by Kaden, John
They descend the hill as they climbed it, switchbacking relentlessly, hairpin turns creaking the wooden bars against the bindings and tipping the exhausted children at severe angles. They are cargo now, dead weight.
Down the hill and through more woods they trudge along. Jack is certain now that this expedition will never end, that he will live in this cage forever and never die, eternally roaming the forest in a tiny prison with the unrelenting glare of a maniac trained on him throughout. The last bit of adrenaline in his spent body fires off at this extreme notion and he scrunches his face tightly, trying desperately to stop existing.
The gradient levels off and he feels sunshine on his skin. He peeks at his surroundings, delirious, and what he sees makes him sit up and grip the bars, taken aback. They are parading down the center of a long straight passageway, overgrown with tall grass and shrubs, mounds of rubble rising up on either side. The piles are tremendous, flat-faced and angular. They do not look like natural rock. Crooked rectangles are cut through the stone and metal, dissolving away and collapsing, their shapes only just recognizable. A surge of realization floods his clouded mind.
This is the old world.
This is what they have spent eerie nights around the campfire fantasizing about. He’s only ever seen glimpses. It floats by like a fever dream.
They cross an intersection and Jack looks down another long, linear grass field, lined with disparate heaps of wreckage that reel off into the distance, a few facades still standing against all hope. He tries to imagine them the way they were, tries to imagine machines swirling in the sky, to see people walking on these avenues in whatever fantastic clothes they might have worn, living their daily lives here, and he can only just barely. It all seems simply impossible.
Trees grow up through some of the ruins, their branches extending from the square openings and becoming part of the very structures themselves. They pass through a monumental shadow, cast down from the tallest building any of them has ever seen, ten rows of paneless windows extending upwards, ending in a jagged mess at the top. Deteriorating concrete held together by rusting steel, fragile as a house of cards, as though the whole edifice might shift in a strong gust of wind and crush their meek procession under an absurd pile of rubble.
Their cages are set down at the next cross street. Again two armed warriors crouch with weapons drawn and creep along the cracked facades, making their way down the neglected avenue. A family of boars root and scurry around the brambles down the next block, digging their snouts into the dense underbrush. A large male disappears through the overgrown doorway of a forgotten building, while the rest mill about and move further down the way. The warriors stay sleek against the broken walls, taking cover when they can find it.
As a half-grown female trundles across the street an arrow flies, silent and straight, penetrating her side just behind the shoulder blade. She lets out a horrid grunt and tries to scamper off around a corner. A second arrow pierces her hide and she slows, zigzagging a drunken weave. The other boars are running hectic, shrieking and grunting, terrified, their squeals an offense to the peaceful afternoon. The huge male stumbles out onto the avenue and surmises the danger. He shuffles hotly, then turns tail and tears off with the other stampeding boars.
Walking slow, nonchalant, the warriors encroach upon the dying hog and slice her open with a dispassionate jerk of the wrist. They drag her carcass back and the caravan proceeds, marching on as the day grows long.
The ruddy haze of dusk sets on them and they repeat their nightly ritual, circling the cages and building a camp. The fire’s orange glow plays a freakish lightshow on the crumbling ruins, their shapes seeming to morph before the children’s eyes. A few of them cower and shield themselves as the strange shadows form phantasms that dart and flicker, looking like specters of the old world come back from their fiery ruination to seek unholy revenge.
At first light, in the crisp morning, they move.
The traces of civilization become sparse, odd mounds here and there covered with weeds and field grass. The procession turns north. They wind their way through more ruins, squat moldering buildings with a few standing outliers, then struggle up a barely worn and treacherous path until they emerge atop the high plateau.
The Temple looms before them.
