Woundabout

by Lev Rosen

  Chapter 23

  Nico led them through the village of greenhouses and back toward Woundabout.

  “Sorry I got you in trouble,” he said as they walked.

  “It’s not your fault,” Connor said. “It’s ours, for using the crank.”

  “It’s the Mayor’s,” Cordelia said. “All these silly rules, these routines.… We should find the next place to wind the crank. Just to show him he can’t control other people’s lives.”

  “But what if they split us up?” Connor asked. “Put us in foster care?”

  “Then we’ll run away. Ines said we could stay with them.”

  “Ines and Nico’s parents might not like that,” Connor pointed out.

  “Eh, we could hide you,” Nico said. “Bring you food. It’d be ages before anyone found out.”

  They walked on in silence for a while longer, until they passed the train station and were near the edge of town.

  “It’s here,” Nico said. He led them off the main road to a small river. The river came out of a tunnel. “These are the sewers. I don’t, like, have them memorized or anything, but it’s just like above. If you know where you want to go, you can probably figure it out. Just look for a manhole cover.”

  “Won’t those be heavy?” Cordelia asked.

  “Nah,” Nico said. “They’re all wood for some reason. Fancy, coated in plastic stuff, but easy to lift. And they have the word vote carved into them. It’s weird.”

  “This whole town is weird,” Cordelia said.

  “You still have your flashlight?” Connor asked.

  “Yes,” Cordelia said. “I’m digging it out.”

  It was pitch-black under the city; so dark they could feel it. It smelled like old, stale water that hadn’t moved in forever. But the water was moving now—they could hear it, murmuring like a thousand people whispering different things all at once. Like a thousand secrets.

  They both clicked their flashlights on at the same time, lighting up the sewer they were in. It wasn’t the filthy mess they’d expected. Instead, they were on a tiled platform, and next to them was the water, running like a river. The tunnel was curved in an arch over them, but it was large. It was tiled, too, in a checkerboard pattern of dark green and maroon. Cordelia took photos, and the flashes lit up the whole tunnel for a moment, making the colors glow. It felt almost like a palace under the city.

  As they walked farther along, heading toward the red dot Ines had marked on Connor’s map, they noticed that in some places there were pieces of paper taped to the walls.

  “What do they say?” Cordelia asked, taking Kip off her shoulders and setting him down on the ground. Kip sniffed the ground a few moments, then jumped into the river.

  “Kip, that water is filthy,” Connor said. But Kip didn’t seem to mind. The children sighed and turned back to the papers taped to the walls. They were yellowed with age, and the corners were curling inward, but they were clearly campaign posters—the sort people put up when they’re running for something; in this case, Mayor.

  VOTE FOR ME AND LIVE FOREVER, the first poster said, over a photo of the Mayor. HECTOR STILLMAN.

  “Is Hector Stillman the Mayor’s name?” Cordelia asked. “And what does he mean, live forever?”

  “And why would there be a campaign poster in the sewer?” Connor asked.

  “They’re all over down here,” Nico said. “Never thought much of it. Just figured it was something to do with sewer workers.”

  “Here’s another one,” Cordelia said, shining her flashlight a little ahead.

  WITH MACKENROTH GRAY THERE’S NOTHING TO FEAR, said the poster, right over a picture of Gray, looking almost exactly the same as he did today, except his neutral expression was replaced by one of pride, his chest puffed out as he looked up and to the left, at the curling yellow corner of the poster.

  “These must be from when Gray was running for Mayor,” Connor said.

  “He looks so powerful in the poster,” Cordelia said. “Do you think he didn’t tell anyone about the crank because he wanted to be Mayor, but wasn’t?” she asked, shining her light on Kip, who was still splashing happily in the water.

  Connor shrugged. “I feel even more confused about this place now,” he said. “These underground posters. And the Mayor promising people they could live forever? That has to be a lie. How did he get elected?”

  “Aunt Marigold said the town had a way to keep itself from changing,” Cordelia said.

  “And my parents say no one gets sick here,” Nico added.

  “I don’t understand how a crank can control… time,” Cordelia said. “The weather changes! It was raining when we got here.”

  “That’s true,” Connor said.

  They walked farther along, the tunnel leading them straight ahead. Kip swam alongside them in the filthy sewer water. Connor was just happy it wasn’t sewage of the toilet kind. There were more of the same posters on the wall as they walked. In a few places, the tunnel connected with other tunnels—but these were just filled with water, and didn’t have a place to walk.

  After a while, they came to an archway in the wall. The tunnel continued one way, but the golden arch in the wall stood out, as though it was special somehow. Posters were taped up everywhere around it, one over another over another, as if Gray and the Mayor had been waiting here side by side, and the moment one put up a poster, the other tried to cover it with his own. Beyond the arch it was dark, though. Cordelia took a photo of the archway, and for a moment they could see a big open room, with what looked like an altar in its center. Connor looked down at his map. They were right on top of the red dot.

  They walked through the arch. There was no water here. Kip got out of the water to follow them, now smelling musty.

