by Pasha Malla
See, Pearly, said Kellogg. These people are reasonable.
Where are your permits? said the second helper — Walters.
See, that’s the problem, he’s got them, said Kellogg. My son, I mean. They’re in his knapsack. Which he might still have! But if he’s here —
Dad? whined Elsie-Anne, and Kellogg told her, Shush.
This your daughter?
Gip Poole’s our son, Kellogg said. He’s the one we’re looking for. But you might have him as Bode. Or Boole, was it, Pearly?
Goode, said Pearl, I think.
What are you talking about, said Walters, crossing his arms.
Reed crossed his arms too.
You guys messed up the permits, said Pearl, and Kellogg leapt in: An easy mistake!
Walters closed the registry. We don’t have him. If we did, we’d know.
We’re also looking for him, said Reed. Your son.
Kellogg cocked his head. Oh?
I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne. Really bad.
You always have to pee, said Kellogg. She always has to pee, he told the Helpers.
Where do you live? said Walters.
They’re not residents, confirmed Reed.
My wife is! Kellogg nudged Pearl. Tell them.
I was born here, she said.
Walters nodded. And your husband? And your child?
We live out of town now.
We’re making arrangements, said Walters, for nonresidents to leave.
But our son, said Kellogg, is still here. We can’t leave!
Well your wife can stay, said Reed. But you and your daughter, without permits —
Do I have to stay? said Pearl.
Of course, said Walters, grinning nicotine-stained teeth. You’re a resident.
Or were, said Reed. And I’d hardly say have to!
Kellogg swatted his daughter’s hand away. Annie, quit tugging my sleeve, okay? We’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute. Can’t you talk to Familiar? How’s he doing?
He’s gone, said Elsie-Anne, for now. Dad, I have to pee.
Oh, said Kellogg. Did Familiar go back to Viperville?
Elsie-Anne’s face contorted, panicked and pained.
Sir, said Reed, we can’t help you.
Our son needs his meds, said Kellogg weakly.
What kind of meds?
The type that without them he’ll definitely have an Episode!
From Elsie-Anne: a feeble whinny. Then she froze. Wetness bloomed upon the front of her dress. Her expression was conflicted: horror, shame, relief. The stain spread, pee streamed down her legs and puddled around her shoes. No one moved — not her parents, not the Helpers — and the sound was gentle, like distant windchimes, the odour sharp and sour amid the non-smell of the airconditioned mall.
GREGORY ETERNITY and Isabella are busy assembling an army — a lot of work! — from the roof of the Galleria. The streets below are full of people cheering and putting their weapons in the air like they don’t care about anything, except fighting for everything they believe in probably.
Something’s coming, bawls Gregory Eternity in a voice that echoes the fire burning inside the spirit of every man, woman, child, and cat in the whole city.
Something alien, supplements Isabella additionally. Something that thinks it’s going to take our city!
Boo, boos the crowd.
Are you with me? To stop it? inquisitively howls Gregory Eternity.
Also me, adds Isabella moreover, thrusting her gun outward in a display of it.
Yeah! enthusiastically shrieks the crowd, drunk with the taste of the attackers’ blood in their collective, gaping, and toothy mouth. And though they can only imagine how this blood might taste, the taste is quite visceral, as though they’ve once before torn open some invader’s throat to feast on the clots of putrid gore that froth forth like the carbonated eruptions from a thousand shaken-up bottles of cider.
It’s really obvious that the people are willing to do anything they can to stop the evil force from taking away everything they believe in. Even risk their lives. Even kill. That is just how much the city means to them.
That is. How much. It means.
Are we all in together now? questioningly bellow Gregory Eternity and Isabella in stereophonic dual tonality.
Yeah, deafeningly responds the crowd in kind.
Then to the shores, thunders Gregory Eternity, for that is where we shall meet them!
