James bled. Was he alive after he hit the courtyard floor? Janice stopped and considered what awful thoughts must have been going through his mind during the last minutes of his life. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face James’s body and shuddered. She then began the task that she was there to perform: cleaning her chosen’s body.
******
The mortician thanked Janice for attending, swallowing her hand in his while giving her a small shake and another nod of his head. Standing tall, he announced to the empty room that the rite of cleaning and passing for James Sundref had concluded. The mortician added another thank you—his voice softer, and more directed at Janice—and she nodded, understanding that it was ritual for him to have announced, such as he did. Her eyes swept around the empty room, landing on the small door that would soon open to receive James’s body, and she tried to imagine what was going to happen once James was on the other side.
Janice felt the thump of the mortician’s foot as he tapped the floor twice. On cue, the receiving door opened to reveal an area of the farming floor that Janice had never seen before. When it was open as far as it could go, she was overwhelmed by the earthy smell. The odor was pungent enough to make her eyes water, and it caused her to back away. But the mortician was standing just behind her, and she found that she’d backed herself onto the tops of his feet. The mortician said nothing and, instead, motioned toward the door, where a concert of gloved hands gestured, waiting to receive a body.
Uncertain what to do, Janice glanced up, finding the mortician’s kindly eyes. With a gentle touch, he guided her toward James’s body. As they moved closer, the malodorous bite seeping from the door grew stronger, weighing on the air, forcing her to cover her mouth. For a moment, Janice feared that she would retch. The mortician spoke a calming word or two and patted her back, assuring her that she’d be fine.
Janice wondered how the earthy soil worked: how it changed the human body to feed the plants. She tried to keep her mind on the academic aspects of what was going to happen. It helped relax the turning in her stomach, and thin the stinging in her eyes. How often had she been asked in class by a curious face or two? More than she could remember.
More tears stung her eyes, trying to wash the stench of death from her sight. Janice gulped the air, holding it inside, while pushing James toward the small door. The mortician’s face remained still, unchanged, and she considered how often he’d attended the ceremony. Daily? Maybe more? He was used to it, immune to the smell of human decomposition.
Through the opening, eager fingers gripped the air, finding nothing, until Janice moved James closer. The sight was disturbing: gloved fingers opened and snapped shut, hungry for his body. Once James’s body was within their reach, the gloved hands took a firm hold of him, pulling on his feet. His broken bones snapped back into place, the tension of his dead muscles having released and set them loose. Janice flinched when the sound clapped in her ears. She closed her eyes when his naked body sounded a protest, sliding across the metal table.
“Thank you again for attending,” the mortician said, breaking Janice’s stare. “I wasn’t certain if you’d received the message.” While his expression remained warm, his eyes regarded her with the somberness his role carried in the commune.
“I appreciate that you found me,” she answered, but was uncertain how she really felt. “I’m glad to have been here.” She turned her head toward the empty room once more as she spoke, and then exited. I hope that’s the last of them, she thought, and wiped her brow. At least for a while.
Janice welcomed the Commune air, and breathed deeply until the salt pinched her insides with congestion. She was only vaguely aware of the ringing afternoon bell as she considered the rest of her day. Her classroom would be dismissed soon.
A young woman with a child tethered to her side approached, rushing to reach her. Janice Gilly knew the face of the woman, but more than that, she recognized the little girl: the resemblance to her mother was uncanny. The mother of the child was Mary Berger, who had been a somewhat bright student. As Janice remembered, though, she had been more interested in what others were doing than in what the lesson plan held for the day. Janice hadn’t seen the young woman since she had turned seventeen and had chosen.
Empty seats in the back rows of the classroom were quite common. While the names of her students changed, she’d often seen their faces coming back in her younger students.
From the back row, to the front row… it’s a miracle, really, Janice thought, and considered the improbability of how their Commune had been able to survive all these years. But we do. We survive.