  The children shone their flashlights around the room. It was a big room, with a vaulted ceiling, but it clearly hadn’t been used in a very long time. Old cardboard boxes were piled up against the walls in towers that looked as though they might crash down at any moment. In the center of the room was what looked like a giant birdbath made from carved stone. On one side, the rim stuck out like a balcony for squirrels; on the balcony was a black box with a small slot in the lid.

  “It looks like a ballot box,” Connor said. “Like when we vote for class president.”

  “Do you think this is where they voted for Mayor?”

  “Why would they vote underneath the city?” Connor asked.

  “I wish we could turn on the lights,” Cordelia said. Kip, still soggy, head-butted her leg. “Ew, Kip. Wait till you’re dry before cuddling.” But Kip didn’t seem to want to cuddle. Instead he walked away from her, looking over his shoulder at the children. They followed him around the birdbath to the other side. There was another small balcony on the rim. Cordelia shone her flashlight on it. This one didn’t have a ballot box. It had a small hole. For the crank.

  “Should we?” Connor asked.

  “I can return it,” Nico said again. “So you won’t get in trouble.”

  Cordelia didn’t say anything. She grabbed the crank out of her brother’s bag, stuck it into the hole, and began to turn it. No one stopped her. Connor reached out and helped his sister turn the crank. From the bottom of the birdbath, stretching up like a telescope, came flames. The children quickly pulled their hands away, but when the flames stayed small and at the bottom of the bowl, they started turning the crank again. The fire slowly grew, reaching upward until it was so big the children had to stop. But the fire didn’t stop. It filled the birdbath, crackling and roaring, and lighting up the room. In response, other lights around the room that the children hadn’t seen in the dark flickered awake. There was a chandelier above them, and all the candles on it sparked into life. There were torches at the corners of the walls that began burning. The children looked around, suddenly nervous—all the old boxes and papers were still crowding the room. What if they set fire to the place? But the boxes and papers had been left far from the torches.

  The whole room
was lit up now, glowing and warm. They could see everything clearly—it was a giant room, with the birdbath in the center. The birdbath wasn’t just marble, as they had thought, but something paler, like ivory, and it didn’t blacken where the flames touched it. And the floor, which they hadn’t looked at, was made of glass panes. Under the glass were gears, slowly rotating. They made a clanking sound that echoed everywhere, as if they were in the heart of a machine.

  “Look!” Cordelia said, pointing at where the walls reflected the fire back in strange colors. “There’s something on the walls behind the boxes.”

  Chapter 24

  The children quickly began taking down the towers of boxes, carefully putting them where they couldn’t catch fire. The boxes were light, and it didn’t take long for them to reveal that on each wall of the room was a giant mosaic, made of pieces of tile in deep, vibrant colors like the gemstones on a crown. Though they were covered in dust and hadn’t been polished in years, the mosaics still glowed in the firelight. Cordelia immediately began taking pictures.

  “Look,” Connor said. “There are words at the bottom.”

  Together, the words and pictures told a story, which the children read:

  Once, when the world was young, the elements flew about, making sure they could touch every place on earth. Air brought wind and rain, Water made rivers flow, Earth made mountains rise and plants bloom, and Fire brought light and heat. They danced over the world, bringing their gifts everywhere they went. Until they came to a cliff. As they were bringing their gifts to the cliff, the cliff said:

  “No.”

  The elements stopped. They didn’t know what the cliff meant.

  “No?” asked Air.

  “I don’t want you here. Leave me alone,” said the cliff.

  “But we bring life,” Earth said.

  “No, you don’t,” said the cliff. “Things that bloom wither and die. Water can flood, fire can burn, and wind can knock things over. I don’t want any of that.”

  “But you need water to drink,” said Water, nearly crying.

  “And air to breathe,” said Air.

  “I bring heat and light!” said Fire angrily. She couldn’t believe anyone would say no to her.

  “And I bring trees and flowers,” Earth said. “Yes, they die, but they grow again in the spring.”

  “I want to be left alone,” said the cliff. The elements all stared at it awhile, hoping it would change its mind. But it didn’t. Earth left first, with a sigh. She had been told no before, by deserts and by Antarctica, where nothing grew, but never by a cliff. Fire crossed her arms and stormed off, still offended. Water left, crying. But Air stayed where he was, smiling.

  “The others might go,” Air said, “but you can’t get rid of me. I’m everywhere. And because you were so mean to my brother and sisters, I’m going to make sure I blow extra hard on you. You’ll be one of the windiest cliffs in the world.”

  And Air made good on his promise. He blew and blew, and the cliff begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. And to this day, the cliff is one of the windiest cliffs in the world, but none of the other elements will visit it.

  The children stopped reading and looked at one another.

  “It’s just a story,” Connor said. “It can’t be real, right?”

  “The top of the city, by the Mayor’s house, is awfully windy,” Cordelia said.

  “It’s true,” said a voice behind them. The children and Kip jumped at the sound and turned, afraid the Mayor had found them. But it was Gray. “The story is true.”

  Chapter 25

  The children stared at Gray, a hundred questions bubbling on their lips.

  “But what about the park?” Cordelia asked.

  “Did you let us take the crank because you’re not Mayor?” Connor asked.

