The Resuurection Fields

by Brian Keaney

  Finally, Bea could stand it no longer. “We can’t just run away!” she said.

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Albigen asked.

  “We…we have to make a gesture of some kind,” she told him.

  “Such as?”

  “How about an attack on the funeral?” Bea had no idea where this idea had come from. Nor did she have any real idea how to carry it out. But it seemed to her that she saw a tiny flame of belief flicker in the eyes that looked back at her from all around the room. So she plunged on, making up tactics as she spoke. “We know how to make smoke bombs, don’t we?”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  “So that’s what we do. We fit them with timers. Then two or three of us go into Podmyn tomorrow. Each one carries a bomb. We get on one of the special buses and travel to Ellison, where we split up and place our bombs somewhere central. Afterwards we come back again on the bus.”

  “But what’s the point?” asked Dobry, a tall, thin, dark-haired young man from the north of Gehenna. He was one of the patrol leaders, and many of the Púca took their cue from him.

  “The point is that the whole country will be watching,” Malachy said. He was new to the Púca and had been less affected by the death of their leader, Ezekiel. It was only a week since he and Dante had hijacked an airplane and flown to Eden Valley, where Malachy had been reunited with Seersha, his long-lost wife.

  “Exactly!” Bea agreed. “They’ll see that things aren’t quite as cozy as they appear on the television broadcast.”

  “And what happens after that?” Dobry asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bea admitted. “Maybe we just have to take it one step at a time.”

  “But can we really fight Dante? Albigen saw him stop time itself.”

  “That isn’t Dante,” Bea replied. Dobry frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Bea hesitated. She had no real idea what she meant. She had just found herself saying it because somewhere, deep within her, she felt that it was true. There was an expectant silence as they all waited for her to explain herself.

  “It’s because of Dante that I’m here. When I was locked away in the Museum of the Leader, he came and found me. Whoever it is that is now calling himself Sigmundus the Second, I refuse to accept that it’s the real Dante. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  Faces stared back at her in bewilderment.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not,” she continued. “Dante taught me one thing: you have to have the courage to live up to your dreams. And I’m going to keep on doing that, whatever else happens. So I’m going to Ellison by bus tomorrow, and I’m going to cause some trouble. Anyone else who wants to join me is welcome.”

  A lot of people shook their heads at this. They had wanted to hope, but Bea’s vision and opinions were difficult for most of them to accept. In the end only Albigen and Maeve volunteered to go, and she suspected that they did so more because they did not want to see her acting on her own than because they were fully convinced by what she had said.

  So the following morning the three of them drove into Podmyn. This time the town was full of people milling around and talking excitedly about the bewildering events that had overtaken their country. Many were dressed in their best clothes and sported black armbands. In the town square half a dozen rather ancient buses stood waiting to take them to Ellison to witness the funeral of their former leader and the swearing-in ceremony of his young successor.

  Bea, Albigen and Maeve joined the line and boarded the last bus, which was already nearly full. Bea found herself sitting next to a plump middle-aged woman who immediately began talking as if they had known each other all their lives. She told Bea that she was a baker. She lived above her shop in the market square and had never been out of Podmyn before. She was very excited about the trip but also confused. “We’ve never heard anything about this new leader before,” she said. “And he’s so young. I do hope he’ll be up to the job. They say that Dr. Sigmundus himself chose him, so I suppose he must be the right person. Dr. Sigmundus wouldn’t make a mistake about something like that.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe he’s dead, can you?”

  Bea shook her head. “Not really,” she admitted.

  “I mean, obviously he had to die sometime,” the woman continued, “but it’s such a terrible shock after he’s done so much for us all and we’ve come to depend on him. I’m not ashamed to say I wept bitterly when I heard the news.”

  Fortunately, the woman did not seem to need any response. She chattered on as the bus left Podmyn and headed north for Ellison, even mentioning that she was worried about her dog. Apparently she had left him in the yard and put food out for him.

  “But the neighbors don’t like him,” she confided. “They say he barks too much.” She glanced over her shoulder in case any of her neighbors might be listening. Bea nodded sympathetically. At least this nonstop stream of talk meant that she didn’t have to answer any questions about her own life.

  The nearer they got to Ellison, the denser the traffic became. It seemed as though all of Gehenna was descending on the capital. Flustered-looking security guards struggled to prevent the roads from becoming completely gridlocked.

  Eventually their driver found a place to park, the passengers disembarked and Bea, Albigen and Maeve went off in different directions.

  Leader’s Square was thronged with people of all kinds, many of them wearing the tall black hats that were used by the higher echelons of society for ceremonial occasions. A stage had been erected at one end, and musicians were playing solemnly next to giant television screens that had been set up to relay the ceremony to the crowds.

  At the moment the screens were showing a coffin standing on a plinth in the middle of an empty room. On the floor of the room a six-pointed star had been painted. This was the infamous Star Chamber, from which Dr. Sigmundus had ruled Gehenna. Now, as Bea watched, a procession advanced towards the coffin. At its head, dressed in a long black robe and wearing a circle of gold upon his head, was Dante.

