Semper (New Eden)

by Dudley, Peter J

  They move us along like this for two or three minutes. The moon is still in the sky, but we’re in the shadow of the cliff and cannot see its friendly, silver circle.

  Clarity comes to me at last halfway to the jagged cliff face. Freda is ahead, her hands tied behind her back. One black-clad man holds a gloved hand on her arm and pushes her forward. I think they're gentle with her; the hand on my arm pushes with urgency but not malice. I sense a third figure, maybe the one that took me down, behind us. Two voices behind me, but only one hand on my arm.

  “…maybe now he knows what it feels like.”

  “Hush up.”

  “You see me take him down, Tom?”

  “Shut up, Gabe. You talk too much.”

  “I’m sure he’s the one, you know.”

  “You didn’t even see him. That’s how bad he smoked you.”

  “No, I got a good look. I’d have shot him, but I didn’t want to kill him.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Really.”

  So it is the ghost-men. And now I know that not-Tom is named Gabe. I consider correcting Gabe’s account of our encounter in the woods, but now might be a bad time to make him mad.

  Are these the same three that returned to steal Lupay away from Baddock's camp? They must have seen me chasing them.

  “So,” says Gabe, who is the one bringing up the rear, “we’re taking them to Fobrasse?” He pronounces it as Freda said it: foe-brass.

  “Shut UP. No. We’re not taking them to central. They go to holding first, according to protocol.”

  “Oh. Right. Subterra protocol.” Gabe grinds out these words with scorn. Subterra. They said that word before.

  We are approaching the cliff face, somewhat up the hill from the wall. I peer ahead into the blackness of its sheer rock surface but can see nothing there. No steps, no ladder, no hut. Nothing. We’ll be there in a few seconds.

  “And we get to look in the bag at holding?”

  “Correction: You get to stand guard. I get to look in the bag.”

  “Aw, Tom—“

  “Shut up. We’re here, anyway.”

  Here? Where is here? There’s just a black cliff face dropping onto the black dirt.

  Tom brusquely twists me around so I’m facing away from the cliff, and I can see we’ve come a long way up the hill. We’re maybe a half mile from the wall, far past the second stand of trees where I failed to find firewood. From here the wall looks like a small, gray block dropped in the bottom of the huge V made by the canyon walls. It looks a simple matter to clamber right over. But I know better.

  Tom holds me as Gabe goes around us and right up to the cliff wall. I twist my neck to see what he’s doing, but Tom manhandles me back the other way. I get the message. I’m in no shape to resist, and I have no desire to make him angry.

  In a moment he’s turned me round again to see a narrow opening in the cliff face that wasn't there before. It’s tall enough for me to walk without stooping and broad enough for two to walk side by side, if they don’t mind being cozy about it. And that’s what we do. Tom squishes up against my hip, just behind, his grip so tight it’s like my whole body is bound to his. We’ve taken the lead, and Freda is behind.

  Two steps into the tunnel, and we're in absolute blackness. There is no light at all, and I stop short.

  “Come on,” growls Tom in my ear.

  “I can’t see anything,” I respond. My voice echoes on close walls on either side but disappears into the black void ahead.

  “Doesn’t matter. Straight on. It’s flat. I’ll tell you when to turn or if there are steps. Which there aren’t.” It’s a fair enough direction, delivered with a flat authority and without any hint of compassion.

  I inch forward, shuffling my feet to start. Tom’s hand is gripped onto my arm, directing me unfailingly straight ahead.

  “Can you see in this blackness?”

  “Call this black, do you? This is nothing. This rock almost glows. I’ve seen darkness you can’t even dream.”

  I think about saying that he is a kind of crazy that I couldn’t have dreamed, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I take one quick breath and step confidently forward. Baddock has put me in far more uncomfortable situations, and something in me wants to prove to Tom that I have courage to match his. I pick up my pace, and after a few dozen steps I am walking almost with a regular gait. Tom is an efficient guide.

  We go on silent for several minutes, straight on into the mountain. We must have hundreds of feet of granite over our heads, and the air is cool, stale, and thick. It feels humid. I think if I were to touch the rock, my hand would come away slick and wet like the very mountain itself is sweating inside.

