by A. Sparrow
“Ladies? Where are your bags?” said Helen, packing the last of the curds on a stainless steel bench.
“We’re not going,” said Karla. “We’re staying to help you?”
“What?” Helen scrunched her face.
“I need someone to go down and open the gate.”
“I’ll get it, boss!” said Harry, reaching for his crutch.
Renfrew smirked. “Someone’s in a hurry to see me off.”
Harry shrugged. “Just being helpful.”
They left the barn and headed for Renfrew’s blue Ford Focus. The boot was open and waiting. Harry hurtled down the dirt lane, swinging his cast with the aid of a single crutch.
Renfrew flung his valise into the boot and climbed into the driver’s seat. Jessica came around and joined him as Karla looked on, kneading her fingers into Isobel’s shoulder.
“Not so hard, La. You’re digging into my bones.”
“Well, then,” said Renfrew, hanging his arm out the driver’s side window. “Farm’s all yours.”
“Be careful. And good luck,” said Karla.
“We’ll pray for you,” said Isobel.
Helen burst out of the cheese house. “What’s all this? You two aren’t going with them?”
“We’re staying behind to help you and Harry with the chores,” said Karla.
“Nonsense. We don’t need any help. Milk production’s already starting to peter. The last batch of cheese is all racked. Ren’s got no right to make you stay behind and fester. You’ll just worry yourself to death.”
“No, really, it is alright,” said Karla. “We have discussed this. It is better we stay back and—“
“Harry! Don’t you dare open that gate yet.”
Harry stood with the chain dangling in his grip. Helen ran up to the car and had a brief but intense exchange with Renfrew. She turned to the girls, victorious.
“Karla, Isobel. Get your things. You’re going with them. Harry and I can manage the farm just fine. If we need any help, I’m sure my lady friends would be glad to come and spend a few days. They love it here.”
“Oh, just what I need,” said Renfrew. “A satanic, bestial orgy on my consecrated land. And to top it all, I’m not invited.”
“There’ll be no such thing. And if even there was, we wouldn’t invite you, you old fart. And … consecrated? Who are you kidding? You’re farming atop a bloody slag heap.”
“Just promise you won’t burn the place down or sacrifice any goats while we’re away.”
”You don’t have to worry,” said Helen. “This farm runs better without you. But you be careful, old man. Not too quick on that trigger.”
Chapter 25: The Sanctuary
With a swirl of umber and gold, Mom, or at least the Freesoul who so uncannily looked like her, passed beyond the parade ground and out of sight. I ran after her as if possessed, the blood surging into my head. If she was here, then I was sold. This place had to be Heaven, or at least some reasonable facsimile.
I dashed across the open space and cut into the mass of huts and lean-tos that filled most of the space between the outer and inner walls, hoping catch up to her on the main thoroughfare, a lane about twenty feet wide that hugged the slick, pale slope of the inner wall.
Lille had told us that it ringed the Sanctuary—the exclusive domain of Frelsi’s Freesoul population. While the outer wall was riddled with gaps, each unguarded, the Sanctuary had only two outlets and both were under heavy guard. Hemis could enter for work, but every last one of them had to leave by nightfall.
Careening down the narrow, twisting passages between huts, cutting through vacant shanties, leaping over cots and benches, I broke out onto the main road and straight into a jam. A convoy of huge Reaper-drawn wagons had just pulled in from a spoke-like side road and had compressed all of the traffic trying to go the other way.
I caught a glimpse of Mom just beyond the tie-up. As I squirmed past the jam, a six-legged Reaper hauling one of the big wagons growled and lunged at me. I leapt aside, straight into a man laden with a bundle of empty gourds so large it made him resemble an ant carrying a peanut. His gourds went clattering to the ground.
“So sorry!”
The man didn’t even look at me. He just shrugged and put his mind to recovering his load.
“You fool! Never get in a Reaper’s way,” said the wagon driver. “I don’t care if it’s muzzled.”
