Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Misty was still watching Conn, the coated dead man awkwardly draped across his shoulders. His ridiculous bright red kilt stood out in sharp contrast with the bleak cityscape. She frowned at his exposed legs; the mist would quickly teach him why that was a bad idea. Skylanders acted so high and mighty, but they were stupid if they thought that would save them from the effects of the acid rain. He was just about out of sight. “Flogging, that’s a punishment,” Misty said, still watching his retreating form. “If a Grounder and a Skylander become involved, like, intimately, that’s a death sentence.”

  “He was handsome,” Aurora whispered, as though a Purgeforth official might be listening. “His eyes . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color of blue before—”

  “I have no interest in men that wear skirts and talk with a funny accent,” said Misty flatly. But she was indeed intrigued by the young Cloudwalker. She’d never encountered one before, let alone spoken to one. And Conn was handsome, she supposed, though perhaps good looks were much easier to come by in a place with real sunlight and adequate food. Grounders traded much of their food to the Skylander clans in exchange for the fresh water that fell from the high clouds far above the cloudbank, but Misty was willing to bet they had much better food up there than the mushrooms and tangleweed that Grounders relied upon for sustenance.

  “You were so mean to him,” said Aurora, her voice a mix of awe and accusation.

  “He was rude, and cocky.”

  “Do you feel better now?”

  “What do you mean?” Misty narrowed her eyes at her best friend, who only smiled in return.

  “I mean you were as mad as a trapped rat after the Deacon’s visit. You seem . . . better, now.”

  “It felt good to argue with someone,” she admitted with a shrug, a smile cracking her own face. “Anyone would have been fine, but a braw Skylander lad?” Her voice slipped into an exaggerated imitation of Conn’s accent, one she often used in private while cracking jokes with Aurora. “Aye, that was right proper tidy.”

  Aurora giggled in delight. “That sounded just like he did!” she exclaimed. “Though I still have no idea where you learn all those words they use.”

  Misty’s smile faded. The Purgeforth doctrine spoke little about those that lived above the clouds. She’d learned early on that ignorance was preferable to knowledge when it came to Skylanders, as it provided protection from becoming sullied. But Misty already knew far more about the enigmatic Skylanders than most Grounders did, and it was all thanks to her mother.

  It had occurred about a year earlier, when she’d sleepily knocked on her parents’ bedroom door, a door strictly kept locked. As she stood waiting for their response, she remembered the previous night, when Astrid had mentioned they would be leaving early that morning to collect their meager water allowance. Misty had no idea what time they’d left, so she couldn’t be sure when they’d be back. An hour? Less? She tried the door latch anyway, and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  Misty pushed away the inner nudge to enter—even took three full strides away—before turning back. She knew full well she was not allowed in their room, a rule that had been in place since she was a small child, but curiosity was quickly getting the best of her. She had often wondered what could possibly be of such great importance to justify such ridiculous secrecy, and over the years her speculations had run wild. Perhaps they were secretly rich, or had illegal provisions. Maybe her parents had a second child stowed away in there, or weapons, or dangerous electrical devices that could kill them all. Standing before the door again, she cautiously unlatched it and gave it a little shove. Made of heavy metal, the door swung open on noisy hinges, sorely in need of lubrication.

  Inside, the small room still had its original electrical breaker panels, a whole wall filled with switches and levers that once had something to do with the trains but had now been repurposed as hooks for clothing and rain slickers. A lone torch burned high upon one wall. The one positive aspect from the continuous acid rain was mixing the horrid liquid with fermented alcohol. The mixture produced a clean flame that could burn for weeks, called ChemBurn. There wasn’t much else in the room other than her parents’ mattress, a small night table, some shelves, and the clothes hanging on their makeshift wall hooks. A lone metal chest sat on the floor. It looked old, like something from the world before the Ruin. Well, I’ve already come this far . . .