OLPERT COULD NOT recall the last time he’d held hands with anyone, let alone a grown man, let alone a strange boy. A classmate’s maybe, buddied up on a fieldtrip as a kid. Had his grandfather ever held his hand? No, it seemed impossible — in fact up sprung a memory of trying to take the old man’s hand in the crowd flooding out of a Maroons game. He’d recoiled and growled, What are we, going steady?
Thirty-some years later, here Olpert was hand in hand with Gip and Sam wading across the Islet. The water had quickly reached halfway up the ground floor of every permanent residence and summerhome and cottage and cabin and beach house. In the deepest spots Olpert wrapped an arm around Gip’s waist and heaved him out of the water, placidly the boy allowed himself to be moved. From the ticket booth to the ferrydock arched a little bridge, now each end disappeared into lakewater, the docks were submerged. Olpert led Sam and Gip up to the walkway’s midpoint, let go of their hands, and said, We’re okay, it’s dry here, we’ll just wait for the ferry across.
We’ll wait here, said Sam. The towel frothed over his eyes, and from the breastpocket of his stolen NFLM shirt protruded the TV remote.
Olpert looked across the Cove: islandside the Ferryport was empty, no one lined up, there was no ferry in sight. Bay Junction seemed closed. Beneath the walkway flowed a river, household items floated past: a wicker trashcan, an empty pack of Redapples, some sort of manuscript, all those pages ant-trailed with type, plastic bags by the dozens — most from Bargain Zoom.
Hey, look, said Gip, pointing. People.
Around the Islet’s eastern promontory appeared a strange convoy of watercraft. Roped to a central rowboat heaped with boxes and furniture were four canoes, two paddlers in each, a passenger hunkered amidships. Bongos harmonized each paddlestroke as the flotilla progressed into Perint’s Cove.
Hello, hello! Olpert shouted. Help, help!
Gip echoed him: Hello, help!
The southerly wind caught and swept their voices back over the Islet. None of the canoeists broke rhythm, the drums kept time. Shrill clear instructions came across the water: Stay together, everyone stay together!
The woman in the yellow bandana sterned the lead boat. In the bow, digging into the water as though trying to tunnel out the other side, was her grizzly partner. Between them someone’s child knocked bongos. In another boat were the two men and the woman who’d fled the roominghouse that morning. Twelve people in all: the entire Islet community, save Olpert and Sam.
Face pointed toward the Cove, Sam was shouting, his words garbled.
Save us please, called Gip, his voice reedy as a blade of grass and just as effortlessly rebuffed by the wind.
They can’t hear you, said Olpert.
A pillow floated past.
Across Perint’s Cove the silver miracle of the city gleamed against a cerulean backdrop of sky. The drums were fading. A seagull screeched by overhead, two sharp cries of despair or mockery, and swooped out over the lake.
What do we do? said Gip. I’ve got to get back, I told you. I’m the one!
Sam said, I don’t know how to swim okay.
Olpert stared at all that water. I don’t know if I know how to swim.
Sam said, We need a boat.
Do you have a boat? Where can we find a boat?
I could build a boat.
What? You could?
If there
was time.
Olpert looked back over the Islet. All that remained were treetops and the second storeys of the taller houses. He imagined the roominghouse on the far shore, waves nudging the upstairs windows, begging to be let in. Maybe even pouring in.
Oh no, he said. Jessica.
Jessica? said Gip.
She’s trapped. We’ve abandoned her. I —
Olpert pictured her terrarium churned to mud, a little mole-nose valiantly sniffing for air — and water smothering it. He reached for the bridge’s railing for support. And, steadied, discovered something bright and brave shining through his despair. It took him a moment to identify: courage.
I have to rescue her, said Olpert.
You can’t leave me! wailed Gip. I have to get over there and finish Raven’s illustration because I’m the one, he told me so.
But Olpert was already wading back into the water. I’ll be two minutes, he said, just wait here. And, in a voice he hoped was not ridiculous, but the brassy baritone of a hero, he added, And then I’ll take us across!
LET ME GO, said the Mayor.