  Other than Tom's grip on my arm and the indeterminate sounds of labored breathing around me, I feel entirely isolated. The aloneness starts to weigh on me, heavy like fear, suffocating.

  “Freda?” I venture the one word, which is absorbed by the blackness.

  “I’m here.”

  “Quiet.” That’s Tom. But I don’t mind. I can go on a while longer knowing we’re still together. I wish I could hold on to her hand, though. I think back to the moments we first came through the gate, how we held each other’s hand for comfort. Then how we lay, side by side on the blanket, gazing at the stars. How I wish I could see the stars in this blackness!

  I close my eyes to focus on those memories and hold them closer. I have been walking with my eyes open, and closing them makes the walking easier and the memories clearer. I try to recall the times I saw these ghost-men before, but each effort blurs and wipes away to be replaced by a different memory: my father giving a sermon in the chapel, Kitta bowing after her interview, the cheerful twitter of Chiliss' nervous giggles, the sharp tang of fresh cheese in Harold's lunch on a summer afternoon in the south country.

  I wonder what Freda is thinking. I should be concentrating on escape, but in this darkness, with Tom's hand clamped on my arm like a bear's bite and his body pressed into mine in this narrow hall, I just don't see the point. They have us. Even if we could escape, where would we go? Back to die in exile in the Radiation scorched badlands?

  "Stop here," Tom announces. He halts, stopping us both dead and holding me up as I begin to stumble forward. He's moving his other arm around on the wall—I hear the rubbing of his fingers on the rock. Suddenly a rough scraping saws through the darkness and the faintest of cool breezes tickles my right cheek. It's not even enough to ruffle my hair, but in this warm, wet darkness there is no mistaking a fresh breeze. Has he opened a door?

  "In here," Tom says, and he wheels me to the right, straight into the breeze. The sudden movement chills me, and as we walk a dozen steps forward the temperature falls sharply. "Stop." Tom stands behind me, grabs both my shoulders, and turns me around.

  I open my eyes to the same nothingness I saw with them closed, but I smell Tom's pale breath before me.

  "Sit."

  I try to see a paler blackness in front of me where the sound came from, try to see any lightness or darkness where his skin, teeth, mouth are. Try to see eyes or even the outline of his head. But there's nothing. I breathe deep and try to stop my body from quivering. This darkness is maddening.

  "Freda?"

  Tom's voice saying, "Quiet," doesn't entirely overpower Freda's timid and shaky "here." It's enough to help me hold on to something, to let me know that my memories of her hand in mine and all the rest of my memories aren't just fake thoughts in a suffocating madness. Already this darkness has smothered me to the point I can feel my self dripping out like juice from an apple in the cider press.

  "Sit."

  I gingerly lower myself onto a softly cushioned surface.

  "It's OK. You can lean back."

  Tom lets me go, and I sense he's moved away from me. He's quiet, but I hear the shuffling of feet—or what I assume are feet. It could be the slithering of snakes or the dragging of a dead bird or some strange monster. Maybe the ghost men don't eat people. But maybe they keep horrible c
reatures as pets and feed them—

  Light.

  It's no more than the dim, hazy ambiance of a candle as seen through a thick cloth. But it's light. And it's growing.

  I see outlines. Tom stands next to an open doorway ten feet from where I sit. Freda sits in another chair on my right, inches away. Her closeness startles me, in a good way, and I slip my hand on top of hers. The warmth and solidness of her bones and skin are more soothing than any trickling stream in a wasteland. One of the two other ghost men stands near Tom, but I can't see the third. We are in some small room. Is this what they called holding?

  The pale rectangle of the doorway glows brighter with each second we pass in silence. I strain my eyes to gather as much of the light as I can while it lasts. Maybe I can learn to save it up and use it later.

  Freda's hand rotates within mine until we're palm to palm and our fingers interlace. I wish I could tell what she's feeling—is it the same as what's going through me right now? Her touch and the dim light and the shuffling of approaching feet give just a hint of normal again, enough to grab and hold on to. I have never felt fear before—real, stomach-pounding fear—until we plunged into the tunnel and began drowning in darkness and silence. It was like being in nothingness, even though Tom was pressed against me the whole time.

