in my hands.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.” I think I’m telling myself we’re okay. “Are you all right?”

  She isn’t. She closes her eyes and cries, still silent, or as silent as she can be. I bring her head to my neck and hold her there, like I did the first time, in the caves, only this time I stroke her hair, her heaving back, and put my cheek on her head, anything to make it better. My chest is slamming, breath still coming hard, and she smells like Outside fires and Underneath perfume. I can’t believe we’re not caught.

  She cries for a long time, calming until I’m still and just holding her again. Her breathing slows, changes, the hand that was on my shoulder sliding experimentally up my neck and just beneath the collar of the shirt, feeling my skin. I stroke her hair one time. Then she lifts her head, sits back just a little, her beautiful eyes still wet, heavy-lidded. And she reaches up, and takes the glasses off my face.

  I feel my pulse ramp up again. She runs a thumb across my cheek. And then she leans in and kisses me. Slow. My hand squeezes, full of her hair, and she pulls away, eyes closed, waiting. I’m not sure I’m breathing.

  I say, “Will that be a good memory?”

  She opens her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Do you want another?”

  “Yes.”

  I bring her mouth back to mine and kiss her again, and again, and now she’s like she was in the cave, only this time she doesn’t hesitate, and she doesn’t stop. We’re on some kind of thick rug, and I press her into it while she pulls me down, keeping her still while she’s desperately struggling not to be. I break away from her mouth, and I like the noise she makes when I kiss her neck, breathe her smell, explore the triangle of skin left open by her collar.

  And somewhere in the back of my mind I know that this is crazy. That it’s dangerous and not the time. And I really don’t care. I’ve never wanted anything this bad, and Samara’s hands are under my shirt, down my back and up my sides, fingernails stratching, and then she goes still. Like somebody threw a switch. I hold her and wait, and I hear it, too. The sharp click of a heel on stone, just on the other side of the door.

  We scramble across the floor, to the far side of a gold-covered bed I hadn’t even noticed was there, lying low, out of sight if the door opens. I hear another click of a heel, and another, and then swear loud inside my head, reaching out beyond the bed to snatch the glasses off the floor. We lie side by side, listening, and I slide on the glasses and look.

  I can see through the wooden door but only through the door, a hazy picture with limited scope. There’s a hallway, with occasional rugs, not carpet. And I catch the silhouette of a woman. Or what I think is a woman, from the way she moves. I hear one more click of a shoe, distant, and the closing of a faraway door.

  I meet Samara’s gaze. “Gone,” I whisper. She nods, and I pull her to me, laying her head on my chest while we get our breath and our bearings. A lot of things just happened, and I don’t know which to talk about.

  “Could you see who it was?” she whispers.

  “A woman, with really high hair. Like it was piled up tall.”

  “Mother.” She frowns. “I thought they were in seclusion … ”

  Then who
lit the lamps? I think. “Would the Head of Council keep your parents in their own house?”

  She frowns again. “Maybe.”

  “Do you need to go to her?”

  Sam shakes her head against my chest, her hair tickling my nose. For all her drive to save her parents, it’s not like she’s dying to see them.

  She sits up. “We have to go … ” And now she won’t look at me.

  “Hey,” I whisper, catching her arm. “This is all right. You Know that?”

  She Knows what I mean, and she doesn’t look like she Knows it’s all right. She turns her face from me. “You don’t understand.”

  I sit up. “Then make me understand.”

  “I will remember,” she whispers. “If you change your mind, or if I change, or you, I will still remember. For me, it is only … once.”

  I read something about that. In her book. I can love only once. “I don’t feel much like changing my mind,” I say.

  She smiles, and she doesn’t have her Knowing face on, because I can see her thought like she’d written it down. Not yet.

  “Hey,” I say, “I said I don’t feel like changing my mind.” I’m surprised how mad I am about it. And suddenly I realize that if this girl has to Forget me, I won’t just be sad. It’s going to break my heart.