You’re certain? If that’s what you wish, Mrs. Mayor, of course, I’m happy to set you loose. You’re aware what’s below, I assume?
Wait.
Yes?
Where does it end.
This? Oh, you know. I’m not sure it exactly ends. Though I can’t say for sure.
What does that mean. Can you say something that’s an actual thing, please. Everything’s just words with you.
Words are things. Words aren’t things?
Answer my question: if you let me go what will happen.
Oh, I don’t know. Who can say? Doesn’t what happens just happen?
The Mayor was silent. Raven rocked her gently, almost lovingly — with a hand? a foot? Or might this just be some telekinetic capacity he had? With a tremor of horror, she wondered if, beyond a voice, he was even there at all.
Ventriloquist, spectre — whatever he might be, he was speaking again: It’s hard enough to just be somebody, let alone try to make everyone else a little bit more of themselves. What do people want? How can one know when they don’t even know?
What are you talking about. I want my body back. I want to get out of here. I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted everyone to have a nice weekend. I even thought it might be fun. Make it normal. You need to fix what you’ve done. That’s what I want!
What’s normal? Isn’t normal what I’ve been trying to show you? And by normal I mean the truth — the normal, quiet truth beneath the clatter of your busy city lives. Though did I achieve such truth this time? I have my doubts. I can’t judge it myself, as I’m within it, you see? Who knows, I say what I do aren’t illusions, but maybe they are. Maybe they’re just lies. Don’t truths which no longer entertain become lies?
You’ve put an entire city in chaos. That’s what I think. That’s the truth.
Surely it is the acts of people that destroy them? At most I merely provide the means.
This is pointless.
I wonder, the people — are they at least afraid? Are they truly afraid?
You need to put right what you’ve done.
No. Mrs. Mayor, I shan’t. Not yet. It’s so delightful down here, away from it all, and it’s good to chat with you. I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. Are you? To what?
The Mayor sighed.
Ah, life, Raven said.
What will happen if you let me go.
I told you, he said, I never know. I just don’t know.
III
N BLACKACRES STATION sat train 2306. The platform was empty, the movator immobile, the escalator — stairs. The station held the air with the sterile expectation of an empty operating room. Debbie ducked inside the first car, where, in the gloom at the far end, were that same mother and son, food wrappers and empty drink containers heaped at their feet.
She was just in time: the lights came on, the train began to hum, the woman reclined and drew the boy’s head into her lap. You see, Rupe? she said softly. Here we go.
As the train wobbled out of Blackacres Station Debbie moved wide-legged, as though wading, down the car. Yet when she reached the mother and son she had nothing for them, nothing to say. Instead it was the PA that spoke: Next stop, Upper Olde Towne. Upper Olde Towne Station, next stop.
Debbie sat. The train moved at a deliberate, measured speed. Sixty feet below, the blight of Blackacres yielded to the gentrifications of Upper Olde Towne. UOT Station slipped by: the tarped platform, wires in capillary bundles bursting from holes in stripped cement walls, a sense of desertion, and then they were through and the PA claimed Knock Street Station would be next.
A toxic odour rose up as they lumbered over Lowell Canal, Debbie gagged. The woman across the aisle seemed unperturbed, just stroked her son’s face, the same hand that had smacked the same cheek only the day before, now so loving and gentle. Each caress made Debbie feel lonely and extraneous. She looked away.
On the streets below appeared the Citywagon Depot, the Temple, and IFC. The previous night’s events felt so profoundly in the past — such revelations! Debbie thought of the snitches Havoc and Tragedy and laughed bitterly to herself. Though what might they have done with Pop? Possible NFLM vendettas wheeled in her mind, and with them came guilt — she had to do something. But the train moved through Knock Street Station and out the other side.
We’re not stopping, said Debbie. I need to get off.
Next stop, Budai Beach, said the PA — it sounded chiding now, somehow. Budai Beach Station, next stop.