  But now Tom is so close, and there's light, and the stifling humidity has been replaced with an invigorating chill and air that tastes almost fresh. I could lunge for him. I could take him down like I took down the other one. It wouldn't be difficult—he's close to the stone wall, and I could plow into him, squishing the air out of him...

  Instead, I sit motionless and wait. My fear retreats as the light in the doorway grows stronger and I let my hand rest in Freda's.

  "Tom. Good to see you." It's a man's voice in the hall, deep and gentle. Kindness flows in its soft, rolling lilt. The esses lisp just a little, but it's not a young voice.

  Tom steps through the door into the hallway, and the light splashes over him. His face is pale like dead fish, tinged orange with the flicker of a steady flame. The light is a candle, then. Or a lantern. He reaches out, and his white hand meets another in a colorless handshake.

  "Thank you for coming so late," Tom replies. "I'm sorry to have awoken you."

  A laugh, generous and full, from the other figure. "No, no. I'm glad you did. Are they in here?"

  "Yes. I thought it better to hold them here than to bring them into central."

  "Of course."

  Tom turns and comes back into the room, looking at me with distrust and sternness. Maybe ghost-men can read minds, and he knew I had thought about squishing him against the wall.

  Behind him, the third ghost-man, the big one that disappeared in the darkness, follows, holding a lantern. Its flame is bright and intense, but it's muted by a darkish glass around it and a metal hood. I want to look at Freda but keep my eyes on Tom. He walks slowly toward me with his gaze locked on mine, and I get the sense he's about to grab me and fling me across the room.

  Instead, he steps to my side and turns to face the door, more like my patient valet or servant than a guard. The big one with the lantern takes Tom's prior place next to the doorway and busies himself with nothing but holding the light in such a way that Freda and I are fully illuminated. The light splashes over us, but its brightness is not uncomfortable.

  Then the man with the deep, rolling voice walks in. He's dressed in a thick robe the color of mountain daisies, with thick, soft boots lined with fur in a deep, rich brown. His skin is even paler than Tom's, but it's not ashen gray like my father was lying dead in the sunlight. This ghost-man has skin that is smooth and flawless, like a white river stone worn smooth by centuries of water. In fact, in this lantern light, his erect posture, his pretty skin, and his kind but austere expression make him almost look like he's made of stone. A living sculpture, emerged from the very core of the mountain itself.

  He has a presence that makes me want to stand up. When I begin to rise, Tom's hand rests on my shoulder in a very clear message. There's no need to move.

  "So," he says with a chirpiness that belies his deep, flowing tone, "these are our new friends?"

  Friends is a good word to hear. We'll see if he means it.

  "Yes, Mister Mayer. They were pushed through the gate this afternoon."

  So his name is Mayer. I wonder what power he holds. He doesn't look like a captain of the guard. His yellow robe looks as much symbolic as functional. He talks and moves like someone who would prefer to use words rather than fists, even though he's taller than I am and has a solid, unyielding look similar to the big ghost. There is a Mayer family in Southshaw, experts at glass blowing. I doubt they're any relation.

  At the phrase "pushed through the gate," his expression goes dark and grim. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly, regretfully. "Exile is such a difficult thing. I cannot conceive how hard it must be to be evicted from your home and shut off from your family, your friends." He looks at Tom. "It seems so barbaric, don't you think, Tom?"

  "It does seem there could be less... extreme ways of handling bad elements. Yes, sir."

  "Bad elements? Oh, no no! That's just the problem!" Mayer closes the space to me and stands directly in front of us, holding out his hands to us. It's clear he means for us to take his hands and stand up, which Freda and I do after only a moment of hesitation. "The whole idea of any citizen being a... 'bad element,' as you say, is backwards. Every citizen should be valued, included, recognized."

  His hand is as warm as Freda's, not cold like a river rock. It's soft, too, like my mother's. These hands are not hands of a laborer. Mayer is probably someone pretty important here. But I already knew that, the way Tom kowtows to him.

