Jane Doe and the Cradle of All Worlds

by Jeremy Lachlan

  I was six when I started shaving Dad’s face. I nicked one of Mr Hollow’s old razors, sat Dad down by the tub, cut away at his out-of-control beard with a pair of shears and then lathered soap over his cheeks and chin. I was afraid I’d cut him so I asked questions and imagined answers. ‘How much soap? That much?’ Perfect. ‘Do I hold it like this?’ No. Like this. ‘And I just drag it down like – whoops. Sorry.’ Smooth strokes. Don’t rush. ‘Okay. Smooth – sorry! This is hard.’ You’ll carve my face off if you keep this up. Take your time, Jane. We have all the time in the world. And so we sat there on the stools, taking our time.

  Where is he now? What’s he doing? I can’t ignore the possibility that Hickory was telling the truth about him being taken prisoner. Or worse, that other thing he said.

  He’s probably dead already!

  ‘Please let me go.’ My words hang in the corridor, hollow and lifeless. ‘I don’t know what Roth wants with me. I don’t know anything about the key.’

  The bounty hunter strides up to the cage, reaches down into the compartment again and pulls out an old, crinkled photograph of a smiling woman holding a baby. He talks to me, and although I still can’t understand him, there’s no mistaking the tone. Desperation. Sorrow. Part of it even sounds like an apology. And I understand. He doesn’t want to do this. He hates being inside the Manor as much as I do. He’s just trying to get home to his family.

  ‘You don’t need to do this,’ I say. ‘We can stop him. Roth. I don’t know how, but –’

  I’m silenced by a door slamming somewhere ahead, maybe in the next corridor.

  The bounty hunter puts the photo back into the compartment and pulls out a whip, lets it trail behind him as he stomps off towards the sound. I don’t waste a second. As soon as he disappears around the corner I slam myself into the cage door and kick Hickory awake.

  ‘What?’ he mumbles. ‘Wassapnin?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ I say. ‘But probably not for long. What’s the plan?’ Hickory frowns at me. ‘I’m guessing you always have a plan, Hickory. How do we get out of here?’

  ‘We?’ he says, like it’s the dirtiest word ever invented.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘we.’ I try hitting the door again, but the lock’s too strong. ‘Look, I hate you and you hate me, but we’re in this together, whether we like it or not.’

  Hickory takes a moment. ‘Get back to you on that one.’ I start to protest, but he nods down the corridor. The bounty hunter’s already coming back with something – no, someone – slung over his shoulders. ‘We’ve got us a free ride. Relax. Plenty of time to escape.’

  The bounty hunter opens the cage and slings his latest catch inside. A guy roughly my size, I’d say. Boots, tight-fitting pants and a long indigo cloak. Hood pulled down over his face, hands already tied behind his back. The bounty hunter locks the door again, glances at me, packs away his mat, picks up the chain and starts hauling the cage.

  Hickory nudges me with his knee, nods at the newcomer.

  I shuffle forward, reach out with my left foot and carefully lift the hood with my toes. The guy has a big black scarf wrapped around his face and head, like those people you see in pictures walking through deserts. Only his eyes are visible, closed and long-lashed.

  Wait a second.

  I shuffle back, look at the shape of his body again.

  That’s when I realise our new cell buddy isn’t a guy.

  It’s a girl.

  THE HALL OF A THOUSAND FACES

  She’s watching me when I wake up, cat-like hazel eyes fixed on mine. I sit up straight, clear my throat, wipe away the drool trailing down my chin. I’m not sure how long I’ve slept, how far we’ve travelled, but Hickory’s asleep again. The bounty hunter’s still hauling the cage, sweat shining on his shoulders under every passing candle. I wonder if I squirmed much in my sleep. Could the girl tell I was drowning with my parents, about to be taken by the tentacled monsters with white-fire eyes? Did I cry out with Dad when Mum disappeared? Did I make a noise when the dream shifted, when it became something more, and I went flying through those flooded corridors of the Manor, down that waterfall into the cold, black whirlpool?

  Let go. Mum’s voice came to me again, but I still can’t figure out why.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to the girl. Maybe I’ve spoken too quietly. Maybe she speaks a different language. All she does is narrow those eyes a fraction. I lean a little closer, speak slowly. ‘My name’s Jane Doe. What’s yours? Uh. Your name? Do you – can you understand me?’

