Lightmaker

by Kevin Elliott

  Mitch squatted beside her and dug his hands into the gravel as Caliper hauled boxes from their boat. Frinelia had escaped the crumbling boat and perched on a crate.

  Ahead, a sharp thread of black divided the sandy ground from the glowing disc, so did the desert stop before touching the disc? Phos tried spreading her thoughts, but her threads withered the instant they touched the dust.

  Caliper climbed up and stared forward. ‘I’ll set up the cart.’

  ‘Use the boat’s remains as a base, and we’ll travel light,’ Frinelia said.

  ‘Christina said the map room stood past the rim.’ Phos stepped forward, and dust scattered over her boots. Mottled patterns covered the false sun, and each pace brought new shapes over the horizon; if the disc was a plate, there’d be space between plate and bowl.

  Grains of sand skittered against the back of her helmet and raced past her before jamming solid in the air. Ripples churned across the sand, and her boots buzzed. Caliper swore as several boulders shivered and sank into the desert, and gouts of oily syrup welled upward into puddles that linked into a slick pool to block their way.

  Sucking noises echoed inside Phos’s helmet, and symbols blared warnings: this oil was hotter than boiling water.

  Caliper faced her. ‘Your work, Phos?’

  ‘Not me. I can’t touch this land.’

  ‘Stay back.’

  Black mud surged from the slick’s centre to pile into a six-foot column, and grey stains burst across the pillar’s head before oozing down. New icons flared onto Phos’s helmet, and curving letters flowed beneath images.

  Mitch backed away. ‘Do we run?’

  ‘We’re being messaged.’ Phos inched forward, and the pillar flowed into a new shape. Globs of the tar slumped from the top to leave a rough globe, and a gap appeared at the base to promise legs.

  Caliper gasped. ‘Is this how Christina appeared, Phos? She said she’d find new ways to talk.’

  ‘It’s different, but….’

  ‘Stay back,’ Frinelia said. ‘We don’t know….’

  Another swarm of grit rained against Phos’s back before hurtling into the oily statue, but the ooze swallowed the grains. Corners emerged from the shivering muck, corners linked with hard facets to suggest shoulders and elbows without flowing robes.

  ‘This isn’t Christina. I’m sorry, Caliper,’ Phos said. They shared a glance, but the statue’s head tilted, and one of its legs slithered forward half a pace without leaving the ground.

  ‘Rastersen knows we’re here.’

  Phos stepped to her left, but the statue treacled forward, and its head twisted to follow. The priest wasn’t inside, but his mind infected this ooze, and her body froze.

  ‘Odious man, but he doesn’t lack brains,’ Frinelia said. ‘Can we outrun this statue?’

  Rastersen’s dark pool had flowed over ten yards of desert, and Phos inhaled. Memories of his gripping hands pinned her legs to the ground, but she closed her eyes and forced her left foot four inches sideways. She turned before her body could regain control and opened her eyes to scurry forward. Stones skittered from her boots. She’d curve around the pool to restart their journey, find a way to bring the others.

  The tar pool surged forward as she ran, racing alongside her, and new oily waves splurged ahead as rocks sank into the dissolving sand. Could she borrow Caliper’s swear words? Phos paused: the congealed statue was a hundred yards away, but Rastersen’s smile still clawed her mind.

  ‘I should contact him,’ Phos said.

  Caliper snorted. He unstrapped his cart and walked to her. ‘That’s your plan? Smile and ask if he’ll let you pass?’

  Frinelia picked her way across the rubble. ‘You’ll never trick him, Phos: he’s spent years working on girls your age.’

  Phos stared back. ‘He’s all boast, all snot and vomit; you saw him snivel. I need to learn how he’s running this exploit; he’s learned packets.’

  ‘Yes, more than you,’ Mitch said.

  Phos frowned. ‘He shows off, which helps us – he let slip his suit was too tight. Besides…. Well, there’s no besides – talking’s our only path.’

  Caliper reached Phos and touched her shoulders. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘He’s heading our way now.’ She raised her hands to create another slate. ‘No one speaks except me.’

  Dust scudded over the tar pool as the others’ helmets stayed quiet under the disc’s yellow light. Desert beckoned on the other side of Rastersen’s boiling grease, though frost glinted on the distant rocks. A map etched itself onto her crystal slate, the First’s bowl, and the picture contracted to focus on three yellow dots. Rastersen had lost a man, but he’d reached the spire.

  Frinelia touched Phos’s wrist. ‘Words can’t be unsaid, so think before speaking.’

  ‘He knows our position, so there’s nothing to lose.’ Phos twisted her hand until an emerald thread snaked from the dots. Her helmet hissed and she swallowed.

  ‘Will you give us the pleasure of your company?’

  Silence. She imagined his tongue running over those overfed lips, and her heart beat several times before his voice gasped out.

  ‘Phos, you returned.’

  ‘Enjoying the extra world?’

  ‘It’s fascinating, Phos. I imagine your fabulous mind is swooning here. The sights, the potential, the learning: every step is a lesson. But each step brings danger. Think how your boat dissolved, and remember the birds. Even the air is unbreathable….’

