Silo 49: Flying Season for the Mis-Recorded

by Ann Christy

  Marcus only sighed and opened the door, motioning for Greg to enter first. All he saw at first was what one might expect from any single person’s room. A bed made only in the most perfunctory sense, the covers wrinkled and askew. A nightstand covered in a messy stack of books and trinkets sat next to it. A pair of green coveralls lay draped over a chair nearby.

  It felt wrong to invade her space like this and he had to remind himself that it was not her space anymore. She had left it like this knowing she would not return so she must have done it for a reason. If she knew he would be sent for, then she wanted him to see this, to see her as she was. When he stepped all the way in and turned to the other side of the large room, he saw the real Lizbet.

  One wall was covered almost entirely with drawings of the same thing from different perspectives. The butterflies she often spoke of were rendered in beautiful detail. In flight, resting on plants or in sequence from egg to emerging butterfly and from every possible angle, they were drawn. He drew in a sharp breath and stood there, transfixed by the wall of art.

  Marcus came to stand next to him, his hands behind his back and his eyes roaming the wall. “This is one of the reasons I called you down rather than simply send you the note. I had no idea.”

  “You’ve never been in here before?” Greg asked, a little amazed. Casters were responsible for their shadows if they didn’t live at home. Room inspections were a part of that, a part of helping a shadow finish learning what it was like to live on their own.

  Marcus looked a little abashed and shook his head. He seemed at a loss to explain but Greg really didn’t need him to. Lizbet was a person apart, not to be spoken with unless there was a need to, not to be socialized with and certainly never touched. That would have extended to her space as well.

  “Well, at least you did one thing right and let me know,” Greg replied, a bitter tone creeping into his voice.

  Rather than answer that comment with any defense, Marcus cleared his throat and pointed to the desk. “The note she left for you is there, along with the one she left for me. You can read mine, too.”

  On the desk lay all the debris of a solitary life. A cup half full of tea, a little packet of half-finished cookies, blank paper and an astonishing variety of pens, nibs, brushes and writing sticks littered the surface. A single finished drawing of a butterfly sat apart. It was drawn from the side with the wings fully pulled up in preparation for something, the body curled a little forward. It somehow communicated a sense of energy and purpose without telling Greg what that purpose might be. It was so detailed he could see the tiny scale like markings on the wings.

  He tore his eyes from the drawing and toward the two letters. One was open so he picked up that one.

  Marcus – I think it will be you who is tasked to come here and I’m sorry about that. I hope it isn’t too difficult for you. I don’t care what you do with my things except that I would like for Greg, who I designate as my next of kin, to have the chance to claim what he would like.

  Please don’t be sad or upset about this. It wasn’t your fault or anything. You were the only one who would sponsor me out of everyone in the silo and letting me help in the garden has been a gift.

  Be well.

  Elizabeth

  He folded the letter back up and offered it to Marcus, but the old man waved it away. He picked up the other letter, the one with Greg written in perfect script on the outside of the folds, but didn’t open it. Instead, he turned back to Marcus. He had so many questions and no idea where to start. It was tempting to blame this man who could have made things better for Lizbet and chose not to. The words were on his lips when he realized that Marcus was looking at the wall with tears in his eyes. He’d missed it in the dim light before but they were there.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked instead.

  Marcus wiped at his eyes and then sat down on the messy bed. “I knew she was going to do this a long time ago.”

  Greg was dumbstruck. He knew and did nothing? “Why didn’t you do something?”

  “Because there was nothing more that could be done. Not really.” Marcus didn’t meet his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall with all the beauty hung there. “I have kids, grandkids. I have a farm that my daughter and her family work on with me.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  He didn’t have to be a family man to understand what Marcus was saying. If Marcus would have extended friendship to Lizbet without a lot of support from others doing the same, he would simply have made his own circle of people smaller as those superstitious about the Others fell away. What he sold from his little pay-plot—the plot allotted to each farmer to grow what they wanted to keep or sell—might suddenly be unsellable. It was a risk an old man with much to lose might not be willing to take.

  “I can’t feel guiltier about it than I already do, young man, so say what you want. I did my best for her without hurting my family.” He stopped a moment and wiped at his eyes. “She was related to me, you know. Not closely, but still. There was no one left.”

  There was nothing to say to that. Nothing to do about what was already done. She was gone and she had made that choice for herself. If she could have just waited for one more day, he would have declared for her. No one would shun her if she was matched to a winner of the race. They would have had to accept her, would have come to love her as he did. He was sure of it.

  “Where is she?”

  Marcus cleared his throat again and looked down at the hands he clasped tightly in his lap. “They brought her up already. I’ve got her somewhere private. Uh, we should discuss this, but are you ready for that? Right this minute?”

  “Waiting won’t make it any easier, will it?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Marcus replied with a sad shake of his head. “No one is going to want to have her planted near their loved ones. If we leave it long enough someone will demand that we take her outside.”

  “No,” Greg broke in. “No! That’s not fair. She wasn’t an Other so why should she be punished like one. I’ll plant her myself.”