A monumental palace, built of smooth off-white sandstone, enormous blocks nearly as tall as a man. Each ascending tier sets in a bit further, its tapered apex leveling off flat with a colonnade of redwood beams enclosing an ornate rooftop terrace. It cuts an imposing silhouette across the gorgeous natural landscape, stark and trapezoidal. Two wings branch off from the side, one of them still under construction, connected by high-vaulted arches formed by a labyrinth of trelliswork. Semicircles of palms radiate from the Temple’s grand entrance, framing a lavish staircase that fans out onto the grounds. At the head of the staircase, covered by a redwood portico, two enormous wooden doors stand wide open, large enough for a giant to pass through.
The plateau overlooks the misty valley, where the ruins of the old cities spread out below them in a fragmented grid. They march across the grounds. An elaborate garden encompasses the palatial structure, lush greenery, manicured trees and shrubs, with gravel paths meandering around the carefully arranged landscape. From the veranda at the base of the opulent staircase, a shallow reflecting pool stretches across the garden, its footprint expansive, its surface tranquil and cool. Several grooves funnel water through small fountains that trickle lazily in the afternoon sun.
There are people milling about. They do not scream and run for their lives when they see the murderous warriors approaching. They smile.
The children look apprehensively from their cages. The people gather around them, gawking through the slats at the grimy, terrified children curled up inside. A few of them wave. A handful of the children, bleary-eyed, wave back.
Jack peers out curiously as a man wearing a shirt of rough linen and simple black leggings jaunts down the staircase, surrounded by a small entourage, and strolls casually across the sandstone veranda, stopping frequently to greet people, moving always in the general direction of the procession.
There is now a chattering corridor on both sides of them, the throng collecting more new faces steadily. The children, independently, are each thinking roughly the same odd thought—they all have such nice smiles.
Small cottages are scattered about the gentle hillside, puffing out light smoke. Behind the Temple, built on the rise of the hill, is a broad sloping terrace with stone benches ascending up the natural rake of the terrain.
The cages are carried through an entrance just to the side of a broad, crescent-shaped stage. The heavy wooden door slams shut, leaving the giddy crowd outside—only the man in the linen shirt enters with them. He surveys the cages and moves about the warriors affably.
“Welcome back,” he says, softly embracing each man he encounters.
He looks in at the children, little more than a cursory glance, and they are all transfixed by his strange features. The man’s eyes are clearest blue, a trait lost to the Ages and rarely seen for many long centuries. The children did not imagine a person could be born with eyes of such a color, so bizarre and unnatural they seem.
The nursemaids carry their little baskets past him and he beams warmly at the infants, taking a few miniature hands into his own and playfully nuzzling them. The women give a swift curtsy and sweep their little bundles off to some other location, taking the smallest toddlers with them as well, and the man with blue eyes escorts them out.
The warriors set the cages down in the center of the cavernous room. Jack’s tormentor on the long voyage kneels by his side, tapping the slats with his knuckle. Jack is breathing deeply, hoping if the man aims to hurt him that he will get it over with quickly.
He grins, then slowly rises, holding Jack’s eyes with his own, then collars a fellow warrior and they hustle out of the chamber.
More stewards enter the holding area and start untying the ropes th
at lash the cages together. Their practiced hands make quick work of the task. A couple of them notice the shrouded form laid out on the cold stone floor and hurry to it, pulling back the cover and revealing the purple, death-frozen face beneath.
“Oh, Vallen, oh no,” moans an old woman. “Oh, his poor mother. How did this happen?”
“This one here.” The warrior hits the slats. “This one killed him.”
Jack peers up earnestly from his cage.
The old woman’s mouth gapes wide, shocked as she looks on Jack in horror. Gradually her expression softens and she releases her suspended breath, regarding him now with something akin to pity.
“Well,” she resigns, “I guess that’s what you should expect from a boy raised by savages.”
Chapter Three
The stewards finish unknotting the bindings until the sides of the cages fall flat on the stone floor. When every one of them is liberated the children sit immobile inside, looking dully around, afraid of being set free.