  ‘How did you learn that?’

  ‘Research, Phos. Frinelia may mention the church’s work in recovering lost knowledge, if she stoops low enough to open her mouth.’

  Frinelia scowled, and Caliper slotted his blade onto his scythe.

  ‘I feel the urge to meddle with every artefact here, Phos; the same call runs through your fingers, but take care. Learning is a frost; ice makes each blade of grass glitter, each leaf easier to see, but the same frost burns the fingers of the curious. Wait until I reach you, and I’ll keep you safe.’

  ‘You lost a man,’ Phos said.

  ‘Don’t step into the black river – we tested it well.’

  ‘We’ve not lost anyone.’

  ‘Yet. Ever imagine running away from school? I’m sure the thought came, but you stayed because you knew you couldn’t survive without your parents. Your bravery matches your intelligence, but meddling with this world is perilous: one scratch can kill.’

  ‘Up here learning grows on trees.’

  ‘And trees are lethal. Come to me, Phos: as you see, I’ve learned how to work this world, and I can protect you. Frinelia clings to her secrets.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Frinelia mouthed. Phos turned away.

  ‘You continue to impress and educate, Phos. I thought myself immune to lies, but you almost persuaded me you were a simple schoolgirl. Have you chosen your second syllable?’

  ‘Chosen long ago.’

  ‘It’s well overdue. I share your need to learn. Study with me, Phos; we’ll break open barriers and study the healing machines and learn stories from forbidden books. I’ll guarantee you a place among the survivors. Imagine the status and influence; imagine others handing you rare manuscripts and fighting to run errands in your name. No more teachers and priestesses spreading falsehoods.’ Rastersen paused. ‘I can’t uncover your world seed, but I can help your search. You only need to wait for me.’

  Phos pressed her lips together; she’d hardly mentioned the world seed.

  ‘I was your age a few years ago, Phos, desperate to learn more than school allowed, and I believed the world would spill learning into my ears. But my teachers ignored my talent and bundled me into the seminary. And like marriage the seminary meant an end to learning. I won’t let that happen to you; someone with your talent should never be a servant, so I’ll show you forbidden libraries and remove all barriers to learning.’

  Her face flushed crimson, and Phos turned her back on Caliper. She flicked at the lines on her crysta
l slab until only a single yellow thread linked her and Rastersen.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘You’ve learned by testing, so come and test me. If I’m lying you’ll outwit me.’

  Caliper thumped Phos’s shoulder, and she faced him. His face erupted into a storm of gagged fury, and spittle sprayed over his helmet.

  ‘Where are these libraries?’

  ‘There’s a living city, another version of Morzenthal, buried inside the glass mountains of the Outland, impossible to reach without help, but I’ll ensure safe passage. Unguarded libraries, banks of plants growing under man-made lights, places where the wise fashion potions and forge new metals to recover our histories.’

  ‘Are there others my age there?’

  ‘A handful. We never ignore talented commoners, but we never expected brilliance from females. Let our mistakes become our teachers. Nature has rules to govern the falling of stones and the howling of wind, and even the flow of water. The ancients knew these laws and became strong through obeying them, but we’ve forgotten much. Help us rediscover; create tests for us; help us rebuild those ancient machines. There is your prize, Phos: take charge and write our future.’

  ‘What does this place look like?’

  ‘The ancients’ architecture has its own distinct flavour of domes and pyramids. It’s like where I stand now, the station below the spire. Don’t tell me you missed the place. The walls here display our world in exquisite detail and let us tweak the land.’

  ‘You’re seeing a map – you found a map room?’

  ‘Join me, Phos, and be here when I open this world, a new refuge. We’ll work together. You should see this chamber: the images here make it hard to believe I’m underground.’

  Had he stumbled onto Christina’s map room? She closed her eyes and her shoulders stooped.

  Rastersen’s voice continued like drops of rain – a patter of words flooding her mind. Caliper fumed a few paces away.

  ‘We’re similar, Phos,’ he said. ‘Blessed with an urge to learn but imprisoned in a world where people ration knowledge.’

  Phos stayed silent.

  ‘Like you, I used to fume at our world walls, but our world moulds us like clay. Understand your limits, and you’ll learn about yourself. I understand your need to grow; I’ve felt it myself, but uncontrolled growth can harm – wine can become vinegar, and bread can sprout mould. Wait for me, Phos. Stay there with your friends, and we’ll make sense of this new world as we learn together. I know the best path for you.’

  Phos turned; wind carried dust over the shimmering oil pool, and the fine grains dirtied the slick before sinking. The black grease quivered as if waiting for Rastersen’s orders, and Caliper stepped in front of her, hands on hips.

  Her eyes closed, and rows of uncaged books swam before her, painted landscapes dancing in their frames, hushed explanations of exploits and demonstrations of ancient machines, but a memory of a slim man wearing a waistcoat emerged. Dad had given her words to use when hearing a story, a way to tell truth from lie. He’d tinkered with his waistcoat buttons before fixing his stare on her. ‘Demand details, Phos. Dig deep and ask who, what, where; ask the why behind the why. A truth teller only needs memories, but a liar’s story will wither when you drag it to a place they haven’t written.’