I ignored him, my eyes glued to the patch of gold and umber rapidly receding up the lane. The Reaper took advantage of my inattention to take another swipe at me. It knocked me down and slobbered over me until the driver hopped off his seat and beat it back with his sturdy staff.
Even for a Reaper, this was a particularly nasty-looking beast, a wart-studded snout that dripped with drool. If the cage-like muzzle strapped to its mouthparts was any indication, this one had nipped at passersby before.
I sidled away and shoved my way through the backup, dodging around the wagons, trying desperately to catch up with Mom. A Freesoul in a long, cobalt blue coat stood beside the inner wall, watching me.
Caught in the flow of the crowd, I had no choice but to brush past him. He grabbed my wrist as I went by and hauled me aside, slamming me against the wall.
“What’s all this rushing about, Hemi? Why are you in such a hurry?”
“I’m … I saw … my mom,” I said, all flustered. “I need to go. She’s getting away!”
“Your … mother?” he said with a smirk. “Where’s your working party? Where’ve you been assigned? Don’t you realize we’re at war, boy?”
“I’m new here,” I said, craning my neck, trying to keep tabs on Mom, but I had already lost sight of her.
He flipped my wrist over. “You … have no mark!” He seemed almost repelled to have touched me.
“Like I told you. I’m new.”
“But you can’t be here, un-vetted,” he said. “Come with me. I’m going to have to take you back outside these walls.”
I yanked my arm free and dove under one of the huge, Reaper-drawn wagons a large wagon that was rolling past. I scrambled beneath it, barely avoiding being crushed by the massive wheels.
I slipped under a sheet of fabric screening the busy lane from someone’s hut and squeezed down a narrow alley between rows of huts, and into a tent-like cook shack. Baskets brimming with tiny, disc-shaped beans and various types of white and yellow meal were arrayed in one corner next to a clay cistern. Caramelized brown goo encrusted several cauldrons in the central fire pit.
I picked up a half-burned twig and sketched a large C on my arm, shading the edges to give the appearance of three dimensions. My art work would never withstand the scrutiny of a close inspection, but it might be enough to fool a casual glance.
I pulled back a flap and peered out into the next alley. The encampment seemed abandoned. Apparently, everyone who slept here was elsewhere working. I wondered how Lille got away with hanging around idle at her place all day.
I made my way warily back to the main lane, keeping an eye out for the guy who had hassled me. That nasty wagon train had moved on and the foot traffic was moving again, most of it turning a corner onto a broad, trapezoidal ramp that fed into a set of three gates. Most of the crowd queued en masse behind the large, central gate, while Freesouls filed through the smaller portals on its flanks.
And there was Mom and her entourage. They had almost reached the entrance. I joined the larger queue and pushed ahead, taking advantage of my lack of cargo to slip ahead of those who were laden with goods or had carts to tend.
I watched as Mom passed through the entrance, while her bodyguard kept watch over the crowd still waiting to get in. Our eyes met. He seemed puzzled and annoyed to find me staring back at him. With Mom safely through, he turned and followed her through the opening.
The main gate was complete chaos as the throngs converged. A wagon clipped a whole line of waiting people and sent them and their wares crashing to the ground. Baskets ripped. Leaves fluttered fr
ee in the breeze. Berries bounced and rolled. Spilled roots writhed and crawled away.
I took advantage to zip ahead in the queue. The guards were so overwhelmed, they let people pass with the vaguest glimpse of their markings. A flash of my fake C was all I needed to gain a flick of a guard’s chin and I too was through the main gate.
I entered a huge elliptical plaza covered in pale and seamless clay that gleamed bright in the sun. A dense cordon of weird, columnar buildings rose abruptly along its entire periphery. Branched like chubby scrub brushes, striated, segmented, green towers rose hundreds of feet from bases as broad as carriage houses. They reminded me of artist’s depictions of prehistoric forests from earliest days of earliest dinosaurs.
Railed platforms circled each node, supported by the radial spoke-like branches, connecting to others by bridges, extensions and ladders. The segments remained roughly equal in size up till the topmost third of the trunks, from which they narrowed successively at each node, tapering to perches that reminded me of the crows’ nests atop the masts of sailing ships. On the tippity top, mace-like balls studded with vicious-looking spikes bobbed in the wind, providing protection, I assumed, from aerial assaults by mounted mantids.
