Tank Top 01: The Crossroads Cell

by James Lynch

with the urge to groan in pain. His bruises and cuts had dulled, but he felt stiff and his buttocks throbbed from their flattening against the hard floor. He’d actually awakened and drifted back into sleep more than once, registering the change of light and minimal change in temperature in their sultry cell. Sometimes he’d been sure he could sense his cellmate, sometimes convinced he’d dreamed it and was alone.

  He dimly remembered being let out of the cell twice, ravenous enough for even the lousy stew and stale bread he was served, and grateful enough to be let out of the cell to appreciate the gloomy room with its few tables and smoky torches.

  Time acted funny, as though having his life compressed to two rooms - the tiny cell and its adjoining communal area - distorted its passage.

  His cellmate had proven much less talkative after that first burst, as though she’d used up her quota of words for the sixday. He coughed and pushed himself up in a vain attempt to find some way to exist without standing to hurt his tired feet or sitting to hurt his tired bottom.

  “How long have we been here?” He mumbled.

  “You have been here three days,” the voice drifted out of the darkness, this time to his left. “I have been here longer.” Something about the way she spoke nagged at him, as though she was irritated but not enough he could ask her about it.

  “How long are we supposed to be here?” He asked. “Aren’t they supposed to give us a trial or say something? Anything?”

  “New to captivity?” she countered. He imagined she shifted her position in his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t be sure. He was beginning to believe she was either part gargoyle or had been one in a previous life.

  Naael shrugged, wondering if she could even see the gesture in the dark cell.

  “We missed His Honor, Judge of the Trystal Circuit Court by a couple days. He won’t be back here for at least another ten, possibly more.”

  Naael pondered that. The endless wasted hours rankled, but he would have guessed incarceration to be worse. The cell didn’t smell overwhelmingly bad, nor was his cell mate offensive or frightening.

  “Is this it then? Are we just stuck here until ... when?”

  The pause was short, but seemed overlong to Naael. “This is a holding cell. It’s where they put people before they have a trial. They don’t know for sure what’s going to happen to us. Are we going to be executed? Perhaps put in the dungeon for a few years? Maybe let go with a fine or a bribe? Until they know where to put us, they put us here.”

  “Oh. And that judge you were talking about? That’s the one who will decide?”

  “That’s the one who will decide.”

  Naael paused. “What do you get if you brawl in an inn?”

  “They’ll throw you in the dungeon, but not for long. A few tenths, maybe as long as two cycles depending on how much money the warden needs. Enough to disrupt a life, but not destroy the labor pool.”

  “Any way out of it?”

  “Any is a pretty encompassing term,” she chided.

  “Any legal way, then.”

  “If you’ve got enough money you can buy your way out. It’s expensive, but Jirin’s coffers are hungry. I think they call it ‘bail’. Possibly because of the word bailiff, but I’m not sure.”

  Naael mulled the word over. He had no coin to speak of and nothing worth selling. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The cell,” he said, wanting to say the company, but fearing too sharp a reply.

  “I cleaned it. Usually there’s more straw. I used the worst of it to clean the cell and shoved it down the hole.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell, during which Naael was dimly aware he slept at least twice.

  Naael awoke from one of a handful of interchangeable, nuisance nightmares. Not enough to make him cry out or gasp, but enough to leave a nasty aftertaste on his mind. Once again he was sure the cell was empty. Almost every time he’d awakened, and even sometimes when he was awake, he could swear someone had taken his cellmate away, or perhaps she’d escaped and left him behind. He stared into her corner, willing her to materialize, but as time went on he was even more convinced she was not there.

  Finally, as he shifted on his numbed bottom, her vaguely familiar outline separated from the shadows.

  A noise at the door took his attention away before he could ask her about it. The jailor opened the door. It was time for their brief walk about the prison.

  He was glad of the chance to get out each day and was determined to do nothing to jeopardize the opportunity. After their typical circuit of the floor, Naael sat at the indicated table and slowly, deliberately ate his food. As usual, he never noticed his cellmate take a bite, though she sat across from him and there was no food left at the end of their meal.

