The Resuurection Fields

by Brian Keaney

  “Friendly bunch!” Seersha said under her breath to Bea.

  “Look at this,” Bea told her, pointing to a notice in the window of a grocer’s shop. “‘A special television broadcast will take place at 11 a.m. on Monday,’” she read. “‘It is required viewing for all citizens.’”

  Very few people in Gehenna could afford their own televisions. There was one in each Dagabo, the meeting place where people gathered every week to take Ichor. In addition some shops and offices had them.

  Seersha glanced at the clock on the top of the corn exchange, which still seemed to be working despite the abandoned building that it now graced. “That’s in five minutes’ time,” she observed.

  “Should we go inside?” Bea asked.

  The shopkeeper was a small, pasty-faced man. Bea noticed that he wore a built-up shoe since one of his legs was shorter than the other—the likely reason he had not been conscripted to work in the Ichor mines.

  “The television’s in the back room,” he told them, pointing to a curtained doorway.

  Rows of wooden chairs had been set out in front of the television set in the inner room. A group of elderly women had already claimed the first two rows. Bea and Seersha took seats in the back.

  The room quickly filled up, but the audience sat in silence, their eyes trained on the blank screen. At last the shopkeeper limped into the room and turned on the television. Military music began to play over a picture of the flag of Gehenna. Then a news broadcaster appeared on the screen. “My fellow citizens,” he began, “it is with the greatest sorrow that I must inform you of the death of our beloved Leader, Dr. Sigmundus.”

  Most of the audience looked utterly shocked at these words, and many cried out in dismay. The broadcaster went on to describe how their leader had passed away peacefully in his sleep, and how members of the government, top civil servants and security chiefs had paid tribute to his work in developing Ichor, the miracle drug that had rescued the country from barbarism by changing people’s behavior, and in doing so had created the modern, healthy society from which they all benefited. He told them that special buses would be available for all those who wanted to witness the funeral. It would take place in two days’ time in Ellison, the capital city.

  “There is some comfort for the people of Gehenna in this, their darkest hour,” the broadcaster continued. “A successor has already been appointed. And in order to ensure continuity of leadership, the swearing-in ceremony will take place on the same day as the funeral. The face of our Leader-Designate will be unfamiliar to most of you. However, you can rest assured that he was chosen for the position by Dr. Sigmundus himself. This is the first official picture of our future Leader.”

  As a photograph of a smiling Dante appeared on the screen, Bea and Seersha looked at each other in horror.

  “Leading figures in the government have welcomed the appointment, and the Leader-Designate has graciously accepted their pledges of loyalty. In his first statement, issued this morning, he has promised to continue the work of his illustrious predecessor and announced that henceforth he will be known as Sigmundus the Second.”

  THE SUMAIRE

  “You don’t think…?” Nyro began, staring in disbelief at the bowl in the center of the room.

  “That it’s your friend Luther’s blood?” Osman finished the sentence for him.

  Nyro nodded. “Or his mother’s?” he whispered.

  Osman frowned. “It could be either. On the other hand, it might just be animal blood. Let’s hope so.”

  “But why would anybody bring a bowl of animal blood here?”

  “I suspect that there’s only one way to find out,” Osman told him. “Could you just prop that mirror up against the far wall? But don’t take the cover off. Just sit down in front of it for now.”

  Puzzled, Nyro did as Osman suggested. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “It’s what you’re going to do that counts,” Osman told him. He sat down cross-legged beside Nyro and took a stub of candle out of his pocket along with a box of matches. “In a moment,” he continued, “I’m going to light this candle. Then I’m going to remove the cover from the mirror. When I do that, I want you to start talking about your friend Luther.”

  “Why?”

  “Never mind why,” Osman said. “Just do exactly as I tell you, and you won’t be in any danger. Talk about things that matter to you—why Luther was your friend, why you are still looking for him now when everyone else has forgotten he ever existed. As you speak, I want you to keep looking in the mirror. Whatever you see there, it is very important that you take absolutely no notice of it. Do not even acknowledge its existence. Is that clear?”

  “What do you expect me to see in this mirror?” Nyro said.

  “I don’t expect anything,” Osman said more loudly this time, almost as if there were somebody else in the room who might be listening.

  Nyro flinched. Osman’s behavior was beginning to unnerve him.

  Osman struck a match and lit the candle. “Are you ready to begin?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Remember, speak the truth and leave nothing out. Do not stop unless I tell you to. Begin now!” Osman reached out and, with a flourish, removed the black velvet cloth from in front of the mirror.

  Nyro began describing how he had first become friends with Luther. It had been during his first year at secondary school. He had not found it easy to make the transition from his tiny primary school, where everyone knew him, to the anonymity of a large secondary school. There had been a boy at the school called Joseph Brandon who had bullied him mercilessly. Nyro always did his best to stay out of Brandon’s way, but one lunchtime, in search of peace and quiet, Nyro had wandered over to a partially hidden area behind some temporary classrooms—only to discover that Joseph Brandon and two of his henchmen were already there. As Brandon looked up and saw him, a grin spread across his face. He said something to his friends and they rapidly moved to block Nyro’s retreat. Then Brandon grabbed him and pushed him up against the wall.