Mary’s little girl gave Janice a long look, as though wondering who this person was standing in front of them. Janice motioned a subtle greeting, but the child shrank back behind her mother’s leg, peeking out just enough for Janice to see her eyes. Janice put on one of her better pre-school smiles in the hopes of staving off the little girl’s bashfulness, and in an instant the girl’s eyes warmed. Soon, the young girl was playing, wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs, no longer caring who was around them.
“Mary, how good to see you!” Janice exclaimed, and then knelt to meet Mary’s daughter. “And I see you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”
“Hi, Ms. Gilly,” Mary answered, breathless. “I’m sorry to rush, but I’m on my way, and wanted to catch you here. I… I mean, catch someone here.”
Janice stood, she could feel Mary’s need to speak to her like heat coming off her body.
“I’m sorry?” Janice asked.
Mary closed her eyes and then started again. “Well, you see, I didn’t exactly know who I’d find here today,” Mary said, her tone relaxed and her breathlessness gone. “But, Ms. Gilly, I had no idea it’d be you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was your chosen.”
Janice nodded, appreciating the sentiment. She then became curious. “Thank you, Mary,” she started, and laid her hand to her heart. “But how did you know James?” she continued, and then peeked down to Mary’s daughter. The girl held the tether strap tightly, her pudgy fingers white, while she rested her weight on it, rocking back and forth. When Janice turned back, she found that Mary’s face had grown pale, her lower lip dipping as her stare stretched blankly ahead.
At once, Janice understood the connection, and a knot of regret formed in her belly. Janice hoped that Mary’s young daughter hadn’t been there, that she hadn’t seen anything. She’d hoped that nobody saw James leap to his death. But the hope wasn’t realistic, not with a courtyard that was almost always busy.
“You were in the courtyard that day… weren’t you?” Janice asked, pressing her hand on Mary’s arm, thinking it would console her. Mary fixed her eyes on Janice, shaking her head at first, and then nodded.
“I’d never seen anyone die before,” Mary began to say, her eyes wandering again. “He just fell… out of nowhere; he landed a few dozen hands from us. I heard the sound of something falling, and then breaking, and… and he was alive.” Janice listened as Mary talked, and tried to remain the teacher, holding Mary’s arm, caring for her as if she were eleven again and someone had pulled her hair. But Mary was talking about James, her chosen, and Janice imagined him falling and crashing to the courtyard. The images became too much, and Janice pushed her face into her hands, holding back the tears for only a moment before giving in.
She felt the warm touch of little hands wrap around her leg, and heard a young voice calling out to her mother, asking why the lady was crying. Mary’s hands came next, embracing Janice as she sobbed a final time for James. When her eyes began to dry, she looked back to Mary, ready to hear more.
“Thank you, Mary… thank you, and your lovely daughter. Thank you,” Janice whispered, sniffling, and then leaned to pinch the little girl’s cheek. When Janice was met by the little girl’s uncertain eyes, she stroked the girl’s cheek, assuring her that she’d be fine.
“He didn’t live long,” Mary blurted, and sought out Janice’s eyes, anxious to tell h
er more, to finish what she’d started to say, and then be on her way. “Your man, he was alive when he landed. We went to him, to help, but he only lived for a few minutes.”
There was only one question Janice could think to ask. “Did… did he say anything to you?”
Mary pushed her eyes up, and shook her head. “No. Well, hardly anything we could understand, except your name, your first name. He said it once, and then he mumbled about bringing something back, and then he was, well, dead.” Before Janice could say another word, Mary reached into the front pocket of her coveralls and produced a small pouch.
The pouch was made out of old coverall pieces, cinched with a torn strand of fabric, keeping hidden whatever was inside. Mary pushed the pouch forward, letting it hang from her fingers. Janice looked once at the pouch, and then back to Mary, who by then had jutted a quick nod of her chin, motioning for her to take it, as if it were criminal to hold onto it a minute longer. Janice reached up and accepted the small pouch.
“Was this his?” Janice asked, lifting it between them.