  Bea watched as he and three other anonymous officials lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and began to carry it out of the room. As they did so, the name for the circle of gold on his head came to her. It was a crown: a word from her history books. Dante, or Sigmundus the Second as he preferred to call himself, was not just the ruler of Gehenna. He had made himself a king. Bea shook her head sadly. Although it seemed impossible to believe that these were the actions of her friend, she couldn’t deny that the young man on the screens looked like Dante. How could she have insisted otherwise to her fellow Púca? What had she been thinking of?

  Bea turned and made her way through the crowd towards the fenced-off area in front of the stage, where the musicians had deposited their instrument cases. Reaching inside the bag she carried, she pressed the timer switch that activated her smoke bomb. Then, as casually as she could, she dropped the bag over the guardrail, among all the equipment. She waited for a moment in case anyone had noticed, then began walking rapidly away. Suddenly, to her dismay, she heard her name being called. But her alarm gave way to confusion. She knew that voice!

  Bea turned to see her father striding through the crowd towards her, his face lit up with a huge smile. As she recovered from her initial shock, she found that she felt quite suddenly like a little girl once again.

  “Bea, how wonderful to see you!” her father exclaimed, putting his arms around her and hugging her tightly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Bea could only shake her head. She knew that if she spoke, she would burst into tears.

  Her father lowered his voice. “We thought you were in prison. We were told never to mention your name again. But I never gave up hope.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” It was all Bea could manage. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to him. “Is it because of the new Leader?” he asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Bea nodded.

  Her father
looked even more delighted. “I knew it!” he said. “So many things are going to be different now. I’ve just got a promotion,” he added. “I won’t be based in Tarnagar anymore. I’m moving up north.” He sounded almost like a little boy who has been praised by his teacher. Then he added something in a lower voice that she could not quite make out. Something like, “I’ll be in charge of the Faithful.”

  “How’s Mum?” Bea asked.

  Her father’s smile faded and enthusiasm drained from his face. “Of course. You weren’t informed. Your mother and I separated after you were taken away.” He sighed. “She felt I was to blame for what happened.”

  “Oh, Dad!” Bea said, feeling a stab of guilt. It was not her father’s fault that her parents’ marriage had broken up, whatever her mother might think. It was her own refusal to accept the world in which she had been raised. She had given them something to argue about.

  “Never mind,” her father said. “I think your mother’s probably happier without me, anyway. Still, we did have some good times as a family, didn’t we? Do you remember how we used to watch the stars together when you were young?”

  When Bea was little, her father had ordered a telescope from the mainland and mounted it on the roof of their house. Night after night they had studied the skies together, and he had taught her the names of the constellations. It was something Bea had not thought about for a long time.

  The memory of that innocent time was so poignant it was painful to even think about. Bea wanted to tell her father how much that experience had meant to her, but before she could say another word, shouting came from the direction of the stage, where clouds of smoke had begun billowing upwards. Moments later, two more columns of smoke rose in the air. A wave of panic surged through the crowd, and people began pushing backwards, separating Bea from her father. Soon she lost sight of him. Then a big man in an engineer’s uniform shoved her roughly to one side so that she stumbled and fell to the ground. Within seconds people were trampling over her.

  THE CIRCLE OF UNDOING

  It was about five minutes before midnight, and they were standing in the alleyway behind Luther’s house. Nyro had eaten nothing since their meeting the evening before, and he was feeling distinctly light-headed. He struggled to concentrate on what Osman was telling him.

  “You have to make a circle of undoing,” Osman repeated. “Crossing over into the sumara’s world isn’t going to be easy, you know. Things have to be done in the right order and in a way that the sumara will find acceptable.”

  “What happens if we get it wrong?”

  Osman shook his head. “We will not get it wrong.”

  They climbed over the back fence, entered through the back door and made their way upstairs. Flies buzzed angrily around the bowl of blood, and the smell in the room had grown so bad that Nyro found himself gagging.

  Calmly Osman opened the leather satchel he had been carrying, took out a mirror and placed it in the middle of the floor. Nyro saw that something was written on the mirror, but he could not make out the unfamiliar words. Next Osman took a paper bag and cut a hole in one corner to allow its contents—some sort of white powder—to trickle out. In this way he began to outline a large circle on the floor around the mirror.

  “What is that stuff?” Nyro asked.

  “Salt. It’s a safeguard. A sumaire will not willingly cross a line of salt.” Osman finished the circle and put the bag away. “Now take off your coat and give it to me.”

  Nyro did as he was told.

  Osman put the coat on the ground, took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and, bending down, wrote in large letters on the back of the coat, .

  “Just put your coat back on and hold out your left hand,” Osman told him, standing up once more.

  Nyro did as he was ordered, and Osman took a ball of string and tied one end around Nyro’s left index finger. Finally he seemed satisfied with his preparations. “Now listen very carefully,” he said. “For the purposes of this task, you must forget your own name. You will no longer be Nyro. Instead, you will be Oryn. When I tell you to, begin walking around the circle slowly in a clockwise direction. As you walk, repeat your new name. Say to yourself over and over again, ‘My name is Oryn.’ And try to believe it. You must do this ninety-nine times, without stopping. If you lose count, you must begin all over again.