  Sam’s up, hurrying to pull the curtain closed with a soft rattle of rings. I run a hand through my hair, find a sore spot where she slammed my head. It is only once. And by “it,” she means “love.”

  And now, only now, do I really understand her risk. If I were to forget her, like people tend to do, then her heart would be just as broken as mine. Only her pain would never fade, not until the end of time. She would still live it, because she would remember. To betray her now would be to devastate her. Like a knife to the gut. And I wonder if that would make you feel like a burden. Like you’re asking too much of the other person. More than they can stand.

  I don’t know what I’ve done to her. To us. I’m not sure either of us could help it.

  I get to my feet. Sam’s almost running to the other side of the room, where there’s another gold curtain. I catch her hand. If this is the burden, I’ll carry it.

  “It is all right,” I say. “I understand.” She blinks. “It’s not too much, and it’s okay with me.”

  She looks at me, and after a long time she nods, breathing deep. Then she reaches up and kisses me once, like she wants to see what that’s like. Personally, I really like what that’s like.

  I don’t know how I’m going to leave her down here.

  “We have to go,” she says. And I can tell when Samara Archiva has decided what to do, because as soon as she does, she goes at it like a warrior. She pulls aside the gold curtain and there are clothes, a huge row of them, boxes and shelves of shimmering cloth and slippers and shoes.

  I look around, at the gilded mirror walls, a dressing table carved by someone who is an expert at their craft, the ceiling painted with metallic stars. What must it have been like for Nita to come down here the first time, and then go back Outside again? What must it have been like for Samara? The difference is as down-the-rabbit-hole as you can get. But there’s nothing personal in here. No drawings, trinkets. Maybe when you can’t forget, it’s not necessary to fill your world with reminders. Maybe when your mind is so full, it’s easier not to have them.

  I cross the rugs and watch her choose a tunic and leggings in a dark bloodred, embroidered all over with shining black. She already has a scarf and shoes in her hand.

  “What are you doing, exactly?”

  “Changing clothes,” she hisses, pulling the curtain shut. In less than a minute, the undyed cloth top and bottoms come sailing over the top of the gold curtain and her head sticks out. “Hide those beneath the mattress. Make sure the bed looks exactly the same.”

  I do, and I’m thinking we risked a lot to come up here for Samara to grab a new outfit. Then she’s out, in the crimson and black, sitting at the table with the mirror, grabbing a blue glass jar. I’d like to look at that jar, but I think if I tried, Samara would smack me. She’s working fast.

  “If we are seen,” she whispers, painting a line of black around her eyes, “I could make up an excuse, depending on who it is and how smart they are. Make up some story about a medical emergency … ”

  When the Knowing don’t get sick.

  “It won’t work. But it could buy me some time. But you … I can’t explain you.”

  Or being in the corridors in undyed cloth. I see.

  She’s winding a black scarf around her soft, curling tangles, pulling it all up and tying and pinning it around her head like a turban. She smears red on her lips, slides on a pair of soft black slippers, and turns around.

  Her eyes are amber framed in black, skin shining. And now, for the first time, I think I really am meeting one of the Knowing. A descendant of Canaan, a human from another galaxy. She is so beautiful I can’t remember one word I was about to say. But I think I like it better when her hair’s down. I also notice she’s chosen colors that will blend with the dark.

  She hurries, putting each thing back with precision, adjusting the gold curtain just so. Then with a move more like dance, she reaches behind one of the mirrors and tosses something at me. I stick out a hand and catch it before I know what’s coming. A ring of keys.

  “Are you coming?” she says, adjusting the rug.

  I think she needs to get out of this room.

