“What was that about?” he asked. He dangled his arms between the bars. “You had me scared for a minute.”
Zei ignored his question and continued doodling. Samuel opened the gate and went over to her. Strands of her hair were falling out of the sloppily tied ribbon. He’d need to fix it again. He wasn’t a skilled hairdresser, but he enjoyed messing with Zei’s long hair. It was silky and thick.
“Charles isn’t a bad person. He’s nice. He’s nice to me.”
Samuel looked down at Zei’s paper, crouching down to get a better view. On the paper was a giant face that looked nearly identical to Charles. She’d drawn his slicked-back hair, the fading bruises around his cheek, and a nose that almost seemed a bit too big for his face. But it was more than simply a portrait. She’d added all this shading that made his eyes look sunken and dark. His mouth was open like a beast, his jaw outstretched in a way unnatural for a human. His wet tongue hung out like he was some sort of wild beast about to devour its helpless prey.
Samuel backed away from the disturbing image. He wanted to ask Zei about it, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Zei had made Charles into a demon.
Samuel sat in the cushioned chair beside the wooden box with the white buttons and silver dials. His boots rapped on the hardwood floors as he waited for Charles to return. He had brought him up to the estate and then left him in the giant living room by himself as soon as they got inside.
“I’ve got something I’ve got to do first,” Charles had told him. “Get Thelma to make you something to eat if you want.”
Several minutes after Charles had run out of the room and up the spiral staircase, Thelma came out from the kitchen. She looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen her. She dusted her hands on her apron and, in a kind voice, asked him if he needed anything. He told her no and thanked her. She smiled a bit and pointed to the stairs.
“You two must be good friends.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the only person he talks about besides his father. He doesn’t get many visitors.”
“Oh.”
The maid’s insight made Samuel feel more uncomfortable about his visit. He’d never really had a friend before, and being friends with the mayor’s son was probably a fantasy for most of the young people in Haid. He liked Charles. He never treated him like he was only a cleric’s son. Maybe the shadow of their father’s professions was a common factor they shared. But after seeing Zei’s sketch, he couldn’t help but picturing Charles as a monster. It made him a little uncomfortable.
Thelma put a hand on the wooden box next to her.
“Would you like to listen to the radio while you wait?”
Samuel shifted in his seat and gawked at the box. It was a radio.
“If the mayor won’t mind.”
“The mayor is still out,” she said, sounding relieved.
Thelma’s news helped Samuel to relax a bit as well. He had no desire to interact with the mayor. Thelma gently turned one of the knobs, and immediately a hissing sound came out from the netting on the front of the box. She pressed one of the white buttons, and the noise was immediately replaced with the muffled sound of people talking.
“Turn this knob here if you want it louder.”
“Thank you,” Samuel said with a bow.
Thelma left him and went back inside the kitchen. He leaned closer to the box, nearly putting his ear on the netting. It sounded like a discussion between two men about the greenlands, yet he couldn’t make out but a few words here and there. Justice. Poverty. Equal distribution of goods. His fingers carefully turned the dial to the right until the voices got louder.
One of the voices sounded as though he was in the middle of a long description about the greenland cities currently rioting.
“The last count from Emor was 632, Borem 844, and our capital of Medda well over a thousand,” the lamenting voice said. “No educated man could make a valid argument that our political system is working. Our citizens, greenlands, even redlands and whitelands, are dying, because our mayors have run them down with their greed and lack of empathy. And our governor in particular? He’s holed up safely in his greenlands estate doing nothing to address the needs of those who’ve been placed under his care.”
“Are you arguing for a united nation?” the other voice questioned. “And are you implying that you, Julius, are the solution?”
Samuel pushed his glasses back up his nose. His head was bent too far down.
“I would never be so presumptuous,” the passionate speaker said with feigned humility. “I am merely a vessel speaking for our citizens, because they can’t. They have no voice. Our politicians have long seen to that. The Laevis Creed has seen to that.”
“You’re speaking against the Creed as well?”
“Yes. I am. If the Creed doesn’t work for every citizen, then it isn’t working. The time for regression is over. Our ancestors once thought that our future was beyond this very earth, out into the far reaches of space, and we’ve given all of that away. Why? Peace, sure. But who lives in peace? Clearly not these rioters who’ve been branded terrorists. And why are they rioting? Because they can’t put food on their tables. Tell that to our governor.”
“You must admit these proclamations are beyond ambitious,” the host rebuffed. “They might even be viewed as treasonous.”
“So be it.”
“Okay, Castor. Let’s play this out. With all this unrest in the greenlands, and with men like you screaming out for reformation, what are the other states and their ruling families supposed to think? I’ll tell you what they’re thinking, Castor. ‘He’s coming for us next.’ And their prides be damned.”
“Yes,” Castor said. “Exactly. May their prides be damned.”
