The Prey

by Andrew Fukuda

  Fatigue eventually settles on us, nudging us to sleep. We decide on one-hour shifts. At the first sign of trouble, we’ll run out together. Still wired from the fight at the train station, I volunteer for the first watch. It’ll be hours before I can sleep, I think.

  Alone now, the cottage has fallen quiet. Minutes pass; I think I hear the sound of faint snoring. My breath frosts the windowpanes, then dissolves away, only to reappear seconds later, an ephemeral phantom.

  The sound of singing arrives gently and gradually. At first, I think one of the boys upstairs is singing. But as the voice gains force, lyrics emerging, I realize it’s coming not from upstairs but outside.

  I lean forward, peer through the frosted glass. It’s pitch black outside—nothing to be seen. I crack the window open and the voice comes in clearer. Here in the Mission, there’s nothing unusual about singing, but something about this is strikingly different.

  For one, it’s a solo. Stripped-down, almost naked in comparison to the usual choral singing. And something else. The voice is imbued with a haunted mournfulness, not the usual sprightly exuberance, and the lyrics are stripped of the usual saccharine optimism.

  Lord and God of Power

  Shield and sustain me this night.

  Lord, God of Power

  This night and every night.

  My breath, frosting on the glass, quickens. I know this song.

  It is a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.

  The voice is completely off, of course. My mother’s voice—the only thing I remember of her—was smooth and melodic, whereas this voice rattles like a dragged chain of metal links. But the melody is exactly the same. Even the lyrics, though I do not know them, fall into place like a lost key into a forgotten lock.

  Within seconds, I’m out the door and in the cold air of night. The singing stops. But not before I see a faint haze of gray retreating away. I give chase.

  He’s fast. It has to be a he; the village girls, hampered by their lotus feet, couldn’t come close to achieving this speed. “Hey, you! Wait!” I yell.

  He doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow down. Instead, he picks up the pace. He ducks behind a cottage. By the time I reach it, he’s nowhere to be found. It’s all silent cottages and darkness. Then—there. His shadowy, wafer-thin figure cutting across the meadows, toward the fortress wall. Bleach-white hair glinting in the darkness. Now I know who it is.

  “Clair,” I shout.

  She keeps moving forward. I’m on the coarse grass now, trying to keep pace. A few minutes later, she’s reached the fortress wall. She disappears into the shadows like a stone dropped into a black lake. She’s there, and then she’s not.

  When I reach the wall, I touch the cold black steel. Smooth. No grooves indicating an entryway. Then I see her footprints, little silvery splotches in the night dew, whisking beside the wall toward the corner tower. I race along, find a door. Pull it open, and then I’m inside the tower. Her boots clomp-clomp on the spiral staircase.

  “Wait, Clair!” I yell, and my voice echoes back at me in diminishing waves, startling me. I climb the stairs, my boots thumping loudly on the metal steps.

  She’s not in the tower room. A door that opens outside to the top of the fortress wall is open. When I walk through, I see her standing outside halfway along the length of the wall, gazing out at the moon-splashed mountain ranges. She’s waiting for me.

  She doesn’t turn around until I stop a few meters from her. And yet still, she waits, her breath gusting steadily, calmly.

  Finally, she turns to me. Her eyes are shiny and wet.

  “I knew it was you,” she says. “You’re just the way your father described you.”

  33

  “WHAT?” I STAMMER. Too many thoughts whirl in my head all at once. I step toward her on suddenly unsteady legs.

  “From the moment I first I saw you,” she says with a sad smile, “I knew it had to be you. His son.”

  “He told you about me?”

  “I knew it couldn’t be any of the other boys—too young. And the older boy—Epap—just didn’t look the part. But you. That same determination coursing through your blood. That same look in your eyes, angry and sad at the same time.”

  “Clair! What are you talking about?” I grab her elbow. “How do you know so much?” She looks suddenly afraid, and I ease my grip.

  “Do you have the Origin?” she asks. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but please, tell me: Do you have the Origin?”

  I let go of her arm. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. But tell me what’s going on here. Explain everything.”

  She gazes out at the dark meadows slanting downhill into a black precipice. Here and there, large boulders bulge through the landscape. “I don’t have much time,” she says. “We were followed. You were followed. You really riled up the eldership at the station tonight.”

  “They’ll get over it.”

  “Trust me. They won’t.”

  “Don’t worry, okay? Nobody followed us. Stop imagining—”

  “Nobody followed me. I was quiet as a mouse. But somebody followed you. You moved with all the subtlety of a roaring avalanche.” She points toward a cluster of cottages. “Look over there. You can make out two people standing. Now coming this way.”

  She’s right. I see two gray smears walking carefully off the path, heads stooped down. They’re tracking us. “Hurry, then,” I urge her.

  She speaks without hesitation, her thoughts logical, her sentences flowing as if rehearsed. “He told me this song would draw out his son. A foolproof filter. And he was right.” She smiles. “I practiced it in my head every day so I wouldn’t forget.”

  “Why did you wait so long? I’ve been up and about for a couple of days already.”

