The Resuurection Fields

by Brian Keaney

  They focused on putting as many miles as possible between themselves and the security guards. As they drove, Bea relived her experience in the Nakara, struggling to make sense of it all. The youth and the old man who had turned up out of the forest—who were they? Why were they not listless and subdued like the other volunteers? But no matter how she puzzled over it, she could not fit the pieces together to make a complete picture.

  They rode through a countryside scarred with spoil heaps from abandoned Ichor mines, staying away from settlements wherever possible. At any moment Bea expected to hear the sound of pursuit, but as the hours passed, she began to allow herself to hope that they had succeeded in escaping. By late afternoon they were running low on gasoline and facing a choice of either ditching the motorcycle or going into a town to look for fuel. Then they had a stroke of luck. Riding through a deserted mining village, they spotted a garage. It was shut up and abandoned, but when they broke in and searched the building, they discovered a stack of fuel cans. Bea’s father filled up the bike’s gas tank. Then they went searching for something to eat.

  In a cottage next door to the garage they found three ancient tin cans that had lost their labels. When Bea’s father succeeded in opening them with a screwdriver he found in the motorcycle basket, they turned out to contain peaches. It wasn’t exactly a feast but it was better than nothing.

  By this time the sun was setting, so they decided to spend the night in the cottage and set off again at first light.

  “They’re bound to catch up with us,” Bea’s father said. Now that he was no longer busy searching for food, his fears were beginning to reassert themselves.

  “Then we’d better find ourselves weapons of some kind,” Bea replied.

  “Weapons!” Her father looked horrified.

  “I know, Dad,” Bea said. “We were supposed to have left all that behind. No crime, no violence, no weapons. But the violence was still happening. It was just hidden, wasn’t it? What do you think was going on in the dreadful place we’ve just escaped from?”

  “But that was just a mistake,” her father objected.

  Bea shook her head. “You know that isn’t true, don’t you?” she said.

  He hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded his head. Suddenly Bea had an idea. “Bottles!” she said, springing to her feet.

  Her father looked confused.

  “We need to find some empty bottles,” she told him. “And rags. And some matches. Come on, let’s start searching before it gets too dark to see anything.”

  The rags were easy enough. More than one cottage still had curtains hanging, and they found four empty bottles in one of the backyards. But the matches were much more difficult. They were on the point of giving up when Bea’s father found a box with three live matches inside. They brought their booty back to the garage, where they filled the bottles with gasoline. Then they tore the curtains into strips and stuffed them into the necks of the bottles. When they were finished, they had a collection of homemade bombs. There was still a great deal of gasoline left and plenty of curtain material, but no more bottles.

  Now there was nothing left to do except move the bike around to the back of the garage where it was less obvious, then sit outside and watch the stars come out. It was a cloudless night, which meant that it soon got cold, but neither of them wanted to go in. The night sky was just too beautiful.

  “There’s the Chariot and Horses,” Bea said, pointing to a large cluster of stars in the center of the sky. “I have to say it doesn’t look much like a chariot to me.”

  “The names of the constellations haven’t always been the same,” her father replied. “The ancient people of Gehenna used to call the Chariot and Horses the Sleeping Giant. Did you know that?”

  The Sleeping Giant! The mural on the meetinghouse wall!

  “Do you know why they called it that?” Bea asked.

  “Well, there isn’t much known about those people,” her father told her. “There was something about a giant called Enil who created the world by ringing a bell.”

  There had been a bell beside the giant in the mural!

  “What else is in the story?” Bea asked eagerly.

  “Let’s see. After he created the world, he fell asleep and was forgotten, but they believed that one day he would be woken by the ringing of the same bell, and when he was, the world would end. It’s a myth, of course, and myths are one of the things that we aren’t supposed to talk about anymore, for some reason.” He began pointing out how the shape of the giant could be made out of the stars, but Bea was thinking about the mural and the words of the Mendini Canticle:

  When every other hope has fled,

  When he is lost who once was found, Climb the stairs and greet the dawn,

  Make the world’s most ancient sound.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that the second line could refer to Dante. He had been found by Ezekiel in the asylum of Tarnagar and brought to live among the Púca. But now he was lost again. “What do you think—” she started to ask.

  But her father interrupted her. “Listen!” he said.

  In the distance the sound of motor vehicles could clearly be heard, growing steadily louder.

  Her father looked terrified. “What shall we do, Bea?” he asked.

  “Get inside the garage and wait,” Bea said. “Even if they come this way, they’ll probably just drive straight through.”

  So Bea and her father waited in the garage, making sure that the bombs were within easy reach. Unfortunately, a convoy of trucks pulled up on the outskirts of the village. Dozens of security guards with flashlights got out and began searching the buildings one by one.

  “Okay,” Bea said when it became clear that they could not just lie low, “this is what we’re going to do: wait until they get closer, then throw the bombs. Aim for the trucks. We need to put them out of action if we can.”

  She began tearing the leftover curtain material into strips, which she then tied together and soaked in gasoline, laying a long fuse from the rear door of the garage to the pile of unused gas cans. She unscrewed the caps of all the cans and put the end of the fuse in one of them.