  "Come, my friends. I do not know why you have been cut off from your people, but I assure you that you will find only friendship and hospitality here. Isn't that right, Tom?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tom, you've been gentle with them, yes?"

  "Of course, Mister Mayer."

  "My friends, has Tom been gentle with you?" There appears to be real concern in his voice and his sympathetic expression.

  I sense, however, that this is a test, or a ruse, of some kind. Mayer is giving me power over my captor. He's telling me, through his touch and tone and words, that he is on my side, my patron and protector. But there's Baddock running through it all, just under the surface. The need for caution prickles through me. Unlike Baddock, this is a man I could beat in a fight without doubt. But very much like Baddock, he is also a man I need to be careful with.

  My hesitation brings a grim frown. Mayer looks from me to Freda and back. He's also testing our relationship, then. Since he came in, Mayer has stood between us, taken both our hands, addressed himself to us both equally. He hasn't yet figured out which of us is superior.

  Freda fills the void with a trembling answer. "Tom was as gentle as he could be. We did give them a little trouble, I'm afraid. Or rather, Dane did."

  Mayer gives me the briefest of glances, and I can see his mind working hard, analyzing what's just happened. It's only momentary, though, and his face softens into a smile.

  "Well, well, that would be only natural, wouldn't it? We're all human beings, after all, and that makes us fear things that are different from ourselves." He releases our hands. "Please, sit. Be comfortable. We need to talk."

  I sink in silence into my seat, as does Freda. She slips her hand back to where it was before, but I don't take it. I clasp my own hands together on my lap and lean back in the chair, keeping my gaze on Mayer. Freda sits up, rigid and tense. As smart as she is, she has never sparred with Baddock. I want to comfort her, but there's just too much at stake.

  In a swift, graceful motion, Tom retrieves another chair from the shadows and positions it directly behind Mayer, who sits as if it had been there the whole time. Mayer ignores Tom as he returns to my side, once again my servant-guard.

  "And so, my friends, let us start with introductions." May
er leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. He's wearing yellow pants under his robe. "As I am now your host, it is only fitting that I should introduce myself first. Or, perhaps... you already have guessed who I am?" He looks from me to Freda again, an impish grin curling the corners of his pale lips.

  "You are Fobrasse, of course," Freda says, her voice clear and not so trembly now. "Mayor of Subterra."

  I try to keep a confident, smug expression on my face as if I knew this all along, too.

  "Ha! Very good, my dear. You do pay attention to details, don't you?" He leans forward and pats her hand in a gesture not unlike giving a treat to a dog who performed a small trick. "Now, Dane, you can learn a thing or two from this one."

  When he says this he stares pointedly into my eyes. But I know that Freda has already said my name, so he's just fishing. He doesn't know anything about me. And that's good. The longer he thinks Freda is in charge, the more time I'll have to figure out how to... what? Escape? Negotiate? No. Just figure out what the hell is going on. I just smile and nod along with the joke. Mayer—Fobrasse, I correct myself—has no idea how much I've already learned from Freda. It's difficult for me to keep my smug expression while I'm kicking myself inside for thinking his name was Mayer. Of course he's the mayor.

  "And now, my dear, it seems you have the advantage of me. I am, I fear, the worst of hosts. I have guests and know nothing about them."

  Captives, I think. Not guests. Prisoners.

  "You must fill me in so I can give you the hospitality you deserve."

  Don't answer anything, I want to tell Freda. I want to shout it to her, want to signal that she needs to tell him nothing. The less he knows, the more power we retain. The more we tell him, the more he controls. But how could I expect her to understand that?

  "My name is Freda Tailor, and I am a seamstress." She says this without any emotion or inflection, almost as if she were talking to a tree. "I did not perpetrate, however, the atrocious clothing we are both wearing now. Those were provided by the new First Wife of Southshaw at the time of our exile."

  Fobrasse wasn't distracted by the talk of our clothes, though he showed polite amusement when Freda disavowed them. I never thought about how we look in these grubby, rough outfits. Freda could be a scrawny, twelve year old boy. I could be a stablehand. Fobrasse's golden robe nearly glows in the dim room. The way he blinked twice when Freda mentioned the new First Wife, it might be an advantage to hide who we really are, for now at least.