* * *
Following the two elder Members, Francesca entered a sunlit room, almost as bright as the large round space they’d just left. Long and narrow, the room followed the curvature of the prison’s shell and its contents shocked her. The room was a library or a well-stocked reading room. Books dominated the space followed closely by art, and antique furniture. The walls were packed with volumes on shelves fit to burst.
The spine of every book had been pulled to the edge of its shelf to make a uniform, flawless plain. Most striking was the choice of how the plethora of titles was organized.
Turning around, she saw the wall through which she had just walked was covered in large, dark-brown books that gave her the feeling of being imposed upon. Flowing to the wall opposite the windows and around the room clockwise, the colors became lighter. The large books sat on higher shelves and shrank in size toward the bottom. From brown and to orange and red and yellow and finally into blues on the last of the shelves on the outer wall under the windows. By the floor sat pale blue books no wider than a pencil.
The books flowed around the room like a gaudy wave. They washed the walls of the library in an evolution of emotion. Foreboding and dark to fiery anger to light and happy, and finally terminating in low melancholy.
The floor was covered in a patchwork of thick rugs of a middle eastern color palate and design. Several tall lamps stood around the room and a low, squat globe dominated the far corner by the window. High-backed leather chairs were placed at odd locations; two of them near her sat around a low wooden table. Natural light bathed the floor through small square windows that she now realized were the same she saw around the top rim of the prison.
To her, the atmosphere of the room and its design seemed off. It seemed to contradict some belief she did not know she had about the preferences of the Member Principal of the Order of the Coppice. It reminded her of the jolt one felt when a step was one inch too high or too low—the mind expects one thing and gets something else that is not quite right.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected to see as she was unaware of this level’s existence until moment ago. Additionally, interior decorating habits of Member Principals had never come up in her studies.
She knew one thing: this space was out of focus; it was more important than it should be.
Neither of the men noticed her gazing as they sat nearby in the two high-backed chairs.
Jacobi sat in the far chair, profiled against the light in the windows, his hands folded across his legs. For a silent moment, he stared at Rudolfo opposite Jacobi, his back to Francesca.
“You saw it?” Jacobi said.
“I did.”
Jacobi let out an audible sigh and turned his head toward the windows. He rested his chin on a fist.
“Very disturbing,” Jacobi said.
“Is it?”
Jacobi did not respond, but continued staring at the windows.
“Our purpose is to select,” said Rudolfo. “Assess and select. If one a Member …”
“Our purpose,” Jacobi said without looking back to Rudolfo. “Our purpose. Our function. What of our purpose now? A dead Member is useless to fulfill their purpose. And what of us that remain now that so much has been exposed? Do you feel we can still fulfill our purpose?”
Rudolfo was silent until Jacobi turned back to face him.
“I do.” Rudolfo adjusted the folds in his cossack and brushed lint from one knee. “As I was saying, if a Member chooses to assess and select themselves, it is their right to do so.” Now, Rudolfo was staring at the windows. “It is not forbidden. Nor is it uncommon. Frowned upon maybe, but has his commitment not been fulfilled? He did not abandon his duty, as others have.”
Francesca saw the slightest turn of Rudolfo’s head toward her. He checked himself before saying the word “others”. Jacobi appeared uncomfortable, rearranging his cassock behind him and between his legs. Francesca wondered if Rudolfo would have spoken openly if she were not in the room.
Transparency, it seemed, did not mean total.
“Brother Wilcott’s reputation was one of consistency and diligence,” continued Rudolfo. “If asked my opinion …”
“You may assume you have been asked,” said Jacobi.
“I think Wilcott was near the end,” Rudolfo continued. He looked back at Jacobi, inclining his head. “I saw his mark. It was considerable. I believe he felt he had fulfilled his commitment. Purpose being served, his respite was to self-select and prevent nature from taking its cruel and painful course.”
“By god, Rudie,” said Jacobi.
He was now more animated and agitated than before. His brow creased and fists clenched in his lap.
“It is not the fact that he self-selected. You think I care about that?” He smoothed the front of his cassock. “That is to say, I do. I always wonder if a Member has self-selected too early on purpose. And I obviously care if one of our brethren dies, regardless of how.” He waved a hand, brushing the idea away. “But that is beside the point! Self-selecting is one thing, but to do it as Wilcott did! You know of what I speak, Rudolfo.” Jacobi leaned in toward Rudolfo. “Since our founding, our methods have been kept secret. And he goes and makes a show of it! Makes a goddamn spectacle of it, Rudie!”
The man was flush. Red splotches creeped up his neck onto his pale face. He inhaled deep in an apparent attempt to calm himself.
“I agree,” said Rudolfo.
Rudolfo’s demeanor had remained placid. She knew he wanted to bring Jacobi’s mood down, so he brought his own down to a point that his voice was close to a whisper.
“The choice of method and venue was curious. But I believe he simply wanted it to be painless.”
“Did he really disrobe, Rudie?” Jacobi placed one gloved hand on his chest.
“Yes.”
“So, they saw all of him? They saw his mark as you did?” asked Jacobi.