  Nothing.

  I reckon she’s about my age. I can see bits of dark hair beneath her scarf. She doesn’t look frightened at all. Wary, yes, but not scared. And her eyes really are flat out –

  ‘Pretty.’

  The word just pops out, and Hickory’s woken up just in time to hear it. He turns over, chuckling like a damn monkey. I don’t even know if monkeys chuckle because I’ve only ever read about them in books, but if they do I bet this is what they sound like. I tell him to shut up, and he does – right away – but not because of me. The bounty hunter’s watching us.

  Nobody says a word for the next billion hours or so. I get pins and needles down my arms because they’ve been tied behind my back for such a long time. My skin isn’t numb anymore. All my cuts and bruises ache again. I count doors to pass the time. Dream up escape scenarios. Grand exhibitions of strength and bravery, things that would impress the girl and show her I’m the kind of almost-woman who always takes control. She’s still watching me.

  ‘Don’t think she likes you,’ Hickory mutters, and I think he’s right. I’m me, after all. Jane Creepy-Eyed Doe. What I need is a hat or something. One that says Not a monster, just misunderstood. I could wear it all the time. People like hats, right?

  When the cage finally stops again I figure the bounty hunter’s having another rest, but he just stands to the side and gestures at the archway ahead. The room beyond is long, slightly wider than the corridor we’re in now, and the walls are covered in carved stone faces, floor to ceiling. Horned faces. Fanged faces. Screaming, snarling, laughing faces. The bounty hunter holds a finger to his lips, steps right up to the archway. He claps his enormous hands and – pfft! pfft! pfft! – the room comes alive. Darts, shooting from the mouths on one side of the room to the mouths on the other. He yells – a quick burst of sound – and the darts shoot back.

  Another finger to his lips, and the meaning’s clear: don’t make a sound.

  Before we can protest, he picks up the chain and hauls us slowly into the trap. The stone faces with their dart-hole mouths scroll by. I wince with every squeak of the wheel beneath me, but it’s obviously just quiet enough. One sneeze though, one cough, and –

  ‘No,’ Hickory whispers three-quarters of the way across.

  I shush him. The girl kicks me because my shush is just as loud. The bounty hunter freezes – we all do – but the darts never come. The bounty hunter walks on, the cage resuming its slow squeak, squeak. Hickory nods frantically at the archway ahead. There’s a mark above it, a blotch of paint on the stone. A three-fingered Leatherhead handprint.

  You’d think it’d be a relief, clearing the booby trap and all, but the moment we’re free, Hickory says, ‘Stop. Don’t. You can’t take us there.’

  The bounty hunter ignores him.

  Hickory snaps and throws his weight against the side of the cage.

  I wonder if he’s acting, if this is all part of his escape plan, but then a cold lump grows in my throat. ‘We’re not there already, are we? At the fortress? You said we had plenty of time.’

  ‘He isn’t taking us to the fortress,’ Hickory says. ‘Not yet. He’s taking us to –’

  The bounty hunter shoves his fist into the cage, knocks Hickory out cold.

  ‘Sit back,’ the girl tells me. ‘Everything’s under control.’

  I stare at her, mouth gaping, and that’s when the platoon of Leatherheads storms through the corridor and surrounds the cage. When the bounty hunter holds Roth
’s prosthetic face high in surrender. When every gun turns on the girl, on Hickory, on me.

  THE PRISON CAMP

  We’re marched on foot into a big chamber, mouths gagged. There are cages everywhere. Metal spikes. Coils of barbed wire. Hundreds of people imprisoned. Tin-skins growl and gnash at us from their pens as we pass. Mangled bones rattle around their paws, picked clean. The air reeks of burnt coal, sweat and stale pee. Leatherheads drag crates and bodies back and forth through the camp. Prisoners cower. The smoke-stained Manor ceiling looms high above it all, glowing a dirty red from the furnaces below. It’s a nightmare.