  By now the security guards were only a few doors away. If Bea waited any longer, it would be too late. She struck a match, but it was old and damp and refused to ignite. She tried again but the match broke in half.

  “Hurry, Bea!” her father urged her.

  “I’m doing my best!” she hissed.

  She took out another match and struck it against the side of the box. It flared for an instant, then died. Biting her lip, she picked up the last match. This one had to work. She struck it once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.

  “They’re getting closer,” her father whispered.

  A third time she struck the match and finally it flared into life. Desperately she cupped the tiny flame with her hand while her father held out two of the bombs and lit the fuses.

  “Throw them!” she ordered.

  He ran out into the street and flung the bottles in the direction of the security guards. They hit the ground and burst into flame. Meanwhile, Bea lit the other two, and with the burning end of one, she ignited the fuse to the pile of gasoline cans.

  When she stepped outside, the night was full of angry shouting and lit up by two pools of burning gasoline. But her father’s aim had not been good. The bottles had shattered harmlessly on the ground some distance away from the trucks. She had to do better than that.

  The nearest truck was parked a long way down the street. Bea threw the first bottle as hard as she could. It arced through the night sky, then landed in an explosion of flame a couple of yards short. “Damn!” She had been trying too hard. She had to relax a little, forget the security guards who were edging towards her and the fact that the gasoline bomb might explode in her hand at any second, ignore the even bigger bomb in the garage whose fuse was steadily shortening. Instead, she must put all of herself into the action of throwing, so that she became one with the target. She leane
d back and her arm swung through a hundred and eighty degrees. The bottle sailed through the air and she saw the security guards’ heads turn as they watched it go. It landed directly on the truck, which was instantly engulfed in flames.

  She turned to her father. “Follow me!” she said.

  There was only one way to reach the motorbike, and that led straight through the garage. As they ran, Bea glanced at the stack of gas cans and saw that the flames were practically licking at its foot.

  Her father burst through the rear door to the garage and she followed breathlessly. He leapt onto the bike, kicking it into life in one movement. She climbed on behind him and they sped off into the night. Seconds later the garage exploded. For a terrible moment she felt the hot fingers of death reaching out to grasp them, and she thought they had waited too long. But her father opened the throttle, the bike roared in response and the chaos receded behind them.

  THE LIZARD’S MOUTH

  It was Seersha’s turn to cook the evening meal, and she was sitting outside the hut that she shared with Malachy, peeling the last of the potatoes. The years she had spent working in the kitchen of the Museum of the Leader had taught her how to make a small amount of food go a long way. But even with all her skill, it was getting harder and harder to feed the Púca.

  “Soon Dante, or Sigmundus the Second, or whoever is in charge now, won’t need to worry about defeating us,” she thought gloomily. “Hunger will do the job for him.”

  The dog Bea had rescued from Podmyn came trotting up to her, sniffing the air eagerly and looking hopefully up at her with his big brown eyes.

  “Sorry, Moon,” Seersha told him. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

  She had christened him Moon because of the little crescent of white fur on his neck. Otherwise, he was completely black.

  Moon took no notice of her declaration. Instead, he put his two front paws on her chest and tried to lick her hand.

  He was only a puppy, and she could not bring herself to be cross with him. But what on earth had Bea been thinking, bringing them another mouth to feed?

  “I should never have let her join those other poor fools, who are almost certainly volunteering for their own deaths,” she told herself. But the truth was that nobody could stop Bea once her mind was made up. Her face, as she had announced her intention to join the Faithful, had worn the same look as it had on the day Seersha discovered her in the kitchen of the Museum of the Leader, making preparations for her escape. Terrified but unstoppable. That was the kind of person she was.

  As Seersha was thinking this, she became aware of the sound of an engine in the distance. Albigen came rushing over to her. “There’s a motorcycle making its way up the mountain,” he said.

  “Is it security guards?”

  “We don’t know yet. Get inside the hut and stay there. We’ll take care of them, whoever they are.”

  So it was that when Bea and her father finally reached the stone huts on the evening after their flight from the blazing garage, they found themselves surrounded by a grim-faced group of armed fighters led by Albigen. But when the Púca saw who was riding on the passenger seat, and when Bea introduced her father, their faces broke into smiles and they all crowded around her. Even the dog refused to be left out, racing around in circles and barking his head off.

  Laughing, Bea begged them to calm down. Then, as a cup of tea was handed to her and another put in her father’s hand, she told them everything that had happened. But as she described her flight from the burning garage, the smiles faded from their faces.

  “Then the security guards may be right behind you,” Albigen said.

  “I think we lost them,” Bea said. “We’ve seen no one all day.”

  “Maybe you lost them,” Albigen said, “or maybe they just want you to think that.”

  “I know you believe I shouldn’t have gone in the first place, Albigen,” Bea said, “but I have found out something very important.”

  “What is it?”

  Bea hesitated. “I don’t exactly know yet. But it has something to do with the picture of the Sleeping Giant on the wall of the meetinghouse. I need time to work it out.”