  Marcus held up a hand to stop the tirade, his eyes tired. “Hear me out, son. I don’t want that either. I was going to suggest that we plant her tonight, during the dim time when there’s no one around. I’ve already spoken to a friend in charge of the burial plots back there and he’s willing to look aside. It won’t be recorded as her.” He paused, his mouth twisting a little. “It will be recorded as a dog to account for the plot.”

  A dog. It was almost enough to make Greg want to run around and start beating on people for being so cruel. But did it matter in the long run? She would be here, inside the silo, and eventually everyone became the same thing after planting. “Fine.”

  The old man seemed relieved and his frame sagged on the bed. “And then there’s all this.” He waved his hand toward the room filled with the remains of a life. “No one is going to want this and I can’t just send it to recycling. What do I do with it?”

  “None of your family needs any of it?” Greg asked, looking at the little bottles and tins filled with mysterious girl things on the dresser.

  Marcus sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think they would want it.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Greg said even though he had no clue what he was going to do about any of it.

  “That’s good of you, son, but there’s a lot of work here and it’s my responsibility, too. We can do it together.”

  “Do you mind if I have some time here?” he asked, holding up the sealed letter she had left for him. “I’d like to just be in here for a while if I can.”

  Marcus slapped his knees and hoisted himself up, his knees popping alarmingly as he did. He said, “We’ve got a few hours before that burial area clears out completely. If you want to rest someplace other than here, the room next door is empty. It has a bed. I’ll come and get you here when the time comes but I’ll check there if you’re not here.” He pointed to the other door in the room and added, “That’s h
er bathroom. It belongs to both rooms but it’s all hers with the other room unoccupied.”

  He took his leave then, looking with regret at the wall of art one last time but saying nothing more. To Greg he looked worn and haggard, older than his years. Greg closed the door and felt suddenly uncomfortable all alone in the room, surrounded by Lizbet’s things. He sat down at the desk and opened the letter.

  Nothing is ever gone in the silo,

  It merely changes form

  “Nothing wasted, Nothing lost” is more than a tenet

  It’s a truth that also holds for souls

  Not me, but of me

  And next time will be better

  Don’t be sad. Win for me and live your dream.

  I’ll get to fly.

  Greg folded the letter after reading it twice. Did she really think she was going to come back? That was silly superstition. He’d never heard of anyone ever actually coming back and knowing it. Most people said that parts of a person were everywhere. It was sort of like saying there was a bit of us in everything without ever knowing it.

  That seemed more likely to Greg. After all, once enough years had passed, the plots were dug up and the bones ground up to be spread on the farms. What had been the person was in the soil and that soil was changed out for used up soil in one of the fallow plots, only to start that burial area all over again with the depleted soil. In a physical sense, parts of each person or animal did become other things, but not in any way that made a difference to the person.

  He hoped to silo that she hadn’t done this thinking she was going to come back as a person and live a whole new life. If she had been here right now he would have shaken her and tried to talk sense into her. But she wasn’t and he couldn’t.

  Ten

  When Marcus came to collect him for the burial and found him asleep in Lizbet’s bed, his expression said he disapproved. Greg said nothing, just rubbed his eyes and put on his boots while Marcus waited by the door looking at what Greg had done.

  Before he fell asleep, worn from grief as well as the long descent, Greg had taken down all the drawings and stacked them inside a hard edged portfolio so that he could transport them. He wasn’t leaving those for anyone else. He’d gone through some of her other things, but stopped when he started uncovering personal items best not seen. She had no journal that he could locate and part of him was glad of that.

  Marcus led him through the silent farms, mostly empty of people during the dim time. The night watch walked past once but Marcus told him quietly that he would stay up front for the night once he made his rounds this one time.

  The smell of the burial area hit him long before they entered it. A distinctly different sort of ripeness wafted out into the farm area proper. Greg put his hand over his nose but Marcus barely seemed to register it, his breath hitching once against the odor before returning to normal.

  “It’s like this when there have been recent plantings. It ebbs after a while,” Marcus said, noting the change in Greg’s pallor.

  “How can you stand it?” asked Greg through his cupped hand.

  “I don’t work back here but you get used to it. It’s not always this bad. We’ve just had a few extra plantings recently. They processed some goats last week, too.” They crossed the threshold and Marcus pointed him to the far end of the rows of tomato plants where the ground was clear. “We’re just over there.”

  A man stood near an open spot on the ground, his face grim as he looked into the hole at his feet. He looked up at their approach and held up a hand. “You might want to stop there.”

  They did and Greg looked from the man to Marcus, confused.

  “Son, she’s not in good shape,” the old farmer replied. His face was full of sympathy.

  Greg felt the ground might rush up to meet him and he would have fallen had Marcus not been there to grab him and hold him up. He couldn’t think of his Lizbet that way—broken. She was his flying girl, light as a feather and graceful as anyone who had ever lived.

  “Hey, hey. Sit down right here.”