“Come on, little ones,” says the old woman. “My name is Ezbeth. I’m going to help you. Come on, now.”
No one moves.
She kneels, her voice lilting. “I know you’re scared. It’s okay. That was a scary trip.” She frowns childishly. “It’s all over now. You’re safe. Don’t be shy, come on out.”
The stewards go from cage to cage, gently tugging on arms and legs, pulling the children out. Jack feels someone grab his upper arm and guide him from his foul smelling prison, his joints and thin muscles on fire, cramping as he tries to extend his body and stand up. He kneels shaking on the ground and a man places his hand gently on Jack’s bony back.
“You’re all right, there, boy. Take you’re time. You’re all right.”
Gradually they all manage it, taking slight steps like newborn fawn, glancing frantically around the room.
Braylon unfurls, steadying himself on the edge of his cage, and lunges at the nearest steward. His wasted body collapses and he is brutally thrust to the ground. A severe looking man with a square jaw straddles his back and digs his knees into his ribs.
“I wouldn’t do that, young man,” he says, his presence commanding. “We will lock you away and you won’t see daylight till this time next year.” He flashes militant eyes at the children. “Anyone else want to get violent with me?”
They shirk back and cling to the cold walls. He cautiously lifts his weight and stands, then offers Braylon a hand. Braylon looks contemptuously at the extended gesture while the tension chills the room. Slowly, he reaches up his hand and accepts the help.
“That’s good,” says the man. “If you can all learn some respect, we’ll get along fine here. Now, wasn’t that easy?”
Braylon stays silent.
“I said, wasn’t that easy?” he repeats, calmly and without malice.
“Yes,” Braylon whispers.
“Thank you, Nisaq.” Ezbeth sighs. “No more roughness, okay?” She looks around imploringly.
Lia shuffles up behind Jack and puts her arms around him.
“You killed that man?”
Jack only nods.
She looks at him with big scared eyes. “I wish you killed them all.” The words sound utterly surreal spoken from her delicate lips.
Ezbeth grabs Lia and guides her to the far side of the room while the stewards shepherd the children into two lines, boys and girls. Jack joins his line, standing by William and Aiden.
“Now listen,” says Ezbeth, “you must all be starving. The sooner you do as we say, the sooner you will be fed. Girls, you are going to follow me in just a moment, and boys, you will go with Nisaq. Do not speak, and do not touch anything. Your hands are filthy.”
She moves to a broad doorway, leading to a sconcelit corridor, and beckons the girls to follow. Haylen is at the front of the line and her feet slip nervously across the stone and begin to move her body toward the door. The female stewards go along as well, and Nisaq takes his place by the exit.
“All right, young men, follow me. Let’s get you cleaned.”
The hallway is a sheer cavern that extends off into hazy gloom in both directions. Dreary candlelight turns the pale sandstone a ruddy orange, illuminating ghostly the paintings and furs hung along the walls. Some of the paintings depict the blue-eyed man.
Jack glances to his left and sees the line of girls shambling away, following Ezbeth to some unknown destination within the monstrous structure. Nisaq leads the boys to the right and they follow without contest. Their path cuts left and they find themselves in an open space in the corner of the Temple. A small open door allows a shaft of pale blue light to cut through the dimness. A few of the boys silently consider making a run for it. None of them do.
They dogleg around a side hall and enter the murky and humid baths. A kettle boils above the mortared fireplace. A steward uses it to warm the bathwater in the low trough that stretches the length of the skinny chamber.
“Take those rags off of you,” orders Nisaq.
The numb and brain-addled boys peel off their rancid clothes, losing their balance and stumbling around, then throw them away in a basket on the floor. The boys cover themselves in embarrassment and the basket is taken away for torching.
Nisaq gives further instructions and they obey, spooning ladlefuls of water over their dirty and tired bodies. They scrub with cloths laid out on the wash trough and finally rinse with warm clean water, slicking off the last layer of grime and watching it swirl down and out of the baths.