The sound of footsteps booming from above jerked Samuel’s attention away from the radio. Charles rounded the corner and sauntered down the stairs. He was holding some sort of large package wrapped in brown paper.
“Happy birthday.” He shook the package. “It’s for you.”
The radio buzzed on as Samuel took hold of the package. It was nearly the size of his torso. “How’d you know?”
“The sheriff said something about it. It is your birthday, right? Sixteen?”
Samuel nodded, the package feeling less heavy than it looked. Charles gave him a solid pat on the back before combing his hair back with his fingers. He spoke with more excitement than Samuel could muster.
“Don’t just stand there. Open it!”
Samuel tore the corners of the package, carefully folding out the ends so he didn’t rip the paper. Something about ripping paper needlessly seemed wrong to him. He reached inside and felt the softness of fabric. He pulled out the items with one solid tug. It was an entire outfit: black slacks, a peacoat with multiple buttons, a gray button-up shirt with a pressed collar, and what appeared to be some sort of polka-dotted black-and-white miniature tie. He pulled the peacoat up and held it wide. It was made of thick wool and lined with multiple layers of fabric that would probably trap in body heat better than his winter coat. He’d never touched something so expensive before.
“Put it on,” Charles said as he motioned for Samuel to stand up.
He put the rest of the clothes on top of the miniature glass table and slipped on the coat. It was the perfect length, but when he buttoned it up, it felt a bit loose on him.
Charles watched him intently.
“It’s a little baggy, but if you leave it unbuttoned, no one will be able to tell. I’ll get the tailor to fix it right up. I figured we’re close to the same size. I mean, except that I’m like way taller and cooler.”
Samuel rubbed his thumb across the smooth wool. For the longest time, he imagined a life like this. And here he was, in the mayor’s estate, wearing fine clothes reserved for the wealthy. It was a fantasy.
“It’s really nice. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it!”
“Are y
ou sure I can wear this? Will I look out of place?”
“You’ll be with me.” Charles cleared his throat and leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice. “And, uhmm, thanks. For yesterday. I’m glad you were there. That demon really has it out for me.”
“But why—”
“Wait.”
The raised voice coming from the radio had caught Charles’s attention. His brows furrowed as he listened to the new argument for equal land redistribution and the establishment of a systematic food system.
“Ridiculous! And who exactly is gonna pay for that?”
Charles shut off the radio. Samuel shifted his shoulders, feeling the peacoat rub across his thighs.
“Why are you upset?”
Charles plopped into an open chair by the table, plopping his boots down on the end of the table. “It’s nothing. It’s that guy. Julius Castor. He’s some greenie do-gooder trying to start a class war.”
Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out a smoking pipe. He packed the bowl with tobacco before lighting it. He inhaled, blowing a ring of smoke. He scooped up a newspaper and began reading. “‘Named after Isaiah Laevis, the renowned diplomat who managed to broker negotiations between the warring politicians and the religious leaders of their prospective anti-establishment rebellions, the Laevis Creed outlined the terms of cohabitation between the new state governments, the religious elites, and their citizens after the blackout. The former politicians agreed to cease any and all combat, govern their reassigned lands without territorial skirmishes, destroy exceptional technology, seal away access to the unspeakable sciences, and to share some of their treasures and lands with the elites and their families. In exchange, the religious elites conceded to disband their populist movements, encourage their followers to lay down their arms, terminate their old faith ideals, and merge into one singular religion for the betterment and safety of mankind: the roots. This agreement has kept peace on our lands for several centuries.’” Charles cleared his throat. “‘Julius Castor threatens to eradicate centuries of tradition and structure for his fantastical vision of an egalitarian society where no one works but everyone eats.’”
Charles tossed the newspaper by the radio. “The whitelands politicians are in a frenzy. That’s why my dad left in such a hurry. He went to a private assembly in Kairus. All the mayors are meeting up to strategize ways to be prepared for riots and foreign invasion.”
“That sounds complicated.”
Charles let out an exacerbated sigh. “It’s the whitelands, Sam. Things don’t change here. Not without a fight.”
Charles bit down on the pipe, freeing his hands. “Here. Hand me that bowtie. I’ll show you how to do it.”
The ground covering the town square was void of snow, replaced instead by patches of rough grass and stiff dirt. Streamers and banners hung from the various shops, one of which had written in large script “Whitelands Strong.” White and gray balloons were tied to every post, the two colors that composed the whitelands flag. Citizens meandered down the shops and wooden booths, laughing as they conversed with their families and friends. Large lines formed around the spots where games were being played.
One of the most popular stations, located directly outside of the blacksmith’s shop, appeared to be some sort of wood-chopping competition. Piles of pine trunks were lined up in a single row, an axe reclining on each trunk. Samuel listened to the burly blacksmith’s directions on the rules of the game. Each round was limited to a group of six competitors. Once cued, the participants would pick up an axe and start chopping. The first person to split his or her trunk down the middle into two separate pieces would win the round and would later get a chance to compete in a final contest to see who was the strongest axe wielder in Haid. There were several women competing in the game, and by the looks of their biceps, Samuel had no doubt they would beat him in a test of strength.