“Yes.”
“And what did they make of the mark and the method?”
She listened as Rudolfo went into detail about the reaction of the inmate population upon first seeing Wilcott’s hand, then his arm and torso. How they were struck dumb for a moment, but soon became more fervent for Wilcott to jump.
The Member Principal sat quietly for several seconds tracing his jawline with the back of one hand. “We must be careful, Rudolfo.” His voice had sank low, his eyes locked on the floor. “We must be careful that this incident doesn’t affect our position with the inmate population. This could jeopardize our very perilous hold on them.”
Rudolfo paused before continuing. “I understand. Shall I return with a more thorough assessment of the situation?”
Jacobi turned his head toward the window again. There was another long pause before either of them spoke.
“Wise Brother?” said Rudolfo.
“Yes?” replied Jacobi, appearing to snap out of his thoughts as he turned back to Rudolfo.
“Shall I return with an assessment?” Rudolfo asked.
“No, no, don’t bother yourself with such things. I’ve been around long enough to know this will get sorted,” Jacobi said, waving a hand at Rudolfo. He returned his gaze back to the window as Rudolfo stood to leave. “Just tend to your duties as per usual. They require you full attention.”
11
The Sacred Task
The Apprentice and her Mentor entered the elevator after a silent walk around the bright, circular space. She watched as he reached out to the keypad and pressed the number twenty-four, waving the back of his hand in front of the scanner once more. She watched as he stood facing the elevator doors. She watched him expecting some indication that it was okay for her to ask questions.
As if reading her thoughts, Rudolfo gave her a sideways glance. “You have questions.”
“I do.”
“I told you I would be transparent. Ask your questions.”
“What happened to Brother Wilcott?” she asked.
Rudolfo continued to face the elevato
r doors, his hands behind his back. “If you can’t tell me what happened through simple observation and the context of the conversation you just witnessed, our time together will be difficult for you.”
“Wilcott self-selected.” She turned to face him and raised her chin.
“Correct.”
“And they saw his mark. The inmates saw his mark.”
“Correct.”
“He performed the Sacred Task on himself and the prisoners saw that too.”
“Correct.”
She understood the rest of the story—Wilcott was older, near the end, and self-selected to choose the time and place of his end. The question, in her mind, was what impact the Member Principal feared the incident would have on Members’ standing with the prison population.
She continued, “The Member Principal is afraid the inmates will not fear or respect us as they have before? Now that they have seen the actual Task performed.”
“I think the Member Principal is mistaken. Rumors have been mostly correct about the Task anyway. I think if anything it might make them more fearful, however I believe he is right about one thing. It has changed the way they will perceive us.”
His words were stiff; she could feel them. His tone had not changed, but his breath weighed heavy in the air.
“Why?” she asked. “Why will they perceive us differently?”
“Before now, the Sacred Task was only a story, almost an old wives’ tale. Now, they know the truth. They may be more fearful, but they know exactly what to fear.”
“We’re not the bogeyman anymore.” The words left her lips before she could think to stifle them. Rudolfo snapped his head toward her and grimaced then slowly turned back to his forward gaze.
“I suppose not,” he said.
She looked aside before continuing, trying to answer the question before she asked it. Failing, she asked, “How did they see his mark?”
The mark, or the stain that signified the lives taken by a Member, was known only to those in the Order. Rumors among the inmates abounded about its existence, meaning, and origin. Now, it seemed, some of the rumors had been confirmed for an unknown number of men and women in the Coppice. Soon, the entire prison would have an idea of what it was and what it meant.
“He removed his cassock. When he fell he was all but nude.” Rudolfo looked at her. His eyes told her nothing of his emotions, they were lifeless.
The elevator slowed, nearing the twenty-fourth floor.
“Today was not typical for a new Apprentice of the Order,” he said. He turned and stared ahead again. “Tonight, however, will be. Tonight, you will witness the Sacred Task.”
The elevator doors slinked open. Rudolfo stepped off the elevator leaving Francesca speechless and alone.
Tonight, she would watch someone die.
* * *
Francesca’s introduction to her new home was unceremonious. She hurried off the elevator after Rudolfo. Her lack of emotion surprised her; she had just stepped into a world which she would call home for the rest of her life, yet she felt little.
She forced herself to consider her new world.
Striding down the empty hallway with Rudolfo several steps ahead, the first thing that struck her was the emptiness of it all. The outermost passageway, number four, which stretched ahead of her into the distance as a gentle curve, stood devoid of other people. Nothing could be heard, just her footsteps echoing off the walls, Rudolfo’s in the near distance, and a low hum hanging in the air.
In stark contrast to the Member Principal’s quarters, which blazed bright with the sun’s rays, artificial blue light bathed the east ward of the twenty-fourth floor, and it looked as cold as it felt. The air felt moist and heavy, and smelled of harsh cleaners. Endless tubes of light ran along the corners where the ceiling met the wall in an interminable loop throughout the ward. Floors, walls, and ceiling all bore the same pale gray paint designed to calm the inmate population.