  “Will people really not get sick here?” Nico asked.

  “Why did the Mayor tell people they could live forever?”

  “What about the river?”

  Gray held up both his hands, and the children went silent.

  “When people moved here,” Gray explained, “all they had was the wind. But we need other things to live—we need plants and water and fire. So they built a machine. A big one, all gears and cogs under the city, that brought the gifts of the other elements onto the cliff, like a train brings people. The gears pull water and earth and fire into town. Then they can exist here, too.”

  “That’s what the crank is!” Connor said. “It powers that machine.”

  “Just like my sister said,” Nico added.

  “But then why was it off?” Cordelia asked.

  “It was a theory of our current Mayor, when he was young. As an experiment, he asked the town to let the machine wind down for a week. Before then, he planted two flowers, one inside town, one just outside, on either side of the town line. After the week was up, the flower in town hadn’t grown at all, and the flower outside of town was in full bloom. He said he thought that without change, people could live forever. No one was sure if he was right at the time, but then he grew up and explored the world. He found other strange spots across the globe, places where an element or two or three were missing, and he studied how they affected those places. He came back confident—if sick. He said if we turned off the machine, if we stopped change, we’d all be well forever. We wouldn’t change. No sickness, no death, no strange new ideas. He ran for Mayor on that. And when he won, he let the machine wind down and proved he was right. Woundabout stopped changing. And without change, there’s nothing to fear. Or so the Mayor says. But he’s dying. Or was dying. He was very sick when he ran for Mayor. He used people’s fear of change to win. Of course, you can’t stop all change. People’s minds, new arrivals, like you. But the seasons, disease—they’re frozen here. Time even moves slower. As long as the elements are kept away, people live longer, diseases kill slower, and people can keep the outside far away and try not to let anything else new happen.”

  “You’re not afraid of change?” Cordelia asked.

  “No,” Gray said. “Are you?”

  “Sometimes,” Connor said. Cordelia nodded in agreement.

  Gray smiled down on them. It was a soft sort of smile, as though he was happy and sad at the same time. He looked up at the murals. “I was married once. Her name was Miranda. She left me. I know how bad change can be—how much it can hurt. But I also know that change is what got me past that. What helped me to be happy again.” He looked back at the children. “I think you children are change like that. You’ve made Marigold so happy.”

  “We have?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gray said, sitting down on the dirty floor. He crossed his legs as he spoke. “She may be afraid to show it—afraid of violating the Mayor’s ridiculous laws—but she’s been so lonely. You’re her family.” Gray’s eyes were now level with their own, and though they were plain, and difficult to describe, they were filled with a warm fire that let the children know he was telling the truth.

  Connor and Cordelia looked at each other. They thought about how Aunt Marigold had promised to protect them and had stood in front of the Mayor when he’d looked as if he wanted to hit them. She’d never let them be separated, as the Mayor had said. She’d keep them safe. They suddenly wished she were here with them.

  Gray spread his arms wide, taking in the glowing room. “This used to be a special place. People would speak about the town, how we could improve it, make it better. This chamber is closest to the machine that draws in the elements, you see”—he pointed at the gears under their feet—“so it’s closest to the machine that makes our city unique. That was the idea—a meeting hall where we could remember why we were special and how we should keep being special.”

  Gray dropped his arms. “It was fifteen years ago. Just around when your parents got married, just after Benny Banai died in the car crash, because that was when Marigold moved to town. She was so afraid of the world back then. Afraid of more loss.” Gray pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his pants w
ith his hands. “Things in the world were changing, and people weren’t sure what to think of it. The Mayor told them it was bad, that we had to preserve our way of life. I told them change was nothing to fear and we should focus on other things, like schools and parks. They believed him. We stopped winding the machine—though it had been wound since the eighteen hundreds. The machine wound down. Things… stopped.”

  Gray walked back and forth, studying the murals on the walls. His expression was sad, and tired. “When the Mayor was elected, people stopped coming here. He stopped having town halls. He wanted to stop people from talking about things. He told them too many questions, too many ideas, would bring change back. He told us to stick to routines, and keep outsiders out. Move the children away—because children cause more unpredictable changes than adults. We don’t even have a town paper anymore, or get the news on the television. But now you’ve gone and started winding things.” His voice grew less neutral as he spoke, almost happy at the end, as though he and the children were in on a private joke.

  “So, what about the rest of the town?” Connor asked. “Is everyone mad at us for changing things?”

  Gray knelt down so the children could see into his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m very happy that you found the crank and have used it and want things to change again. And so are many of the other townspeople. So not everyone is angry. But some are. But if you want, you can tell them it was my fault. I let you take the crank. I knew what it would do.”

  “Why did you?” Connor asked.

  “Because I thought that if children could change the town, then it was time for the town to change. You’re what the town needs. The crank is just what you’re using to get the job done. I… should be doing it myself. But I’ve been afraid to, all this time. Afraid of getting kicked out. I don’t want to go, you see. I love it here. I love…” He looked at the children and paused. “The town,” he finished. Connor and Cordelia thought he was probably going to say something else, but weren’t sure what.