  She could tell from the looks on the faces of her audience that they were unconvinced.

  “Albigen’s right, Bea,” Seersha said gently. “You could easily have been followed here. We’ll have to leave this place as soon as we can.”

  Bea shook her head. “The rest of you can go,” she said. “I’m staying here until I’ve worked out what I have to do.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Bea?” her father asked as she left the Púca discussing the next day’s traveling arrangements and made her way towards the meetinghouse.

  She shook her head. “I’m far from sure.” Then she grinned. “But that’s never stopped me before. Come on, you have to see this.”

  She led the way to the mural. It was exactly as she remembered, its vivid colors glowing in the last of the evening sunshine that filtered through the open roof of the building. She glanced at her father and saw the wonder in his eyes. Then they both sat in silence, gazing.

  “Why do I think that this mural, the Canticle and the legend are all meant for me?” Bea asked herself. It was just a feeling somewhere deep within her. That and Tzavinyah’s prophecy. But what was she supposed to do with this feeling? All she could do was stare at the picture in the hope that a clue might present itself to her.

  And then it did.

  There was something odd about the lizard in the mural. She rose and walked up close to examine it. From here it was quite obvious that the stone on which the lizard’s mouth had been painted protruded slightly from the wall, whereas all the others were completely flush. She touched it and found that it was loose. Perhaps the cement that held it in place had simply crumbled with the passage of time? Or perhaps it was meant to be like that?

  She worked the stone back and forth until eventually it came free. Behind it was a dark space.

  Her father was standing beside her now, curious to see what she had discovered. “Well, go on then,” he said. “Put your hand in.”

  She reached into the space and immediately her hand touched something cold and smooth.

  “What is it?” her father asked.

  She felt it all over, her excitement rising. Then she brought it out, taking great care not to let the clapper strike the dome. “Enil’s bell!” she announced.

  She took it to show the others. “I think I’m meant to climb to the top of the pillar at dawn and ring it,” she told them.

  “And what’s going to happen then?” Albigen asked.

  “You remember how Ezekiel once said the Odyll was alive?”

  Albigen nodded.

  “So couldn’t the Sleeping Giant and the Odyll be the same thing?”

  “Perhaps,” Albigen agreed. “I’ve never really understood about the Odyll. But if it doesn’t work, we leave as soon as it’s light enough. It’s too dangerous to stay here any longer.”

  That night Bea lay stretched out on the floor of the hut she shared with Maeve. They had stayed up late into the night talking about the discovery of the bell, what it might mean and what the future of the Púca might be. Now Bea was completely exhausted but still too keyed up to sleep. For all their talking, she still felt as if she did not fully understand what was happening. Yet at the same time, deep within herself, she felt certain that she had been meant to find the bell, and that tomorrow morning when she climbed the pillar and rang it, something truly momentous would happen.

  In another hut, lying on the hard stony ground, her father wondered what on earth he had done, then reminded himself that it was too late for such thoughts. Whatever Bea had in mind, he was a part of it now, whether he liked it or not.

  Even Moon seemed touched by the Púca’s troubles. As he slept in his basket, his legs twitched and he whined quietly to himself, as if he sensed that out there in the night something dangerous was lurking and getting steadily closer with every
passing hour.

  Night had also fallen upon the mountain of the satsumballa, but not one bird moved so much as a feather. For the Great Flock, time had ceased entirely. All that mattered was that they had been granted a vision of the Hidden Path.

  Soon they would set forth on their last great migration; soon they would return to a world in which they truly belonged. For many of them, belief and hope had almost died. They had begun to whisper that perhaps there really was no Hidden Path, that perhaps it was just a story told to chicks as they lay curled up in their nest. But now the evidence was there before them. Amid the rolling billows of the Sky Beyond the Sky lay the start of the Hidden Path, and the giddim had led them there.

  Now the Great Flock was ready, its mind made up. Let us go, it sang. Let us delay no longer. The giddim consented. The last flight of the zimbir had begun.

  But suddenly everything changed. The Hidden Path grew dim and the music of the Great Flock ceased as a dark figure stepped out of the rolling clouds. It was in the shape of a man but its body was composed of nothing but symbols of enormous power and pitiless cruelty.

  “Dante Cazabon!” said the voice of Orobas. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to disappear altogether when you and I have so much unfinished business to complete!”

  Frustration and fury replaced the excitement Dante had been feeling. He wanted to leave his past behind him and take the Hidden Path with the rest of the flock. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” he demanded. “You’ve got my body. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “There is never enough for me,” Orobas told him. “You must know that by now. I want everything, Dante. Your mind as well as your body. That’s the most interesting part, after all. There’s so much pleasure to be got from it.”

  With these words he stretched out his arm and pointed at Kidu’s chest. Immediately Dante felt the bird grow cold and he realized that the same corrupt symbols that made up Orobas’s phantom had infected Kidu. As the bird watched helplessly, the symbols grew bigger—and it was clear that before long they would overwhelm him completely.