  “I tried, believe me. But I couldn’t exactly sing the song from the rooftops. The lyrics are subversive, the elders would have grilled me to death about it. No, I had to wait for the opportune time.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Less than ideal, with everyone on edge because of what happened at the station. But given your imminent departure for the Civilization tomorrow, I had little choice.”

  I look out to the meadows. The two men are bent over, examining the ground. They start toward the fortress wall.

  “Hurry,” I urge, “fill me in on everything.”

  She inhales deeply. “The Mission was built many decades ago—”

  “Just cut to the chase. Pretend we’re five minutes along in this conversation. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple. I need to tell you about—”

  I exhale loudly in frustration. “Hurry. Please.”

  She sighs. “Tell me what you already know. We’ll go from there.”

  “My father became a recluse here,” I say, hurriedly. “He supposedly raved about a cure for the duskers—the Origin. Eventually, he had to be removed to a cabin, the one in which you found us. And that’s where he committed suicide.”

  She doesn’t answer, only stares in the direction of the two approaching figures. They’re closer now. She grabs my arms and leads me quickly back to the tower room. She closes the door behind us and the room plunges into blackness. The crack of plastic snapping, then another. The room lights up green.

  “Most of what you just said is true,” Clair says, handing me a GlowBurn. “Your father found it hard to fit in again with the Mission community. He claimed things had changed for the worse, accused Krugman of running a—” She pauses, remembering. “—a ‘totalitarian dictatorship.’ The elders didn’t know what to do with him. Some thought he was a cancer to village morale and wanted him returned to the Civilization. Others believed he still had value and might prove in time to be an asset. So they reached a compromise. He could stay, but away from the village. They let him stay in the cabin.”

  “All by himself?”

  She nods. “They made me the gopher. I’d go down two times a week with medicine, supplies. That’s why th
ey didn’t bind my feet but let them grow into man feet—so I’d be able to walk the many miles, climb the cabled ladder. I hated it, in the beginning, mostly because of how my feet got so big and ugly. The other girls were merciless with their taunts. Man feet, man feet, man feet.” She grimaces from the memory. “But then I came to enjoy the solitude of the hike. And eventually, his company. At first, he’d offer me a glass of water. Then later, he offered snacks; in time, we started having meals together. Over the months, we became close. He told me about his family, his wife, his children. About you. Where he used to work—”

  “What did he say?” My voice, loud in this room.

  “What?”

  “About me, what did he say about me?” My words tumble out of my mouth, over each other, like unwieldy wooden blocks tumbling down a staircase.

  “That you would come here someday. He was certain of it.”

  I shift on my feet. “Anything else?”

  She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Stop interrupting! I need to say everything in sequence lest I forget some important detail—”

  “No. Just get to it now. Tell me what else he said about me.”

  She draws in a lungful of air. “Very well.”

  From outside, the sound of voices, still distant, but drawing closer.

  “He said you were a boy born with a mission. With a certain destiny.”

  “Me?”

  “That you have a purpose, a calling. That your life has a significance greater than you could ever imagine.” She pulls down her hood. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My father never said anything about this. What mission?”

  “I’m supposed to ease you into this gradually.”

  “Lately, nothing’s been gradual or easy. Just tell me.”

  She steps toward me, her eyes locked on mine. “Do not be surprised, do not be afraid of what I’m about to tell you.”

  “What’s my mission, Clair?”

  “You’re not to get on that train, Gene.” Her eyes pinion mine. “Not tomorrow or the day after. Not ever. You are to go somewhere else.”

  I search her face for understanding. “What? Where?”

  “To your father, Gene. He’s still alive.”

  34

  HER WORDS SLAP me with a palpable force. My knees buckle under me.

  “He’s alive? Where is he?” I hear myself uttering. My words, a thousand miles away, lost in the swirl of thoughts churning through my mind.

  She’s about to say something, then shakes her head. “No time,” she says quietly, as if to herself. “Come here.” She walks to the other side of the room, moves aside a few empty cartons and boxes until a small door is revealed.

  “No way,” I stammer. “Tell me he’s not in there.”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She opens the door and walks in. I follow. A second later, I hear the snap of plastic, and then the room lights up with a green glow.

  It’s actually a long hallway, its length disappearing into the far shadows. Along the walls, like large pinned butterflies, hang several large contraptions, each resembling enormous kites with large wingspans.

  “We’re inside the fortress wall now,” Clair says.

  “What are these?”

  “They’re called ‘hang gliders.’”

  I touch the fabric of the nearest one. A synthetic plastic material.

  “In the early days,” Clair says, “when the Mission took its outpost duty seriously, people used to fly out on hang gliders to scout the land. Always under the cover of daylight. To keep an eye on the duskers. To make sure the duskers were staying in the city, that they weren’t exploring or traveling across the desert.”

  I look at the dozens of hang gliders, shadowed along the wall from top to bottom. “Why did they stop?”

  “The elders got too big and heavy to operate them. And they forbade further flying after a few girls, it’s rumored, flew away and never returned. Now no one can operate them: the elders are too fat, the girls can’t run for takeoff because of their feet. Not that anyone cares. Everyone’s forgotten they ever existed.”