She caught up to Rudolfo and the two of them continued down the outer passageway around its slow arc passing rooms on their left and right.
“This passageway,” Rudolfo explained, “is filled, for the most part, with rooms meant for education and entertainment. Recreation, you might call it.”
All of this Francesca knew but she did not interrupt her mentor.
“Ours is the west ward. Our quarters are also here along with some administrative offices.” He gestured to several such offices as they passed them.
“Our ward is male?” she asked.
“Correct.”
There was a strict segregation of genders at the Coppice. Male and female inmates comingled on working parties, but prison wards were designated male or female based on gender identification.
Rudolfo resumed his description of the outer passageway. “What the prison population does not know is that these recreation rooms serve only one purpose: observation. We stage these rooms to encourage interaction, the exchange of humanity so that we may observe and assess. We observe, assess, and we judge. If needed, we select.”
She listened as he went on to describe his ward, which made up the western half of the twenty-fourth floor, and how his small section of the prison worked, now her new home for the foreseeable future.
Rudolfo and one other Member of the Order had responsibility for the observation, judgment, and selection of every prisoner on this floor—sixteen hundred inmates in total, eight hundred quartered in eighty cells. Prison guards patrolled for the general protection of the prisoners and staff. Rumors and gossip kept Members safe for the most part he pointed out.
Reaching the central corridor, they turned left and straight ahead she could clearly see bright sunlight spilling in from the Great Atrium. It was midday, the sun was at its apex, and its rays spilled down the atrium like a waterfall.
A metal cage lined its interior, keeping inmates from falling into its emptiness. It glimmered reflective crimson in some places, but the majority of it was dull with rust.
Off the main corridor they entered the third passageway. It was empty of prisoners and guards here too. Rudolfo explained how the inmates were in various parts of the prison on work details—maintenance, reconstruction, and refurbishment assignments—while others were taken in parties to the nearby timber harvesting operation. The prison sold the lumber on its property as a source of revenue. Free labor made it a profitable business.
The passageways held the inmates’ quarters. She knew the cells’ dimensions by heart—each was a ten-foot cube—but seeing them in person was another shock she hadn’t expected.
The prisoners’ beds hung from the ceiling in what the inmates called a stack. Each cell contained two stacks at right angles to each other. Five beds in each stack were fastened to the ceiling and floor via stout cables welded to two corners and had the long edge of each bed bolted to the wall. The ten-foot-high ceiling gave less than two feet of space between each bed when accounting for the small gap between the last bed and the floor plus the thickness of each mattress and frame.
Reaching the end of passageway three they followed the corridor to enter passageway two. It was here that Francesca had her first face-to-face encounter with an inmate, one of Rudolfo’s charges.
The man was tall, towering over Francesca who was herself of above average height. When she and Rudolfo entered the passageway, the inmate saw them and whirled around to cower against the block wall of the passageway. He bent his head low and shut his eyes tight. His head shook back and forth; his shoulders quaked. Muffled whimpers escaped his lips.
She stared at the pale man as they walked by. Scars covered every visible patch of skin. It was obvious, he had led a brutal life. His white uniform hung loosely on his frame, dust on his bald dry scalp, no shoes on his feet.
The inmate’s visceral reaction to their presence took her aback. She found the fear a Member inspired to be profound, beyond what she’d imagined.
Francesca and Rudolfo left the man behind and only then did she realize that he
r Mentor had maintained his detailed description of the prisoners’ quarters and, as far as she could tell, did not give any notice to the whimpering man now behind them.
After seeing her first inmate in the passageway, several more appeared in random places around the ward—alone in a cell, staring into the atrium, meandering about. Rudolfo explained that these inmates were excused from work detail either because they had worked a night shift, were injured, or sick.
Their reactions mirrored the first. These prisoners only saw impending death when the black cassock came their way; they necessarily avoided it. With one exception.
One inmate stared through deep-set, sallow eyes saying nothing, exhibiting no emotion when Francesca and Rudolfo approached. She felt the severity, the purposefulness, of the prisoner’s non-reaction, but once again, Rudolfo appeared to have taken no notice.
She followed her Mentor up the north corridor, back to passageway four. He walked a short way, stopped outside a door not far from the elevator, then turned to face her.
“Your quarters.”
She opened the door to be greeted by a room similar to that of a prisoner’s cell—a perfect cube, ten feet long on every side. Along the left wall stood a narrow bed with a green wool blanket folded neatly atop white linens. In the wall past the foot of the bed was a narrow door, which stood open revealing a small bathroom complete with a shower stall. One corner held a squat set of bookshelves. The rest of the room was barren, painted in the same dull gray as the rest of the ward. Standing in the doorway, she felt her mentor waiting behind her. Francesca took a step inside the room, dropped her bag onto her bed, and returned to the hallway.
Francesca nodded her thanks just as Rudolfo turned to lead her further along the passageway, past the central corridor to another room. This one was deeper, narrower than hers and outfitted with five monitors on a long table, a control console covered in buttons and knobs, and in the center a small table with two chairs.
“Sit here.” He pointed to the table. “I will return in a few moments,”
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