  “When you have completed the ninety-ninth circle, start walking backwards around the circle in the opposite direction. Do this once for every year of your life. Continue to tell yourself that your name is Oryn. When this is finished, move to the center of the circle, pick up the mirror and look at the face that you see. Ignore the writing. It will make no sense to you. Instead, concentrate on one thought only: that you are inside the mirror looking out. Continue to stare into the mirror until this thought becomes a reality. When that happens, you will know what to do next. Finally, if you feel you are in danger at any time, tug on the string. I shall have hold of the other end, and I will pull you back out of the circle of undoing and into the world you have left behind. Is that all clear?”

  “It … is,” Nyro said hesitantly.

  “Excellent.” Osman reached into the leather satchel once more and brought out a small drum. “Now walk!” he ordered.

  As Nyro walked round the outside of the circle, Osman walked with him, holding the drum and the end of the string in one hand and beating the drum with the other. To begin with, Nyro felt a little self-conscious and faintly ridiculous. But as the ritual continued, he found his mind emptying of everything except the sound of the drum, the need to place one foot in front of the other, the process of keeping count and the thought that his name was Oryn. It was more tiring than he had expected. On the fifty-fifth circle, he stumbled slightly, but he regained his balance and strengthened his will. He did not want to have to start all over again.

  After a while, as he told himself over and over again that his name was Oryn, it seemed that he was doing no more than stating the truth. That was his name. Perhaps it had always been his name. Yes, Oryn was his true identity. Whatever else he had called himself by in the past was nothing more than an illusion.

  When he had completed the ninety-ninth circle, the drumbeat changed and he knew immediately what this meant: it was time to begin walking backwards sixteen times—one circle for each year of his life. As he did so, he began to understand more fully the purpose of the ritual. He was moving backwards through time to the point between life and…what? He grappled with the concept. To the point between life and the place where life came from, of course. That was his ultimate destination. That was why he was undoing himself—so that he might step through the doorway between this world and the larger one that lay behind it.

  The drumbeat stopped. He had completed the sixteenth circle. His name was Oryn. He was no age at all. He had not yet been born.

  He stepped across the line of salt, into the center of the circle, where he picked up the mirror and looked into its depths. His own face stared back at him, partially covered by the words that had been written in some obscure language: . Briefly he tried to make sense of them, but they were in a tongue he had never encountered before. Instead, he concentrated on his reflection, and as he did so, he recalled someone a long time ago telling him a great secret. What was it? Ah! He was not the one looking into the mirror; he was the one within the mirror, looking out.

  No sooner had he thought this than he found it was true. He was no longer looking into the mirror but looking out, and now he saw that the writing on the mirror was not incomprehensible at all. It was a simple message: TAKE OFF YOUR COAT, it read. Oryn put down the mirror and did as he had been ordered. As he held up the coat, he saw that another message had been written on its back in chalk: I WISH TO SPEAK TO LUTHER.

  He was pondering the meaning of this when he became aware of the sound of someone else’s breathing. Looking up, he saw a creature standing in the corner of the room. It looked like a man except for its leathery wings.

  “Why have y
ou come here?” the creature demanded. Its voice was like something that had bubbled up from the bowels of the earth, and when it spoke, it showed a mouthful of needle-like teeth.

  But Oryn was ready with his answer. “I wish to speak to Luther,” he said.

  The flicker of a smile crossed the sumaire’s face. “Very well,” it said. “You shall have your wish.”

  It led the way out of the room, and after a moment’s hesitation, Oryn put down the mirror and followed. As he did so, he felt a cold sensation in the index finger of his left hand. Looking down, he saw that a thin green light was unfurling endlessly from his fingertip towards the mirror. He wondered what it meant, but there was no time to waste thinking about this. If he was not careful, he would lose sight of his guide.

  The sumaire had already descended to the floor below and was opening the front door. Quickly Oryn followed.

  The first thing he noticed was the heat. It hit him like a wave, a dry heat that made his skin prickle. Then he began to take in his surroundings. The house was perched upon a rim of rock that ran in a circle around a vast crater. At scattered intervals along the rim there were other buildings: some no more than mud huts; some like the one he had just left; others much larger and grander, with great stone steps leading up to pillared entranceways, as if they were the palaces of kings or the parliaments of great nations. But this was not a city or a town, or even a village, for there was no sense of community among these dwelling places. Each building stood alone, as if it had been plucked from its rightful position and deposited here in secret, where it remained cut off from its neighbors and ashamed to be seen in such company.

  “What is this place?” Oryn asked.

  “This is the Nakara,” the sumaire told him.

  “And why are these buildings here?”

  “They are the Lacunae—places that are neither fully part of your world nor fully part of mine. In each one a portal has been created, and that is how we travel between the worlds. But these are only the outskirts. You must come deeper into the Nakara if you wish to speak with your friend.”