  Misty sat down before the old chest, and noticed it wasn’t locked. She opened the lid, letting it lean back against the wall, and peered inside. Within was a bundle of brightly colored fabric, in a pattern that made Misty gasp in recognition. The plaid design was woven into a distinctive tartan, primarily royal blue in color, with interspersing thin lines of yellow and green and orange. Misty had never seen its like before, as clothes made of such brightly colored material were not permitted on the ground under Purgeforth doctrine. Such bright colors were frivolous and disrespectful to God, she knew, but still, the plaid was gorgeous. Reaching in, Misty took ahold of the bundle only to realize there was something heavy folded within it. She turned it over on her lap to find the fabric loosely knotted closed. When she untied it, letting the heavy item fall free on her lap, she found an ancient leather-bound book, worn to the point that the binding seemed held together by mere threads. Grounders were taught to read at a young age, and encouraged to read Purgeforth Scripture, but nothing else. Misty found the dogmatic religious writings both boring and uninspiring, and sought out other books whenever she could. Hidden old books could still be found if one knew where to look—which Misty did—covering a wide variety of subjects, both non-fiction and fiction. She herself had found a stash of old books during one of her and Aurora’s nighttime excursions, which she kept hidden under her mattress within her own room.

  As she carefully opened the cover of the old book, Misty was surprised to find it was not like any of the others she’d read. For one thing, this one was penned by hand, in a beautiful cursive style of writing that took her a minute or two to decipher. This isn’t a book, she thought. It’s a journal! Each of the entries was dated, the first of which was from nearly twenty years ago.

  Startled, she looked up toward the open door. Had she heard something? A creak, someone stepping onto a loosened floorboard, perhaps? She waited, listening intently, but no further sounds were heard. She inwardly chided herself for not being more vigilant. Being caught in her parents’ room would surely land her in big trouble, and being caught reading the journal would likely land her a flogging under her mother’s firm hand. Still, she read on.

  The journal’s owner, whoever it was, had written in the book like a long personal letter. Most of the entries were addressed to My Dearest, or My Darling, terms that made Misty think it was written for a lover. But the content itself was almost scholarly as though the writer had been conducting a study or trying to teach someone, and the book was broken into different sections that detailed many aspects of the world Misty had only heard of through hearsay. She skimmed through several of the journal’s middle pages that spoke of rallying conjuring powers—undoubtedly, forbidden subject matter within the narrow confines of Purgeforth. But then, anything not pertaining directly to Scripture had been banned hundreds of years earlier. Growing up, she had so many unanswered questions about the history of the world, about why things now were as they were. This old leather-bound journal seemed to address some of them. Misty, capturing her bottom lip between her upper teeth, did her best to quell an inner excitement as she turned to a page that discussed her own people, the Grounders.

  My dearest,

  I wonder how much you know of the people who live beneath us, the Grounders who survive beneath the rain of acid that continuously drips onto Earth’s surface. These poor souls live a rather dismal existence mostly underground, a life I am glad you will never experience.

  Clearly, Misty mused, the author of this penned discourse was a Skylander, not from the lower realm. She read on,

  They co-exist in relatively
cordial conditions with those of us who live atop the cloudbank, though resentment is common. Most Grounders survive within subterranean caverns, the individual nooks and grottos, and within the subway tunnels of the pre-Ruin world, where theyAgrarian Grounders grow fungus, certain vegetables, grains, and other crops in the soil, not only for themselves but also for thewe Skylanders above, beneath redirected surface illumination. Some raise pigs, a strange four-legged creature and one of the few to survive the Ruin, for meat, leather, and other byproducts. Other Grounders tend to—and guard—the forest of Ragoon trees in Central Park, and harvest the trees for food, building materials, plant fibers, and sap. The Grounders have no source of fresh drinkable water, untainted by acid rains, so they trade with Skylanders for this all-important resource.

  Above the cloudbank, my sweet, we are privileged to enjoy relative freedom of our beliefs and religions. But Grounders are kept in dire poverty under the thumb of religious despots.