  “What’s the matter, mummy’s boy? Are you scared?” Brandon mocked.

  Nyro had been too scared to even reply.

  “Leave him alone.”

  Brandon turned in surprise to see Luther standing, quite calmly, watching the scene.

  “What’s it got to do with you?” Brandon asked. He looked confident enough, but Nyro thought he detected a note of uncertainty in the bully’s voice.

  “He’s my friend.”

  Nyro was astonished. He had scarcely even spoken to Luther.

  Brandon hesitated, then shoved Nyro towards Luther. “Take him, then, if you’re so keen on him!” he said.

  It was an incident that Nyro recalled with the utmost clarity—and yet, as he described what had happened, he found it extremely difficult to put it into words. The parts that involved himself and Joseph Brandon were easy enough to describe. But as soon as Luther came into the picture, Nyro felt himself drying up. It was almost as if there was some external force preventing him from talking about Luther—something or someone who didn’t want to hear his friend’s name.

  “Keep talking!” Osman urged.

  Nyro began to speak about the day Luther had come up with the idea of going on a hiking trip. As he described how they had sat in Luther’s bedroom, poring over a map of the wilderness that lay between Tavor and Gehenna, he began to be aware of a smell in the room, like something rotten, growing stronger by the minute.

  In the mirror he noticed a shape now lurking in the background. The more Nyro talked, the clearer the shape became, until at last it was clearly visible—a figure crouching in the corner of the room. It was like a man, except that a pair of leathery wings stuck out from its shoulder blades. Its skin glistened with slime and its clothes hung around it in rags. With an expression of pure malevolence, it stared back at Nyro.

  Horrified, Nyro was on the point of turning his head to tell Osman what he had seen, but the old man put
out his hand and stopped him. “I know what you’re going to tell me, Nyro,” he said, speaking very slowly and deliberately. “You’re going to tell me that you don’t see anyone. Neither do I.”

  Nyro opened his mouth to protest, but Osman spoke first. “We’re going to leave now,” he said, “because it’s all been a waste of time. There’s nothing here for us to see. Come on.”

  He got to his feet, picking up the candle at the same time. “Take the mirror,” he told Nyro, “and the cloth. We needn’t have bothered with it at all, since there was nothing here to see.”

  Osman sounded as if he were speaking to a very young child or a foreigner who might not understand the language. As he led the way out of the room, he kept on repeating that there had been no one in the room, that they had seen absolutely nothing, that it had all been completely pointless.

  Together they went down the stairs and out the front door. Only when they were standing in the street did Osman’s manner change.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Nyro said, though his whole body was trembling and he was not sure his legs would support him much longer. “What on earth was that?”

  “Let’s not talk about it just now,” Osman said. “We’d better go back to my house for a little while. I think you need some time to recover.”

  They crossed the road in silence while Nyro tried to make sense of what had just happened. He felt weak and light-headed and tainted, as if some of what he had just witnessed had rubbed off on him.

  Osman made him sit in the kitchen while he made some kind of herbal tea. The butler, it seemed, had either gone home or gone to bed. The tea tasted disgusting, but Osman insisted that Nyro drink it all before he would even begin to discuss what they “hadn’t” seen. As Nyro sipped the murky liquid, he felt himself growing rapidly stronger. “Okay,” he said when he had finally consumed it all. “Now tell me what that was about.”

  “Very well,” Osman said, sitting down opposite him. “The creature you just saw is called a sumaire. It is an elemental, which means that it does not really belong in our world.”

  “Then what’s it doing here?”

  “It’s absorbing all traces of your friend.”

  “You mean it’s because of that creature that everyone has forgotten about Luther?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nyro considered this. “So if it doesn’t belong in our world, how did it find its way into Luther’s house?” he asked.

  “It has been summoned here. Either by Brigadier Giddings himself, which seems unlikely given what you have told me about him, or by someone with whom he is in league. But there’s no doubt that its appearance here has been deliberately contrived. That’s why the Brigadier brought the bowl of blood. Sumara are attracted by blood.”

  “Do they drink it?” Nyro asked.

  “No. But there is something about it that gives them pleasure. Perhaps it is an essence that blood gives off. I can’t say for certain. The experts are all rather vague on this point.”

  “What experts?”

  “The ancient writers. The sumara may have been forgotten in recent times, but only a few hundred years ago scholars discussed them regularly.”

  “How do you know so much about them?” Nyro asked suspiciously.

  Osman shrugged. “Because I am interested in things that have been lost or hidden from the everyday world. That’s why I have devoted so much time and energy to studying the work of Alvar Kazimir Mendini, as much of it as can still be found. You will recall that I mentioned his name earlier?”

  “You said that Luther had come to a talk you gave about him.”

  “Exactly. Your friend was curious to learn more about the famous Canticle, of which only a few fragments still remain. Would you like to hear one of them?”

  Nyro shook his head. “I’m not very interested in poetry.”