Soldiers manned the highest platforms which were fitted with cannons and harpoon launchers. The lower segments and platforms were the domain of Freesouls. A group of brightly-clothed folks leaned on the rail of one of the closest towers, sipping from stemmed glasses and watching the bustle below.
Once past the gate, the wagon trains and foot traffic fanned out and dispersed to various points across the plaza. I scanned the borders and spotted my mom huddled with her entourage at the base of one of the towers.
I tore ass across the open space, slowing up only as I came within earshot. That voice! I knew it better than any other in the universe—that slight Ohio twang to her hard vowels, just a shred of a lisp. It sealed the deal. This could only be Darlene.
I hovered in back of her little group, giddy with excitement in expectation of our reunion. Happy tears dripped down my face. It took all the restraint I could muster to not shove past the others and dive into her arms.
I know she saw me. Our eyes kept meeting and she kept glancing away. That confused me. Why would she be giving me the cold shoulder? Did she not want to show her emotions in public? But how could she hold back? It had been months since her funeral and I was her only son.
Was she in denial? Was this the last place she expected to see me? Did she not believe it was me? Might this woman not be my mother?
I stood there, holding back, as I studied her nuances. I knew in my bones, there was no way this could not be my mom, even though there were aspects of her face that seemed slightly off. The flesh Weavers had not only made her younger, they had tweaked her looks a bit, narrowing the unusually broad bridge of her nose, adding delicacy to her heavy chin and fullness to her lips.
Who could blame her for wanting to improve her face a mite while she had the chance? As Lille had said, this makeover was for eternity.
“Are we in your way, sir? Are you trying to get by?”
Sir? I couldn’t believe she had just called me sir. I was speechless.
“Argyle, see what this man wants.”
“M-m-mom?”
She stared back, half annoyed, half quizzical. Not even the faintest glimmer of recognition crossed her face. How could she not remember me?
“Mom. It’s me. James,” I pleaded.
She shook her head slowly.
“Argyle, please. Move this Hemi along. I have things to do.”
“But Mom!”
The burly guy, her bodyguard, grabbed my arm and pulled me away.
“Let go of me! That woman is my mother. I just want to talk to her.”
“Shove off, or I’ll stick you in the pens,” he said, with a distinctly Australian accent.
“Darlene!” I shouted, as he dragged me away. “Your name is Darlene Moody”
Something connected with her. She teetered a little bit and had to catch her balance. She knew her name at least, even if she no longer knew her own son.
“Jeez, Mom! How can you not remember me? I’m your only child.”
With fear rimming her eyes, Mom reached behind her and touched the green tower. The wall split open. The bottom corners peeled up and apart, forming a triangular entrance. She ducked into it with considerable haste and distress.
“Mom! Wait! It’s me! James. It’s really me!”
She didn’t look back as she bustled across a floor of translucent tiling, trotting up the spiral staircase that was carved from and curled up the inner wall.
The bodyguard snatched me by the shirt and dragged me away from the tower. He shoved me, and I went sprawling onto the clay, dripping tears onto the dust.
“Why doesn’t she remember me?”
“What makes you think it’s not your mind that’s been addled?” said the bodyguard. “You’re not the first Hemi to come here with a scrambled brain. Now move on! If I catch you anywhere near my mistress again, I’ll have you turned to chowder.”
***
Hemis and wagons passed all around me, but I just sat there amidst the tumult, cross-legged in the clay, unable to will myself back onto my feet. My insides felt like they had been crushed and swirled in a way that could never be put back together again. Now I knew how Humpty Dumpty felt.
From the middle of the bustling plaza, my idleness drew the attention of an angelic faced Hemi, who wore a vest of many pockets bearing flasks of amber liquid and carried wreaths of what looked like bay leaves and rosemary.
She diverted her path to come and stand right in front of me. She had hair so blonde it looked almost white.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Are you fading?”