  Today, whatever day it was and however long he’d been stuck in prison, Naael felt an unusual sense of peace. He figured it came from prolonged, enforced inactivity and the acceptance that he couldn’t change things just now. Always he’d tried changing - skipping from one thing to the next, looking for immediate results. Ironically, he thought, almost smiling. It is extremely liberating to be imprisoned and forced to slow down. I still would not have chosen to be here, but I admit I am learning a lot. Perhaps that’s the key - I must learn and live no matter what my circumstances, or how much I’d like to change them.

  He ate his food, which seemed to him to taste better, and sat still, simply enjoying the peace and quiet, even of the prison.

  He was so peaceful and centered that he didn’t bother being surprised when, on the edge of his vision, as if he’d been there every day before, he noticed a small, quiet man. The visitor had the bearing and appearance of great age, in the way that an enormous, gnarled oak tree carries age. Naael wasn’t sure how he knew, but the man was definitely a visitor. The guards seemed to pay him absolutely no mind, and the strange visitor returned the favor. He sat very still, clearly studying Naael. Naael’s peace pervaded him, so he merely studied the man in return.

  Before long the guards escorted them back to their cell, still having given no clue that they were even aware the man sat there.

  Naael sat some time in quiet contemplation before yet another amazing thing happened.

  “Léathol,” the woman said. Naael blinked, turned his head, stared at her. He had no idea what she was saying, and her voice sounded, for all he could tell, actually friendly, almost meek.

  “What?” He asked.

  “My name,” she offered quickly, as though she feared changing her mind. “I’m Léathol”

  Naael sat nonplused.

  Long ago he had decided she was beautiful, though to him most tehlians appeared beautiful, but her beauty was a different thing. There was a coldness and hardness to her that strove against the features that were appealing. It was difficult to determine anything in the poor light of the cell, but when they spent time at the tables he had been able to see well enough. Thoughts of the tables brought him back to the man.

  “Who was that man we saw today?”

  It was a moment before Léathol spoke. “You saw him today?”

  Naael didn’t register her question at first. “What?”

  “You saw him today?” she repeated with what sounded to Naael like uncharacteristic patience, laced with some bitterness he couldn’t place.

  “He’s been there before?”

  “Yes,” Léathol answered. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  Naael decided this conversation didn’t make any sense whatsoever, so he played along. “He wasn’t waiting for you?”

  “Such a one as that,” Naael could now hear the bitterness in her voice ran deep, “has no use for me.”

  “If he was there to see me, why didn’t the guards say anything?”

  “The guards still don’t know he’s there.”

  Naael decided this conversation was going further down the road into utter confusion, but he was determined not to say ‘what’ more than the twice he’d alread
y expended. He tried honesty.

  “Ok. I’ll admit it. I have no earthly clue what you’re talking about. Please, explain it to me like I’m an idiot.” He felt his peace escaping and was shocked to recognize he wasn’t so much angry with himself as amused at his reaction – studying it.

  Instead of the barb he expected his dour companion to make, he actually sensed Léathol move. She crouched closer as if studying him in the dark. “You have noticed, I trust, that there are times when, despite the closeness of our quarters, I appear to be absent altogether?”

  Naael nodded, swallowing. He could actually feel her breath, and for an instant he was sure that if he could have seen her face, it would be filling almost his entire field of vision. She barely whispered.

  “I am skilled at hiding in shadows, in moving silently, and in being ‘still’ in such a way that I actually become part of my background. I can, indeed, sit next to you for hours on end in a busy room and nobody, not even you, would know I was there. But I am an infant playing child games next to such a one as him. Be assured, if you saw him, it was specifically because he wanted you to. He is so good at this skill he can actually choose who sees him and not. I do not know how many times he has sat with us, but I know it has been at least three.”

  Naael worked this over in his mind, finally starting to flow with the information instead of working counter to it. “So why is it he let you see him, if you claim he came only for me?”

  “Probably,” even whispering she managed to growl with unmasked anger. He