  Misty thought of Deacon Terrence Lasher, and his band of deceitful bandits. She shuddered briefly, looking away from the journal and spotting three large brown cockroaches scurrying across the cement. One, changing its direction, headed directly for her. Using a finger as a placeholder, she closed the journal. With a well-practiced motion, she slipped off one shoe, smacking the sole down hard upon the vile, disgusting insect. As she scraped the remnants off her shoe back onto the floor, she glanced about the small room. The other two roaches, taking the not-so-subtle hint, disappeared into the darkness between the walls.

  Misty reopened the journal and skimmed ahead to another section.

  My Dearest,

  We have not always been so lucky as we are today, to walk upon the very clouds themselves. Our abilities come from our Celtic (Scottish) heritage, which grants us the Sight and is what allows us today to be considered of noble blood. Let me tell you a story:

  During the time of the Ruin Event, when the country known as Scotland sank beneath rising ocean waters and became mostly frozen marshlands, the ones who survived migrated. A select few fled to northeastern America. Kenneth Macbeth, whose documented Celtic heritage went back eight centuries, was the first person to take up permanent residency at the top of the Empire State Building, after three bloody years of fighting for it. Macbeth was a warrior, and the first to realize he possessed what later became known as the Sight. Only a select few men and women were able to see the slight variances of patterns atop the cloudbank. Macbeth, the first human to step outside while living in the high rise, dared to venture forth onto the very top of the bright-white cloudscape, then carefully trek across to a neighboring high-rise building. Soon others, those who also could see the subtle variations in color and light under Macbeth’s prompting, made similar cloudwalking excursions. They each shared a similar heritage, the same Celtic origin. Apparently, some Scotsmen were genetically predisposed, or their genes had somehow been altered in the Ruin Event. Either way, non-Celtic men and women didn’t seem to possess that same highly unique vision.

  Misty reread the last few paragraphs again. The Sight? Genetically predisposed? What did that even mean?

  It wasn’t long before others of Celtic heritage came to settle above the clouds. Non-Celtics were forced out—killed, if necessary. Kenneth Macbeth, rising in prominence, was soon decreed to be the clan leader—the CloudKing—of the Macbeth Clan and all their followers. Living above the cloudbank became a way of life, and Skylanders were born.

  In time, still-standing skyscrapers that rose high above the cloudbank were internally modified to possess large moisture reservoir tanks. Fresh rainfall from the higher clouds is captured then safely stored for drinking, bathing, and toilet use. Excess water is either bartered away or traded to the often-desperate Grounders below, who sometimes have to settle for what we call grey water—water drained and filtered from a Skylander’s bath, sink, or occasionally toilet.

  Misty looked toward the door, her brow furrowed. Their own water-supply cauldrons were periodically replenished via supplies from above the cloudbank. This was the first time she’d heard anything about grey water—toilet water!

  Nowadays, each high-rise is home to specific Celtic clans. This is true for the skylands above Manhattan, as well as for the nearby Jersey City skylands, just across the Hudson River. There are rumors of other settlements, other skylands far from here, around the world. Someday, perhaps I can show you.

  We no longer have CloudKings. Today, in the year of the Lord 2600, clan leaders are called CloudMasters.

  That’s just about the time I was born, Misty thought. She realized with a jolt that she’d been sitting still, reading here for far too long, and quickly skipped ahead. One particular entry spoke about the brave warriors who protected Skylander realms many years ago, during a time of mystical shamans and wise oracles that provided counseling to the reigning CloudKing, someone named Malik Macbeth. Perhaps it was just fiction—Misty wasn’t sure—but she found it fantastic reading, nonetheless. She wondered if life above the cloud was at all like what was written here. Were warrior Cloudwalkers still living above them, wielding razor-sharp rackstaffs and cutting the heads off enemies in some far-off place called Jersey City?