“Good. This wasn’t so bad, was it?”
A few of the boys murmur soft responses. A steward gives them rough towels and they dry themselves.
“Follow me this way.”
Two long benches cling to the walls of the clothier’s chamber. Each boy receives a little bound bundle containing open shirts and simple rough pants. They need no command and quickly begin dressing themselves in the new attire.
“Form a line when you’re dressed and Railek will help you find boots that fit.”
As each new boy steps forward, Railek looks ponderingly at their feet and selects a pair of high-cut leather boots. The cleaned and clothed boys sit on the benches and lace up.
“Everyone stand, let me look at you.” Nisaq moves down the line, inspecting each one with businesslike acumen. “You are… one of the finest looking groups we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
The boys shuffle and cast their eyes about.
“Hungry?”
They nod and murmur.
“Follow me.”
Nisaq guides them to the dining hall one level above and they snake around the wood beam partition that divides the room. Cozy torchlight glimmers, shining down on the tremendous banquet that has been laid out for them. The smell makes them delirious.
“Take as much as you want,” says Nisaq. “We want you to be strong for the ceremony tonight.”
Roasted meat, vegetables, and flatbread—all still steaming. Cautiously, they step forward and fill their plates, eyes wide and ravenous. Nisaq arranges them around a large redwood table and they sit frozen, staring vacantly at their food.
Jack drinks down a cup of water and the liquid sloshes in his empty stomach. He tests a small bite, wondering if this is just some vicious ploy to poison them all, or perhaps, more darkly, if they are being served some previous batch of stolen children. The meat is delicious, seared and salty. Venison. He takes another bite. His dormant stomach comes alive with hunger and he begins stuffing bite after bite into his mouth. Around him the other boys are doing the same.
Ezbeth appears at the entrance, leading the band of girls. They curve around the partition and enter the opposite side of the dining hall, scrubbed and wearing fresh clean dresses of simple linen, with little leather slippers on their feet. Ezbeth guides them through the same process and soon they are huddled over their plates, devouring every last scrap.
Ezbeth and Nisaq confer privately by the entrance.
“How are they?” she asks.
&
nbsp; “Fine. A fine group.”
“Have you had any trouble from this one,” she says, pointing to Jack. “He may be violent.”
Nisaq breathes deeply, thinking. “He’s calm. I think he’ll come around. We’ll fix him if he doesn’t. And the girls?”
“They’re lovely.”
“Wonderful.”
Ezbeth takes the girls to a rough-hewn lodge, built off to the side of the amphitheatre, overlooking the bluffs, a temporary structure while the Temple dormitory is constructed. Stewards corral them inside like little ducklings while two sentries stand guard.
“Come in, girls, and see your new home,” sings Ezbeth. “You can each pick your own bed and start getting settled in.”
The girls take hesitant steps through the lodge, stealing cautious glances toward their captors. Ezbeth and the stewards smile and wave them forward. They choose their bunks and stand nervously by, awaiting further instruction. Lia picks one in the back corner, as far away from the door as she can get.
Jeneth stops in the middle of the room and turns to face Ezbeth.
“Why did you bring us here?” she asks, her voice cracking. “Who are you?”
A few of the girls shush here brusquely, fearful her questions might trigger another windfall of violence from the killers stationed at the door.
“It’s okay,” says Ezbeth, “What is your name, young lady?”
“Jeneth.”
“Jeneth, those questions and many others will be answered tonight at the welcoming ceremony. Right now, all you need to do is make yourself at home.”
“This isn’t my home.” Her voice is firmer now, stronger.
“Jeneth, shut up.”
The other girls step back instinctually and press their backs to the walls.
Ezbeth’s demeanor remains calm and cheerful.
“I know it doesn’t feel like your home now. But it will. That I can promise.” She strides to the door, turning back before she leaves. “You have some time to rest—use it. We’ll come for you shortly.”