  For the faithful of the NWSE, our directive is clear: That we, the best of Earth, and now the most worthy of Canaan, we who were chosen to create a superior society, now have an even higher calling. To bring beauty, peace, prosperity, and, most of all, justice to the Earth. To take knowledge and our memory back to our home and rule it …

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF JANIS ATAN

  Down is harder than up when climbing the cavern. We take it slowly, finding our footholds in the dark. I don’t see anyone, and I don’t think anyone can see us. Beckett isn’t wearing the glasses, though, and I’m not sure why. He makes the railing of Uncle Towlend’s chambers before me, instantly sliding the glasses on, and I hop down after.

  “Is it safe?” I whisper. He answers by beckoning, and I follow him inside.

  Uncle Towlend’s empty rooms are as sad as his office to me. More so, maybe, because he and Aunt Letitia were so happy here. Until love killed them. Beckett is standing in front of the closed door, using the glasses to look through into the corridor. That shirt of Nathan’s barely fits him, and suddenly, I drop through my mind to the floor of my bedchamber, the skin of Beckett’s back running smooth beneath my fingers. And I drop again, to him catching my hand. Telling me he understands. Accepting me. Mess and all.

  Right at this moment, I don’t care if love kills me.

  Beckett looks back. “Ready?”

  I nod. “You cannot be seen. And if you are, don’t speak.”

  He puts a hand on my face, and then opens the door.

  We steal out into the corridor, and I lead Beckett back to the kitchen-level stairs, my breath short, pulse thumping in my temples. There’s no easy way to the chemistry labs, and never have I wanted to go to them so badly. I want Beckett to be right. For there to be something in those injections, so I don’t have to be Knowing.

  I don’t want to Forget him.

  We move without noise up two more levels, Beckett first, using the glasses. We haven’t seen another soul. The Council is rumored to have watchers that report back our sins, that even roam the corridors during the resting. I’ve never seen one. But if the system is random, that would make it dangerous. I tug Beck to a stop at a doorway.

  “Stay close. And we can’t talk; there will be an echo.”

  We cross the grand entry hall, with its high ceilings and blue-and-black-riddled walls, floor sloping up to the gates and down into the city, step through a door on the other side, and then we’re moving again across the silence of carpet. Past the lit windows of the learning rooms, and the entertaining room
s, where I see Beckett’s head turn as we pass, down again, and into a short tunnel. I wait, giving Beck time to check it thoroughly, and when he nods we steal inside the Forum.

  One or two lamps on balconies sprinkle down light, and already there are three false moons strung up high over our heads, ready to be lit for the Changing of the Seasons. We slide along the vast cavern’s edges, where we can’t be seen from above, the Torrens gushing, noisy beneath its bridges, around the tall rock platform, and down its channel. Beckett is trying to go fast while he takes it all in, and it makes me remember that the blue-black columns and the glowing, trailing flowers are beautiful. And then my memories show me Sonia, falling through the air in the silver dress, and I think the beauty of the Forum is no more real than my painted eyes.

  Then he slows. He’s caught sight of the mural, stretching across the cavern’s entire back wall—the green Earth, the scorched Earth, the white city and the black, the sign OUR TRUTH CANNOT BE FORGOTTEN—and he is studying it, intent. I’m wondering what he thinks about our view of Earth when he pulls me to a stop, puts a finger to the edge of the glasses, and points to the far side of the Forum, to the corridor we’re aiming for. The dimmest of lights is bobbing down the entrance tunnel.

  I yank him backward, farther into the darkness, and then behind the curtain of one of the caching nooks. I’m careful to arrange the curtain back exactly the way I saw it, to still any movement of the fabric. And then we huddle back against the cold black stone. Breathing. Waiting.

  Beckett puts a hand on my face, feeling me, to make sure I’m not panicked or falling down into a memory. I’m not. For once. I’m straining to listen. I tilt my head, lining up my sight with the edge of the curtain, and there is a face, not ten centimeters away. I only just hold in my noise. Martina Tutor is passing in the light of a covered lantern.

  Maybe she could be one of Thorne’s watchers. She was in the Cursed City. Or she could just be remembering Sonia.