“Nah. I’m just … I’m confused. I need some time to think.”
Her eyes flitted about. “Well, this is not the most appropriate place to meditate. You’d better get off your bum and get moving. Find yourself a working party. Otherwise, they’ll brand you a Defective and— Oh! There are some soldiers coming this way. They’ve spotted you. Up, up, up!”
I looked up and there they were, crossing the plaza towards me in their armor and weird, little helmets—four of them—and they looked like they meant business.
“Run!” she said.
The level of fear in her eyes startled and propelled me. I popped up and sprinted to the opposite end of the plaza, glancing over my shoulder as I ran. The soldiers went up to the girl, stopping her as she tried to walk away. They spoke with her a while before letting her continue on.
I reached the opposite edge of the plaza, up against another solid bank of those tree-towers. The soldiers were standing there, staring at me so I left the plaza, darting into their shadows, this way and that.
There was no order to the arrangement of the towers. The twisty paths between formed a random meshwork with no dominant direction. I circled this way and that around the base of each tower. Before I knew it I was deep in the forest and all turned around, lost in the shadows.
I could hear Freesouls laughing and chatting on their platforms above me, but wasn’t foolish enough to ask for directions. I just wanted to get back to the plaza and leave the Sanctuary without being spotted by those soldiers. The look in that blond girl’s eyes still bothered me.
I kept walking, hoping to blunder my way back to someplace more recognizable. But the towers got wilder and more unkempt the deeper I plunged. This really was a forest.
Every pillar was hollow, but not all were habitable. They ranged in size from saplings the width of telephone poles to bulbous monstrosities wide as a school bus. These structures were alive, not built, their green coloration coming from actual chlorophyll.
Many dead towers were intermingled with the living. These were bleached and faded to the gray of weathered, cedar shingles, their walls split open and decayed. Here and there, were hollow stumps outlining where some outrageously massive towers had stood, bigger than
any I had yet seen.
I heard a ripping sound. Something splintered and crashed. I followed my ears to a clearing, pausing at the edge to see what was going on. A work crew was dismantling a fallen tower with crystalline blades mounted at the ends of long poles. Their blades passed through the woody stems like steel through whale blubber. The sections were pulled aside and stacked neatly. Some of the shanties between the walls had been made from sheets of this stuff.
I moved through the clearing briskly, pretending as if I had sent on some urgent errand. Through the corners of my eyes I could see one of the supervisors watching me, but I didn’t engage him, I just kept on walking until I was once again surrounded by towers.
These looked like they had long been vacant. Their slitted entrances had knotted over and healed shut. Platforms dangled in shreds from the spokes that supported them.
It seemed like such a waste of space. There was plenty of room to house every Hemi in the Sanctuary. It made no sense to cram them all between the walls. But I guess that’s why this place was called the Sanctuary. Freesouls preferred to be among their own kind after dark.
‘Their own kind.’ Listen to me! I was already assimilating their warped view of humanity. The Freesouls were really not any different from us Hemis. They were just a little more dead.
I meandered in a daze, deeper into the jungle of towers. I had no purpose, no direction, no goal. I just wandered, trying to process what had gone wrong with my mom. Did they flesh Weavers brainwash her? Then why hadn’t it happened to Lille? Was loss of living memory part of the price of becoming a Freesoul? Maybe they really meant it when they said it severed one’s connections with the living world.
I came to what I thought was yet another wall ringing another level of the city. The portals here, though, were many and unguarded and there was no one clamoring to get in.
Something flapped and honked on the other side. It sounded like some humungous goose in a tizzy. Against my better instincts, I found myself drawn into the portal, though I stepped cautiously.
I found what looked like an empty stadium without seats, just a slope of hardened clay leading down to a circular field of the same beige clay that seemed to underlay everything up here.
The bleating and flapping came from overhead, behind me. When I turned around, I nearly shit my pants. A winged Reaper came gliding down from a massive perch, dangling nasty claws that came swinging at my head. I hit the deck. It whooshed past. I rolled to my knees and crawled back into the portal.