  We’re thrown into the nearest cage. A dozen or so people are huddled in the middle. Two of them are kids. The gate’s locked behind us, and an old man shuffles over and unties the girl’s hands. Mine too. We take off our gags and thank him. He merely nods and bends his creaking bones over the third new arrival, Hickory, still groaning face-down on the floor.

  ‘Not him,’ I say. ‘He’s one of them. A bounty hunter.’ The old-timer doesn’t say anything, but he can obviously understand me because he leaves Hickory strung up. Even gives him a little kick as he shuffles back to the huddle of prisoners.

  Our bounty hunter’s watching us from afar, uncaged, free. He isn’t gonna let me out of his sight. There are other hunters, too. Some of them strut and glare at anyone they can. Others look just as worried as us prisoners and shy away from the Leatherheads whenever they pass, weapons not drawn but always at the ready. Some of them are women, most are men. Some wear rags and loincloths, others elaborate robes or dresses that might have been a sign of wealth and power in their home worlds, but in here don’t mean squat.

  I shake out my hands, rub my wrists. ‘What is this place?’

  And then I see him, sitting in the huddle of prisoners not three metres away. My breath catches. The word I want to say more than any other forms deep in my belly and rises to my throat like a warm pulse of light but I can’t say it, daren’t say it, because it can’t be. It’s a trick, a dream. But the cloak, the stooped shoulders, the scraggly mop of grey hair …

  ‘Dad?’

  My voice sounds tiny, like a child’s. Filled with hope but hesitation too, because I’ve imagined this moment a gazillion times, and it’s already clear that something’s wrong.

  It’s Dad, without a doubt. But he doesn’t look happy to see me.

  His face is cut and bruised. His eyes are wide, lips trembling. I tell him it’s okay, everything’s okay, but when I step towards him he backs away and says, ‘Don’t.’

  He’s talking.

  I mean, actually talking.

  To me.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, ‘it’s me, Jane,’ but he jabbers nonsense over my voice and starts stumbling from one side of the cage to the other, waving his hands around like a crazy person.

  I run to him. The other prisoners scatter. The girl tries to stop me, but I shake her off. I grab Dad’s shoulders and try to calm him down, and he tackles me. Pins me to the floor. I can’t move, can’t breathe. I’m staring up into a face I know so well but don’t recognise at all. Tears sting my eyes, but when I squeak out his name again I see it. The fire in his eyes burns out. He winks at me, forces a sad smile, and dimples crease his dirty, stubbled cheeks.

  ‘We don’t know each other,’ he whispers. ‘We can’t. Stay away from me. I love you.’

  A gun fires somewhere. A warning shot. Dad calls me a stranger, shouts it, tells me I’ll regret it if I come anywhere near him again. Then he scuttles over to the other side of the cage, and all I can do is lie here. Trying to breathe. Trying to think. Drawing blanks.

  INTO THE GIANT’S MOUTH

  He’s there. Right there. Sitting in the corner of the cage. He hasn’t so much as looked at me in about an hour, but every time I get to my feet and take a step towards him he shakes his head violently or says ‘uh-uh’ really loudly.

  Why doesn’t he want me anywhere near him?

  We don’t know each other. The first real sentence I’ve ever heard my father say. We can’t, the second. Stay away from me, the third and worst by far. But the fourth, I love you, this is the one I cling to. The one that means this isn’t about what he does or doesn’t want. He’s keeping his distance because he feels he has to, and I need to trust that, trust him.

  Hickory’s been twiddling his thumbs ever since Dad tackled me. Legs crossed, head bowed, chewing on the rope in his mouth. Watching us both. He heard the things I said, knows the crazy man in the dirty red cloak is my dad. But even Hickory’s attention is being diverted now. The Leatherheads are bustling around the place, clicking their throats, lugging chains and shackles. The prisoners shuffle as far from the cage doors as they can. One man starts babbling and points at an archway across the chamber that the Leatherheads must’ve expanded, block by block, ages ago. A giant mouth in the wall, gap-toothed and yawning, belching puffs of smoke and steam. Something’s about to happen. We’re running out of time.