  In the months since she had first discovered the book, Misty had found only a handful of other opportunities to steal a glance at it. It awakened in her a hunger for knowledge, one she could never satiate with the books and information that was available to her under Purgeforth. But even as she learned and read, Misty couldn’t stop wondering who had written the book, and why her mother kept a journal like this in her possession. Had she considered what would happen to her should Deacon Terrence Lasher ever find out? The risk was great—perhaps even punishable by death. Why, Mother . . . why risk so much to keep this book?

  It was a thought that had plagued her ever since.

  “Misty? Are you even listening to me?” Aurora asked now, obviously annoyed.

  Misty returned to the present moment, looked around. Already below ground, they were walking along the dark passageway. She’d been completely lost in thought, reliving the journal’s world of warrior Cloudwalkers. Momentarily, she thought of the young Cloudwalker, the one called Conn, they’d met on the street. Is he a warrior? She wondered, Is life above the cloud truly like the book describes?

  “Sorry,” she answered Aurora finally. “I got lost in thought.”

  “More like love-struck, I’d say,” Aurora said, teasing her. “You’ve been all starry-eyed since we met that Skylander.”

  “Don’t even joke about that, Aurora,” snapped Misty, her expression serious. “You don’t know how dangerous something like that would be.”

  “And you do?” Aurora asked back, still grinning.

  Misty nodded. “I might have read something about it . . .”

  Chapter 9

  Conn hurried toward the street-level entrance into the Drake Building, which was about half of a block down a dark and narrow alleyway ahead. The weight of the dead Cloudwalker’s crumpled body upon his shoulders was not an issue, though he suspected grimly that it might become one during the long climb up the Drake’s inside stairwell.

  Certainly, the easiest solution to the problem ahead would be disposing of the corpse where it would never be found, like in the nearby East River. For five hundred years, all major bodies of water in the area—the East River, the Hudson, and the Atlantic Ocean—had served as the city’s graveyard solution. With millions upon millions of rotting corpses that resulted from the Ruin, water burial was the only real solution. Erosive properties of organic material, like that composing the human body, supplemented by the continuous source of ever-falling acid rain, meant that the bodies didn’t take long to disintegrate.

  But Conn could not consider such a course of action. Not for a fellow Cloudwalker. Even though he did not know the man, he still was a brother, and one born of noble blood, albeit that of the Folais Clan. He thought of Lili Folais, his soon-to-be wife, and wondered if she knew the deceased he was carrying on his
shoulders. Undoubtedly, she did. He wondered idly if his bravery in going to the ground to bring the body home would evoke her gratitude.

  As he approached the entrance to the alleyway, Conn stopped to reposition the dead weight atop his shoulders. Glancing into the undefined murk above, he noticed how very different the cloudbank looked when viewed from underneath. Four hundred feet overhead, it was a mere one hundred feet thick. The cloud mass had been the cause of both bliss and misery.

  Were things changing? Conn wondered, thinking back on the centuries of history that were fraught with war over those clouds. Would life return to that chaos?

  Until this past year, the cloudbank had remained remarkably stable—a whole century of stability. But historically, wars had been fought whenever the cloudbank shifted its position. Reigning CloudMasters watched their valued skyscape, their very existence, begin to move, and even sometimes—God forbid—dissipate entirely. Word was that the cloudbank over Jersey City could be shifting again, or even thinning. Those distant castles in the sky, not many miles away at all, could become nothing more than isolated islands, having nothing more than quickfall patches around it, and no direct access to the more dense cloudbank. A horrid thought. Skylanders dreaded nothing more than being forced to live beneath the cloud. There, they would be no better than Grounders, little more than furtive beasts fighting for their very survival.

  Conn’s thoughts returned to the two Grounder girls he’d met on the street earlier. The smaller one, the one with the challenging disposition and the fiery green eyes, was hardly a beast. He found her unlike any of the hundreds of lifeless souls he’d guided from one high-rise structure to another. Grounder or no, she was unlike anyone he’d ever met.

  Turning the corner, he didn’t expect to hear voices echo out of the darkness.

  “Well, well. Lookie here,” came the voice, deep and male. “It’s a skirted freak from high atop the cloud.”