  I walk the length of the hallway with a GlowBurn, the rectangle of green light touching the walls around me, exposing more dust-coated hang gliders. “Are they still operable?”

  She smirks. “You wouldn’t get very far. They’re almost all in disrepair. The operable ones are mostly gone—burnt to a crisp many years ago.” She sees my frown. “They were burned in one huge pyre by order of the elders. This hallway—I think it was the repair room. They forgot about these ones.”

  Backtracking, I touch the large hang glider nearest the door. It has an especially long wingspan, its synthetic material brightly colored.

  “This one looks new,” I say.

  Clair nods. “Relatively. It’s the only one that I’m sure flies.”

  “My father?”

  She runs her finger fondly across its span. “He constructed it. It was the training model. Two can fly at a time. We’d fly out together, your father and I. He taught me how to fly it.”

  “Did he fly a lot?”

  “Yes. Secretly, of course, at night. The elders would never have permitted it. After he was banished to the cabin, he was free from their watchful eyes, and freer to fly. He kept another hang glider at the cabin.”

  I nod, remembering the hang glider on the cabin wall. “Where would he go?”

  “Everywhere. Somewhere. I don’t know.”

  I slide my finger over a hang glider. A thought occurs to me. “My father used a hang glider to escape,” I say, excitement thrumming in me. “The elders couldn’t allow his escape to be made known to the villagers. So they concocted a story about his suicide. I’ve nailed it, haven’t I?”

  Clair nods.

  “So where did he go?”

  But she shakes her head. “I can’t tell you unless you do something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She folds her arms. “I can’t tell you where he is or how to get to him unless you first show me the Origin.”

  “Are you kidding me? I have nothing for you. Only idle speculation, wild theories. Now tell me where my father is!”

  “He made me swear not to tell you until you first produced the Origin. Because that’s your mission, Gene. To take the Origin to your father.”

  I exhale loudly with frustration. “Okay, whatever then. You’re looking at the Origin.”

  She’s confused for a few seconds, glancing up and down my body. “Where…” Her voice drifts. She shakes her head, starts putting on her wool hat. “You’re wasting my time. If all you’re going to do is joke about this then—”

  “No! I’m being serious.”

  “There’s no way—”

  “Clair! I’m telling you what I know,” I say, waving my arms pleadingly. “Look here, I bet my father hinted that the Origin had to do with lettering or typography or something like that. He did, didn’t he?”

  She looks at me warily.

  “Gene,” I say. “It’s so obvious, but everyone sees right through it. It’s exactly the kind of clue my father would dangle in front of people. Obvious yet invisible at the same time.”

  “Stop it!”

  “No. I’m serious. It’s in my genes. It’s me. I’m the Origin!”

  She stares intently at me, my neck, my chest, my arms. I see her mouth the Origin, and her pale face whitens even more.

  “Now tell me,” I say. “Where’s my father?”

  A flare of annoyance fills her eyes. “I’m only supposed to tell you if I’m absolutely certain you have the Origin. And I’m not. But there’s no time left for certainty.”

  “Understood. Now tell me where he is.”

  “East.”

  “East? There’s nothing east of here.” I glance around at the silent audience of hang gliders, at this odd, elfin girl with bleach-white hair standing before me. “You know what? Why should I be
lieve you? Nothing you say makes sense. How do I know you’re not making this up?”

  “Your father said you might not believe. So he told me to show you something.” She goes to a small wooden chest hidden in the shadows of the corner, lifts open the lid. When she turns around, she has a small model airplane in her hand.

  My rib cage contracts, squeezing my lungs. I recognize the plane. It’s the remote-controlled airplane my father flew from the rooftop of his workplace, the tallest skyscraper in the dusker metropolis. The plane is smaller than I remember, its faded chrome surface dented and pinged, but when I look closer, it’s undeniable. It’s the very same one.

  “He told me that he’d programmed it to fly to a specific spot,” she says. “He knew exactly where it would land. And years later, after he returned to the Mission, sure enough, he found this plane. Dented, smashed up, rusted over, entangled in treetops, but not a hundred meters from where it was supposed to land.”

  I turn the plane over in my hands. It’s been repaired and spruced up, coated with varnish. And there’s some writing. Across the underside of the two wings, the same unmistakable cursive handwriting I’ve come to know from reading my father’s journals. Only four words.

  “Follow the river east,” I whisper.

  “You need to go east,” Clair says softly. “We will go east. By hang gliding. I will fly us there on this hang glider for two.” Her eyes dart down with a curious guilty expression on her face. “We’ll follow the river. It comes out the mountain on the other side. Then east the whole way.”

  “There’s nothing there. It’s all barren, empty land.”

  “Your father is there. In a place he described as the Land of Milk and Honey, Fruit and Sunshine.”

  All I can do is turn the plane over in my hands, touch the cool metal plates.

  “It’s your very purpose in life, Gene. That is what your father told me. Your whole life has come down to this: going east with the Origin. Nothing else matters. It’s what you were born to do. Your mission.”

  Voices shout from outside. Closer to us, perhaps almost at the fortress wall.