  I huff out a breath, stand up. The bounty hunter watches me. Hickory, too. Dad glares at me, but I’m not walking to him, I’m walking to the girl. She’s kneeling by the chain-link wall of the cage a few metres from him, scarf still wrapped around her head, meditating or something.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, casual-like. ‘Um. How are things?’ The girl’s clearly unimpressed. I half-turn towards Dad, catch him in the corner of my eye. ‘Wow, that’s great. Excellent.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ the girl says, but I’m already raising my hand.

  ‘Just let me get this out. Are you listening?’ I cough and bury a ‘Dad’ in there to make sure I’ve got his attention. ‘I want to tell you something important. I came to rescue you. I know that sounds lame, being a prisoner myself, but it’s true. I came to take you home. And I’m going to. I don’t quite know how yet, but I’m working on it. We’ll be okay. Okay?’

  If the girl didn’t think I was an idiot before then she sure as hell thinks it now.

  Dad heard me, though, I can feel it, and that’s all that matters.

  Two Leatherheads unlock our cage and dump a bundle of chain attached to metal collars onto the floor. They point their rifles at the largest cluster of prisoners and wait.

  The old man moves first. Slowly, painfully, he untangles the chain and clips the first collar round his neck. Then he holds out the jangling line and a thin woman with thinner hair does the same. One by one, the prisoners shackle themselves without a word. I wonder where they’ve come from. How long they’ve been here. Whether they have any secret plans of their own to escape. I doubt it. These are defeated people. They’re outnumbered a hundred to one.

  We, I correct myself. We are outnumbered.

  Four collars left. Dad chains himself. I chain myself. The collar pinches the back of my neck, fastening tight. I have to help Hickory into his on account of his bound hands. When the collar clicks he shoots me a smile through the gag but his eyes are black and burning. One of the Leatherheads tries to force the girl into the last collar. She swipes away its hand, even blocks a retaliatory punch. The Leatherhead looks at its comrade, stunned more than anything, I guess. Before it can do anything else, though, the girl snatches the collar and clips it around her neck so calmly she might as well be fastening a necklace.

  ‘Well, go on,’ she says, flicking her head at the cage door.

  We’re marched from our cage with the other lines of prisoners, chains rattling, headed for the archway across the chamber. Tin-skins snap at us as we pass.

  ‘Where are they taking us?’ I ask Dad over the noise.

  At first I figure he hasn’t heard me, but then he half-turns and says, ‘Train.’

  ‘As in choo-choo?’ I glance back at Hickory. He arches an eyebrow back. There’s never been a train on Bluehaven, obviously, but I’ve read about them. Saw a picture once, too. Big metal things on long metal tracks. I’m pretty sure they’re normally an outside thing, like snow and grass and forests. ‘What the hell is a train doing in here?’

  He
avy boots beside me now. The bounty hunter’s keeping me close. He’s just as big as the Leatherheads, but he’s probably as nervous as I am. I bet my key’s still in his pocket.

  I’m sure his family has never felt closer.

  Another plume of smoke and steam hisses through the giant’s teeth in the wall, curling up towards the ceiling. The chain gang in front of us disappears into the haze, and then we’re swallowed, too. The air tastes bitter and tinny. Fire-pits colour the steam and smoke red. Drums and mine carts filled with coal take shape. A snarling Tin-skin on a leash. More Leatherheads loom around us, a forest of gangly, menacing silhouettes shepherding us into this new chamber.

  And then we’re through the smoke and steam.

  Staring at the train.

  It looks like a boxy caterpillar, stretching from one side of the chamber to the other, disappearing at both ends through more angry archways the Leatherheads have made. They must’ve burrowed through a thousand walls to lay the tracks. Blowing the Manor apart, hacking away at it stone by stone. They’re still at it now, chipping away with pickaxes.

  The train looks ancient, rusted beyond repair, but a grimy electric light shines in every carriage. The sides are covered in tiny rotted holes, sliding doors spewing gangplanks, and the occasional small, barred window.

  It’s another prison on wheels.

  We’re marshalled into a barbed-wire pen with another chain gang while the other prisoners are herded onboard, shoulders bent, hopes dashed. Two groups per carriage. Once their prisoners are sealed inside, the bounty hunters wander off to a carriage of their own.

  ‘My god,’ Dad mutters under his breath, shaking his head in horror at the train. ‘They’ve gutted the place. The tracks probably lead all the way to their master’s lair.’