A table sat in the left corner of the blacksmith’s shed that was covered with crafted knives and hatchets. It made Samuel think about the throwing knives he purchased weeks before. He’d left them by his cot. He did have his hunting knife tucked inside his new peacoat. The only order the sheriff had given him for the festival was to bring a weapon.
“If you get a bunch of people together, pluck them out of their normal routines, then give them free booze, things are bound to get stupid.”
“Won’t all the patrolmen be in the square?” Samuel asked.
“Mayor’s still on a quest to find his thief, so he’s keeping half my force at the estate. Entitled piece of shit.” He spat. “Don’t let it get to your head, kid. You being armed is just a precaution. Don’t try and be a hero. You hear me? You leave the real work for the real men.”
Charles nudged Samuel forward with an elbow.
“Sword swallowers canceled. I was looking forward to seeing a performance.”
“Sword swallowers?”
“Name speaks for itself. One time, at my school, they had this whole brigade of entertainers stop by. Watched this one guy shove a burning cutlass down his throat like it was nothing. It was insane.”
“Wow.”
Samuel draped his new peacoat tighter across his chest, fighting the urge to adjust his bowtie. He was uncomfortable in his garb, the clothes making him feel like an imposter. Pairs of eyes studied him as he moved along through the square with Charles, eyes that saw through his fancy garb. Samuel lowered his head, watching his own feet shuffle. As much as he wanted to belong, he knew that he didn’t.
A greenlands band played upbeat music on the makeshift stage. The ditties sounded exotic, like they’d been written for a warmer and kinder place. There were four musicians on the stage. Three of them played on stringed instruments, while the one in the center beat his palms against a giant drum. They were far more talented than the last band that had played, at Landon Swen’s funeral. How much money had the mayor spent to cart them up?
They came upon a group of girls close to their age. Charles stiffened his neck. The girls were huddled together giggling about something. One of the girls was exceptionally pretty, her blond hair falling down her shoulders and her round cheekbones nearly as pale as Zei’s. Her blue eyes locked onto Charles before she turned to her friends and smirked. Charles picked up his pace.
“Bitch.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Charles scrunched his lips. “She’s mad because I’m not into her. As if I’d waste my time.”
Samuel looked back, seeing if he could spot the girl. “The blond one?”
Charles yanked him back around. “Yeah. Come on. Keep moving.”
Samuel didn’t know much about love, but he never thought of Charles as a bold romancer. Society didn’t take kindly to women having relations before marriage. Most of them ended up working in whorehouses after that.
“My dad’s been on my case lately,” Charles said, kicking a glob of dirt as they moved along. “Saying I need to grow up and ‘be a man.’ Whatever that means. So, to make him happy, I invited that stupid girl over to the estate and all. We drank whiskey, talked awhile, and ended up necking a bit. I just wasn’t into her. It’s always like that. I mean. She’s a logger’s daughter, anyway, so it’s not like anything could ever happen. She was so desperate, Sam. You should’ve seen it. Girls like that are dumb and annoying. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
Samuel shrugged, unsure how to answer his friend. He knew little of love and passion and sex, but he was pretty sure he liked girls. He liked Claudette. Before he knew it, they were walking alongside the butcher’s shop. Samuel found his feet carrying him to the glass window. He peeked inside. A lanky man with long arms and slightly sunken cheeks stood next to Laura behind the meat counter chatting with several visitors. Samuel recognized him as Laura’s husband.
Claudette stood in the center of the shop holding a large tray full of tiny cuts of meat. She was wearing a red frock dress with black tights and flats. Her hair was fastened back
in some sort of elaborate braid that was composed of three separate parts, one of which encircled the top of her head like a crown. Samuel could’ve never done something as complex to Zei’s hair.
Zei. How was she? Could she hear the festival noise from inside her cell? Was it driving her mad? When Samuel left her by midmorning, she was writing a list of simple words that he’d taught her from the day before: cup, snow, sun, pig, and Sam. He wanted her to recognize his name.
Charles tapped his shoulder.
“Tavern is giving out free drinks. Not that it matters to me. But they’re supposed to have some new fancy brews from Boram. Getting harder to get their good beers with all those damn riots. My dad’s probably hanging out over there.”
“The sheriff too. I’m going to go inside this shop, if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself.” Charles walked backward right into the masses behind him, and people shifted to the side to avoid being hit. “You know where the tavern is, right? Meet me there?”
Samuel nodded and waved before turning to the shop’s door. If beer tasted anything like the liquor the sheriff had given him, he would be fine without it. He opened the door, and the bell above it rang. He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose as he came by Claudette. She smiled, and it made his breath quicken.
“How are you?”
Demon in the Whitelands Page 12