  “But you will be interested in this. Listen to the opening lines.” Osman cleared his throat and began to recite in a deep, sonorous voice:

  “A house is waiting in the darkness,

  A bowl of blood upon the floor.

  In the mirror lies the doorway:

  Lose your name to find the door.”

  Nyro started at the reference to a bowl of blood. “Are you making this up?” he demanded.

  “I can assure you, those are the exact words with which the Canticle opens. Mendini showed them to me himself. He crossed the border into Tavor secretly a very long time ago. He came with his wife so that she could have a baby in safety. While he was here, I met him and he talked about this poem.”

  “But what does it mean?” Nyro asked impatiently.

  “If I had to venture an opinion,” Osman replied, “I would say the poem is about you, or at least that part is.”

  “But I’d never even heard of Mendini until today!”

  “Nevertheless,” Osman replied, “you must admit, it sounds very much as though Mendini had this evening’s little incident in mind. It has been claimed that he could see into the future. He didn’t have his wife’s powers, but he had his own abilities. Of course, there’s one sure way to find out if you really are the subject of the poem.” He looked directly at Nyro as he said this, and his eyes seemed to glitter with anticipation. “Unless you’re too frightened, that is?”

  “What do I have to do?” Nyro asked warily. He did not like the suggestion that he might be a coward.

  “Just what it says in the poem,” Osman replied. “Lose your name to find the door. That shouldn’t be terribly difficult.”

  “The door into where?”

  “The door into the sumaire’s world, of course,” Osman replied.

  With the memory of that creature, covered in slime and stinking like death itself, still fresh in his mind, every instinct in Nyro’s body told him that he ought to get up and walk out of the old man’s house this very instant.

  Instead he asked, “Why should I want to enter the sumaire’s world?”

  “Because that is where you will find your friend Luther,” Osman replied. “Of course, it will be dangerous and difficult and frightening. But worth doing, all the same. Don’t you think?”

  Nyro hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Splendid!” Osman said, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “That’s all settled, then. I’ll see you here tomorrow night. In the meantime, you mustn’t eat anything. Nothing at all, you understand?”

  Nyro nodded.

  “Oh yes, and wear a black coat. That’s very important.”

  “Will it be cold?”

  Osman smiled. “On the contrary. I think you’ll find it rather hot.”

  “Then why do I need a coat?”

  “Let’s just call it a little insurance policy,” Osman said. “Now off you go. I’ve got a great deal of reading to do before tomorrow. And make sure you get plenty of sleep. You’re going to need all your strength for what you will face tomorrow.”

  THE FUNERAL OF DR. SIGMUNDUS

  Bea sat on the bed in her tiny room in the Museum of the Leader and looked around her, bewildered. She could not understand what she was doing here. Surely all this was in the past? Surely she had escaped from this dreadful place, along with Seersha? They had hijacked a truck and driven across country to Moiteera, where they had met up with Albigen and rejoined the Púca. She could remember it all quite clearly. But if that was true, then what was she doing back in the museum?

  She glanced around the room, and her eye fell on the carved wooden bird that stood on a shelf in the alcove opposite the bed. It had been a birthday present from Dante. She took it down from the shelf and held it between her hands. The feel of the wood was somehow comforting, as if she were drawing warmth from it.

  What had happened to Dante? She remembered him coming to the museum and trying to talk to her, but she had refused to listen and instead had set off the alarm. Was that the last she had seen of him? No! He had appeared on the cliff top near Eden Park during the night of the sto
rm. But her memory of that night was confused. There had been another youth who had looked just like Dante and wanted to kill her. Then Dante himself had appeared. At first she thought he had come to save her, but then he, too, had tried to kill her. She shuddered as she recalled this. Dante was her enemy now. Yes, that was right. He had taken the name of Sigmundus the Second. All right, then. But still …why was she back in her room in the Museum of the Leader?

  Bea gazed again at the carved wooden bird. “What am I doing here?” she asked.

  To her amazement the bird spoke in reply. “You are dreaming, Bea,” it told her. And now it was a real live bird, and Bea had the distinct impression she had seen it before.

  “You have seen me before,” it told her. “It was I who rescued you on the cliff top.”

  Bea nodded.

  “It wasn’t Dante who tried to kill you,” the bird continued. “It was his body, that is all. The real Dante separated from his body in order to survive.”

  “So where is the real Dante now?” Bea asked.

  “The real Dante is inside of me.”

  Bea felt a surge of joy. Of course! She should have known! She opened her mouth to speak, but everything around her became blurred and confused. A moment later she was awake and lying in her sleeping bag on the ground inside one of the beehive huts. She struggled to remember what she had been dreaming, certain that it had been tremendously important. But it was like clutching at mist. The more she tried to remember, the more the details eluded her, until in the end there was nothing left at all.

  After breakfast the Púca gathered in the meetinghouse. By now they had all heard about the television broadcast, and an air of profound gloom hung over them. But at a very deep level, Bea felt an odd sense of hope that was connected in some way with the dream she still could not remember. She listened with growing impatience as the discussion focused on the possibility of escaping across the border into Tavor. Some people said it could not be done; others insisted that it was their only option.