Mary responded with another nod, and then answered, “But, before he jumped, something else fell: small pieces. I didn’t recognize what they were. There weren’t a lot, but there were enough for the kids to run around the courtyard, grabbing at them, making a game of it, the way kids do.” Mary shrugged and fixed a nonchalant look in her eyes. “And we didn’t think anything of it. None of us did. I didn’t even bother to look at what the kids were chasing after. But then your man fell, and when I went to him, I saw that he had one of the pieces in his hand,” Mary continued. She looked once to her daughter, and then back to Janice. “When I saw what he held in his fingers, I knew I had to get them all, to put them together. So I collected the pieces from the children. Ms. Gilly, I don’t understand what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it. And… well, I don’t think I want to hold onto it. So… maybe you can take it?”
Janice pinched the tied strand of fabric, trying to loosen the knot. As the fabric unwound, she heard a small gasp, and then found Mary’s hands covering hers. Janice quickly tightened the knot, confused. She looked to Mary to ask what was wrong; Mary said nothing, just shook her head and pushed the pouch closer to Janice, keeping it concealed beneath a lace of fingers. When Mary looked over Janice’s shoulder, she realized that the mortician was likely still standing at the entrance, and that the contents of the pouch, for some reason, scared Mary enough that she thought the pouch should stay closed in public. Understanding, Janice tucked the pouch into her coveralls, nodding back to Mary, who’d already stepped back, tidying herself to leave.
Mary forced a smile, and pulled her little girl closer to her side. “It was so nice to see you again, Ms. Gilly,” she said, her tone flat as she glanced once more past Janice. “And I am so very sorry for your loss.” Watching Mary’s eyes wander past her again, Janice felt a strong urge to turn around, but she refused it, playing along with Mary’s concerns.
“It was good to see you, too,” she answered. Dipping her head to face Mary’s daughter, she continued brightly, “And I’m expecting that in a few years, we’ll see plenty of each other!”
As Mary turned to walk away, Janice’s thoughts went to the small pouch. What could James have had that would scare Mary so? Certainly something so small wouldn’t be a danger. Or would it?
******
Janice made herself an afternoon cup of root tea, then eyed the cycle in her dwelling. The tea was bitter and barely warm. Knowing that she’d have to ride soon, she frowned, and hoped that the chore could wait another day. For now, she couldn’t be bothered with the cycle. She sipped the tea, crinkling her nose at it.
When she sat down at her center table, she held her tea, but didn’t drink it. Instead, she pushed her head back and rested, letting the day fall out of her. Within moments, her eyes had grown heavy and she’d escaped to that place between asleep and awake. Then her thoughts went to James.
She thought of the door in the wall, and how the workers on the farming floor pulled on his legs, dragging him inside. She heard the sounds of his broken bones snapping against one another, and of his body sliding from the table. It was her James, her chosen, and her insides tumbled at the thought of his death. She pushed the image back, shaking her head, and tried to think of anything else. A question came then. Had the mortician been listening to her and Mary? She perked her head up, thinking of Mary and the pouch she’d given her.
Janice pushed away the parchment with the mortician’s seal, avoiding the blood seal—once again abiding by her father’s warning. A thought went through her mind that made her father’s warning seem even more dire: what if you touch a blood seal after it’s been cracked? Thoughts of mortal wounds came to her mind, but she was quick to dismiss the consideration as just more folklore.
She pulled from her coveralls the small pouch that Mary had given her. Turning it over in her hands, Janice brought the pouch to the side of her head and shook it. There was no sound: no rattle or bounce against her fingers. If not for the look in Mary’s eyes, she’d have thought the pouch was empty. Yet there was something inside, and Mary wanted whoever showed up at James’s rite of cleaning and passing to have it. She’d collected the pieces from the children… pieces of what?