How absurd, thought Debbie, to imagine the prerecorded announcements were mocking her. Yet, really, was it? Though the ICTS claimed full automation, things had to be somehow run by people: someone had once spoken these words, as someone now decreed a straight shot through — to where? She pictured a phantom behind a vast, flashing circuitboard, taunting them with each station stop, steadily hauling them in.
Out in Kidd’s Harbour flashed squares of silver: the roofs of Citywagons in the Budai Depot. The flooding spilled over Lakeside Drive to the base of the bluffs. Debbie turned to share this with her co-passengers, but they seemed to exist in a separate reality, the woman stroked her son’s face, eyes vacant and forlorn.
The train entered Budai Beach Station, a bubble of concrete and glass, hawk decals deterred the kamikaze of muddled gulls off the lake. Again the train slid through. 72 Steps Station, they were told, would allegedly be next.
The woman was asking her something.
Sorry? Debbie said.
I asked where you’re going.
Oh.
Downtown to look for someone too?
I’m — yes.
Who?
Someone, she said, but her throat was tight and the word came out strained.
Us too, said the woman, and went back to petting her son.
The tracks skirted the bluffs into Mount Mustela, where hundreds of people crowded the boulevard. As the PA announced 72 Steps Station a banner unfurled from Bookland’s roof: FINISH THE TRICK! Placards were lofted — WHERE’S RAVEN? and GIVE US BACK OUR BRIDGE. And a chant began, less reverent now than incantatory: Ra-ven, Ra-ven, Ra-ven.
A protest. Debbie smiled ruefully and thought, So here’s what it takes.
We’re stopping, said the woman.
The train heaved as it braked, the lights went out, the engines died. And sat unmoving in the station, while down on the street khaki uniforms infiltrated the crowd — Helpers handing out sparklers and streamers to help soften people’s ire into cheer.
They’re trying to make it a parade, said Debbie.
That’s nice, said the woman. Hear that, Rupe? That’ll be nice for everyone, she said.
AROUND ANOTHER corner of the Galleria’s back corridors Pearl crept, into the service elevator, she pressed
the TWO button, winced as the doors banged closed.
The elevator seemed to conspire against subterfuge, grating and groaning as it cranked its way up. Yet no Helpers were waiting for her on the second floor. The hallway was identical to the one downstairs: a storeroom of cardboard, staff washrooms, the same lifeless quiet all the way to double doors with windows laced with wire. Lit with blue emergency halogens, the mall’s upper level had the ambience of a bunker or submarine. The shops were shuttered and dark.
She chanced cracking the door. Clothing racks and shelving blockaded the mouth of the northern quadrant, guarded by a single Helper, arms crossed and staring into the middle distance with a look of dutiful vacancy. Two men rose out of the foodcourt on the escalator. Good lookin outs were traded, the watchman ushered his comrades past, resumed his post.
A scream pierced the air — followed by chuckling, then silence.
Was it Gip? No, the voice had sounded older, thicker. Pearl held her breath, listened. The escalator droned and ticked. Her throat felt dry, her nose ran, her eyes itched — Kellogg had packed the antihistamines in Gip’s knapsack, wherever it might be . . .
The lookout adjusted himself, resumed his stoic watch. Pearl considered various strategies of how to make her approach: with authority — They told me to come up here myself and find my son — or cutely, with fluttering eyelashes, or a sad trudge that suggested distress, she’d beg, Help me, please, my son. Or she could just dash at him shrieking, knock him down, and hurdle the barricade . . .
Something settled on her shoulder: a hand.
It belonged to the Residents’ Control guy, Reed, from downstairs, offering his best expression of rebuke, halfway between a hammy scowl and pained constipation. Behind him Kellogg stood looking sheepish with Elsie-Anne. The pee-soaked dress discarded, Pearl had bundled her daughter in Kellogg’s Islandwear sweatshirt, toga-style.
Hi, Pearly, said Kellogg. He found us hiding in the garbage room.
You can’t be up here, said Reed.