by V. Cobe
CHAPTER 29
The Distorted Voice
It was all he was going to do: find Jaala. Nothing more. He wouldn’t seek men with long hair and black wings, wouldn’t think about abductions, satanic rituals, breathtaking visions, or superstitions.
I should just be quiet, he thought while looking for the black cloak in the back of a chest of drawers in the living room.
“But how are we gonna do that? That place is a real maze,” said Hazael.
“We go to the place where we found Etaú.”
“But Alem, they’ll try to catch us again,” complained Lael.
“Not if we walk around hidden.”
The clock on the Mansion of Frogs’ living room wall showed 10 p.m. The curfew warning sounded.
“I’m not going to force you to come. I’ve called you here because I couldn’t talk about this over the phone, but you’re still in time to return home.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Hazael.
“Me too,” said Lael.
“Good. Then we just have to wait—”
The phone rang. The voice on the other end spoke in a thick and distorted whisper, without however, marring the sharpness of his words.
“Ecclesiastic’s Lane, tonight at one in the morning. Don’t be late, Amen.”
He hung up.
Alem stood there with the phone to his ear as the ‘beep beep’ of the finished call echoed.
“Who was that?” asked Hazael.
Alem’s breathing accelerated.
“I think it was him.”
“Jaala?” gaped Lael.
“I think so. They only said to go to the Ecclesiastic’s Lane at one o’clock. The voice was distorted.”
“I don’t like any of this….”
“But if it was him, why not say so?” asked Hazael.
“In case the Institution is listening,” ventured Lael.
“So what if they are listening?”
“They are listening for sure,” said Alem. “We just don’t know if they’re paying attention.”
“And if they are paying attention? They’ll be watching us now, to see if we commit the Transgression.”
“And what if it’s a test from the Institution?” asked Lael.
And what if it is the man with the wings?
“Whoever it was doesn’t mean well. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t say who it was, his voice was altered and he gave you a time when it’s forbidden to walk the streets.”
“I agree,” said Lael. “Alem, we can’t fall into this trap.”
“I’ll go.”
And the other two went as well.
The deserted streets didn’t calm their fear of being caught, nor their guilt. From shadow to shadow, as Jaala had taught them on their first trip, they jumped through the night—without entering the sewers, as that would make it impossible to find a way to Ecclesiastic’s Lane—with their black cloaks closed over their heads like undershadows.
But we aren’t undershadows.
Was it possible that the optical illusion also worked with them, who were not really… umbriferos?
After running for a few blocks, Hazael stopped and gestured for them to stop also, listening. They heard the sound of a car, held their breaths and leaned against a dark blue car.
The red van of the Night Brigade came from the bottom of the block, slow and fatal, its searchlight on the roof sweeping every inch of the street.
Alem’s heart lost control, the air failed him. They’d be caught if they continued there frozen; it was only a matter of time before they were illuminated.
But Hazael whispered, “Don’t move!”
Alem trusted him.
Seconds later, the spotlight caught them.
Alem stopped breathing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not moving, while a drop of sweat appeared on his forehead. It was no use trying to escape, anyway; it would only aggravate the situation if they were caught. No one escaped the Brigades. Perhaps if, because he was cared for in the Institution or because he was the son of Irá, he could explain why they had left home, and they’d give them a less dreadful punishment than death.
The safety of the shadows covered him again when the spotlight swerved to the side, looking for Transgressors elsewhere.
Hazael whispered, “If we don’t move here hidden against the car they won’t see us.”
Thank You, God, thank You, thank You, thank You.
The relief was short lived as they realized that the Brigade’s van was coming up the street toward them.
“If they get too close, they’ll see us!” whispered Alem.
They were lit for a second and then again enveloped in the shadows.
“We have to get out of here,” squeaked Lael.
If they moved when the light was on them, the Brigade would see them; if they remained still, they’d see them if they got too close.
“We have to run up to that alley,” said Hazael. “Once the light leaves us, we run to that other car and stop before the light reaches us. When it’s off us again, we run again and so on.”
Stopping every five seconds, Alem didn’t believe they’d have time to get to the alley before the van caught up. But there was no alternative. It was either that or be executed.
They ran to the other car. It wasn’t as dark as the previous one but could still mask their cloaks. They stormed off again, going farther back. But before Lael could stop, a spotlight shined on them. The siren screamed.
The sound seemed to shrink their legs as they fled down the street, but they couldn’t stop. The spotlight wouldn’t leave them, each time illuminating them more, each time getting closer.
“TRANSGRESSORS, REMAIN STILL,” a voice shouted through a speaker.
There was a narrow alley across the street. Alem motioned the others to follow him, crossed the road and ran like crazy. The air vibrated close to his head when the Brigade fired a shot past his side.
At the end of the alley was a short wall. They climbed it and jumped to the other side, while the red van slowed in the road. Its door was opened, and three armed men sprang out.
Oh my God, what are we going to do?
On the other side of the wall, they hadn’t taken more than two steps before another red van came up focusing its strong spotlight on them.
“They’re surrounding us!” squeaked Lael.
“TRANSGRESSORS, REMAIN STILL,” repeated the mechanized voice.
A figure passed next to Alem, outside of the circle of light.
There was the sound of something cutting the air, and soon after that, the searchlight exploded into splinters.
Still dazzled by the light that had blinded them just moments before, they barely saw the undershadow signaling them and followed it.
The Brigade guards climbed out of the second van, with guns and flashlights, but they were already lost in the darkness of the night.
They ran through alleys, arcades, stairs and roofs, and when none of the three had any breath left, they stopped.
The hooded undershadow uncovered a sewer lid that was shielded by a bush and disappeared inside.
“We’re in Ecclesiastic’s Lane,” said Hazael.
“Was it that thing that called you? Do we have to follow it?”
“We can’t stay in the streets, anyway,” said Alem.
He had to follow the undershadow if he wanted to find out what that night meant.
He crouched down and went down the hole. If someone had told him the day before that on that night he’d be descending, he would’ve laughed. But there he was now, clinging to the iron ladder, in the murk, penetrating Umbra with every step.
Down below, the air was stuffy and smelly. A light fled from the left; steps departed. Hazael and Lael jumped to the side of Alem and turned on flashlights.
“Let’s go!” said Alem.
They ran along the bank of a canal until they reached an iron wall from where the light had gone through. They pushed it and entered.
Blue was everywhere.
This is niche Mysticismi’s color.
“He went that way,” said a cross-eyed girl, distracted by an electronic device the size of a cutting board, and pointed to a blue tunnel lit by torches.
They crossed it. Alem was shaking but he wasn’t the only one.
In the lobby where the tunnel emptied, an undershadow awaited them. Dozens of umbriferos stood around with their backs to them, as if something was happening on the other side. No one paid attention to them, except for that one undershadow.
When they approached, Jaala uncovered his head. He was thinner and his hair was longer, just like Alem had seen in the cathedral. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, but he smiled sheepishly.
“Sorry to have called you like this….”