Janice pulled on the strands of knotted fabric until the cinched weave came loose. She set the strand of fabric off to the side, pushing it as she had with the blood seal, hoping the tie didn’t carry any of its own folklore. Lifting her hand to pour out the contents, she stopped. She thought of James, and wondered why he had jumped. The mortician had said nothing; he’d have surely told her if there was more, wouldn’t he have?
Why didn’t he come to me? This last thought stirred a deeper hurt, an old resentment that she quickly pushed away. Janice swiped at her cheek, ridding herself of a pointless tear. She turned the small pouch inside out, picking at the rigid stitching that knitted the old coverall fabric together. The pouch was empty, and had served its purpose.
Janice looked over the jumbled mess of ripped parchment. Even heaped together, she could see that the parchment was different, and she began to understand Mary’s concern. Janice picked up the biggest piece, pressing her finger against its edge.
She raised her chin, and blurted, “Paper! This is a piece of paper!”
Janice had watched every video and had viewed every photograph stored on the troublesome classroom android. She recognized that it was paper, but not the type; only that it had been manufactured, processed, and pressed, and that it wasn’t made from recycled fabric, repurposed and stiffened, like their parchment.
“This can’t be,” she murmured, sitting back in her chair to sip her tea. Lifting one of the larger pieces to her nose, she realized something else.
“No salt. This paper is new—but that can’t be!”
Janice wanted to believe that what was in front of her was ancient: a left-over artifact from a time before the accident, preserved for hundreds and hundreds of years. She shook her head, knowing the paper shouldn’t exist. Not anymore.
She sized up the pieces, studying the fractures that tore what was once whole. An image of James’s body came to her then, fractured like the paper. Broken. What did these pieces of paper have to do with him? Had he died for them? Had he died because of them?
James, what did you have here? Carefully, she pulled the jumbled pieces apart, picking one up and flipping it over. She spread the pieces in front of her, peeling them apart from the lumped shape of the pouch they’d formed into. She sifted through the puzzle pieces, but the mystery on the table seemed to mock her, leaving her perplexed and baffled.
Janice was only vaguely aware that she was smiling: her interest in the riddle was increasing. At some point, she’d leaned up onto the end of her chair, with her toe pinned to the floor and her leg shaking. It was a habit she’d formed years before, while grading schoolwork, trying to understand what answers her students were after. While she hated the circumstance that brought the small pouc
h to her, a part of her was enjoying the meditation of mulling over a mystery.
When she found the blue lines, Janice started to see how the paper must have looked intact. Within moments, she cobbled the pieces of paper back together. But when her fingers rested on the last piece—the one with the ugly crimson stain—her eyes went to the broken blood seal. The last piece of the puzzle bore his blood like a badge of something horrific: a reminder that would forever identify how he’d died, and maybe why he’d died. She eased the last piece into place. The parchment was whole—all of the pieces were there—but it was only loosely mended.
There were numbers on the paper, a new puzzle to capture her attention. Looking over the series of squared digits, her skin was soon abuzz again, and she gave them her full attention. Janice tried to make sense of what had made the glyphs, and what they were meant for.
“No writing stone made these,” she exclaimed, taking another sip of her tea and pressing her finger against one of the inky numbers. Keeping her voice to a mere whisper, she read aloud what was on the strange paper. A sudden scurry of footsteps sounded outside her door, distracting her. With her concentration broken, a thought came. She knew only one other person who had any ties to the executive floor: Richard Chambers. If anyone could help her understand what this was, it would be Declan’s father. Janice could only hope that Declan’s mother, an executive like James, had shared some of her knowledge of the executive floor with her husband.
Another pair of feet shuffled past her door, and Janice expected to hear the afternoon bell ring out to the Commune. She decided that it would be best to write down the numbers on her own parchment, for fear of losing just one of the pieces of the odd paper. Once the numbers were copied, Janice put the pieces back in the small pouch, hoping that Richard might recognize what the numbers meant. She needed there to be more to James’s death than just a despairing leap from the executive floor. After all, his death was the real mystery, and now she had a clue.
Blinded By Sight (Gray Series Book 3) Page 5