  The feeling passed and Greg regained his equilibrium. “No, I’m fine. It’s just that it sort of became real, you know? Right this very minute.” He remembered the colors, pulled the two folded packets out of his pocket and held them in his hand. “I have to do this.”

  Marcus nodded and patted his shoulder. “You stay here and let me see what I can do, okay?”

  When Greg nodded, he strode off toward the man and the hole. He seemed to brace himself before he looked down into it and the way he looked away told Greg all he needed to know about what Lizbet looked like. He spoke with the other man for a few moments, making motions with his hands as he did. The other man eventually seemed to agree and set to work with the shovel and the pile of dirt nearby, filling in the hole.

  Greg stepped forward, thinking to stop him, but Marcus stopped him by meeting him. He said, “Greg, he’s just going to fill it in so that it won’t be so bad. Her face isn’t so bad but…”

  “I’ll be able to use this?” he asked, holding out the packets of dye.

  Marcus’ expression was grave when he answered. “Yes, but do you want to? It isn’t going to be pleasant.”

  “I have to.”

  After just a few minutes of shoveling, the man motioned them over and Marcus led him to the site. Greg braced himself, thinking it wouldn’t even look like Lizbet, but when he looked down, there she was. All he could see was her face, framed in loose dirt, eyes closed as if in sleep. A few grains of dark dirt had sprinkled onto her cheeks and lips but it was her. One side of her face looked sunken and almost loose but it wasn’t like he had imagined. The rest of her was hidden by the dirt and he was glad that Marcus had done that for him. He looked to the digging man for permission and he nodded.

  There was no silo priest to bless her with dreams and a rapid incorporation back into the silo, and Greg didn’t know what they did anyway except for the tomato thing. He looked behind him, at the tall plants. The digging man seemed to know what he was after because he reached into a basket nearby and plucked up two tomatoes, handing one each to Marcus and Greg. Greg noticed he didn’t take one for himself.

  He got to his knees, where he might reach her face and opened the packets. He licked the tips of two fingers and dipped them into the packets, one color on each finger. He didn’t know the words that were required, but he knew what he wanted to say. “I hope you’re right. I’ll be watching for you. Sweet dreams until that day, dreams of blue skies and green fields.” He wiped the colors across her forehead where it seemed more firm, but the bones crackled under his fingers and it was only with effort that he didn’t snatch his fingers back before he finished tracing the lines. He drew his fingers back slowly on purpose to show that he wasn’t afraid. The lines were bold and seemed to bring a little color back to her grayish skin. She would have liked that.

  A thought occurred to Greg and he dug the ring out of his pocket where he kept it always, in preparation for the day when he would have the nerve to ask. The day that should have been today. He held up the little steel band and asked the man, “Can I put this on her finger?”

  The digging man thunked his shovel again into the dirt pile and shook his head. “If you did that, it would only get dug up in a few years and recycled. Why don’t you keep it?”

  Greg put the ring on his little finger, showing the sleeping Lizbet that he did so and hoping some part of her saw and understood.

  That done, he and Marcus ate their tomatoes and let the juices and seeds run down onto the dirt that covered her. Then it was over and the digging man told them he would do the rest. Greg walked out of the farm in a daze. He would have run into walls or gotten lost had Marcus not taken his arm and led him where he needed to go.

  Eleven

  It took till the middle of the night shift to pack up Lizbet’s belongings. Much of it Marcus thought he could manage to get to others by sending it piecemeal through the bazaar. They weren’t personal things but they we
re useful ones, like containers and other such mundane items. Truly personal things were equally easy to decide the fates of. Her drawings were coming with Greg. Her brightest kerchief, the one she wore most often when he saw her, was coming with him as well. The hard decisions were about those things that straddled the line between personal and utilitarian.

  Her coveralls were just the same as everyone else’s, but her patch was surely her own. Her pens were no different than any other, but she had used them with such care on her drawings. It was the same with a hundred other things, like her little pots of colored inks stained with her fingerprints so clearly that Greg could make out their individual whorls. Her dancing clothes, her hair ties with their messy stitched edges, her bottles of scent mixed from different extracts only she knew the combinations and proportions for—all of them waited for a decision.

  In the end, Greg knew he would be unable to leave anything behind if he started taking more, so he took the drawings and her pens and left all the rest behind. If he took the ink, he wouldn’t use it for fear of it running out. He probably wouldn’t touch it for fear of her fingerprints being smudged away. It would be the same for all the rest. She would hate that and he would be trapped by it.

  Marcus seemed to understand his problem but was patient enough to let Greg figure it out for himself. When he saw Greg pull up the portfolio and clutch it to his chest, the look of regret clear upon his face, he came to stand next to him.

  He put one of his huge hands on Greg’s arm and said, “It’s only things, son. There is no crime in leaving it to people who can use it without dwelling on who used it before.”

  Greg nodded, still clutching at the portfolio, his eyes roaming the rest of the room for something he might have missed. They lit upon the desk where Marcus’ letter still lay and to the drawing next to it. It must have been the last one she had worked on, even after she had known. And she hadn’t put it on the wall with the others, but rather left it with the letters, where it would stand apart.