  Phos gnawed her lip. ‘This living city, this glass mountain library, what’s it called?’

  The tiniest delay came – a sliver of time thinner than the fastest heartbeat – before Rastersen fired back a single word.

  ‘Montressel.’

  A tiny pause might throw an arrow astray, and even inside Phos’s suit, the lie stank. ‘Is Rastersen your real name?’

  ‘I’m not lying: I don’t know. Can we agree that our world dies and our society must change to survive? Even your talents won’t save everyone.’

  Phos flicked her fingers over her crystal slate – Caliper should hear.

  ‘Still there, Rastersen? I once thought I could invent a new tree, and I stuck willow bark over an oak, but the bark peeled off after three days, and your story falls apart for the same reason – your words don’t match your heart. Most priests have no problem getting wives – perhaps it’s the money or the robes – but you changed worlds to chase me. Why is that? Can’t you control women your age?’

  ‘Limits, Phos, remember the limits. There’s still my black river….’

  ‘A baby in a cradle has limits, so do we stop babies growing? I always pestered Dad for looser reins, and he loosened them as far as he could, and that’s how I learned, and why I’ve survived. I broke both the rules and the walls; I made my own path.’

  ‘Phos—’

  ‘Who leads your survivors? You want worship, but you’re only ever worshipped by the young.’ She sliced her fingers through the slate’s green lines.

  Regret snared her fingers for an instant: she might have learned how he’d brought oil to the desert and what secrets he’d squeezed from Morzenthal. Now she’d have to win knowledge by herself.

  Caliper smacked his face against her helmet. ‘Complete arse, you are – what was that speech?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Why cut us out?’

  ‘I needed focus, and he can’t listen now.’

  ‘Thrash out agreements, did you, Phos? His statue’s shunting our way, so what happens when it arrives?’

  ‘How much did Rastersen learn?’ Frinelia clutched Caliper’s arm.

  The ground softened, and heat flared beneath Phos’s boots as Rastersen’s pool grew. Caliper’s scythe clattered to the ground as his arms circled her waist, and a long pull dragged her from the foaming tar. Her feet scrabbled onto sand.

  ‘This way.’ The miller snatched his scythe and backed away. Everyone darted behind him, and he lobbed a fist-sized stone into the pool. The tar swallowed it.

  ‘Rastersen’s showing off,’ Frinelia said. ‘His parents chose his toys, and now he wants control.’

  ‘And there’s more than one sort of control.’ Phos stared over the simmering grease; ice glistened over the far side’s rocks. ‘We must cross this pool.’

  The ripples covering Rastersen’s pool faded as the others waited. She breathed in and let her senses flit across the tar.

  The priest’s exploit swarmed over the sand; a creeping mass like a thousand maggots scurried from the distant desert to skate over tar before returning. Phos’s threads hoisted one of the tiny creatures into the air. This wasn’t an animal, but a bundle of thought reeking of Rastersen, a mechanical slave circled by a fine chain with instructions to pilfer warmth from the other side’s sand.

  ‘Phos, you need help?’

  She shook her head. The creeping machines mirrored Rastersen’s gait, but people changed their minds, so could she infect these devices? Her thoughts thumbed inside its body to plant an idea.

  Change your goal: smear cold onto the black tar, and tell others.

  Change rippled through the herd. The swarm shifted as waves of machines surged forward to dump desert frost into the oil, and a dull white bloom smeared across the tar. Perhaps you couldn’t make heat, but only shift it between places.

  ‘Getting there,’ Phos muttered.

  Mitch pointed. ‘Is that ice?’

  ‘Oil ice perhaps.’ Phos nudged her flock into a two-yard-wide strip, and the pale tongue reached their side. Caliper prodded the scythe’s pole against the path and grunted in relief.

  ‘Let me go first.’

  ‘It’s worse than boiling below,’ Phos said. ‘We’ll only have moments.’

  A few creatures changed back to shift heat from the tar to her strip, and black holes appeared in the waxy solid. Rastersen’s fingers were busy.

  ‘We need to go now.’

  Caliper nodded and dropped the scythe before stepping onto her bridge. Clumps of waxy debris stuck to his boots as he hustled to the far shore. Frinelia strode behind while Mitch skated over the tar.

  Phos swallowed and rushed onto the bridge, but walking m
eant she had to release the machine creatures, and her feet punched through the crust. Thick tar spattered her ankles. Had her feet caught fire? Another lunge, and the fatty tongue dissolved to pitch her forward. Her helmet slammed onto sand as gloved hands gripped her arms to haul her onto the far bank. Burning agony stung her legs before fading.

  Caliper coughed. ‘We’ve got you, Phos. No panicking allowed, but keep moving: the pool’s growing.’

  Phos’s fingers formed fists on the frosted grit, and she jumped up. ‘The man keeps learning.’

  ‘You sound impressed.’

  ‘He’s impressive and disgusting all at once.’

  ‘Is he better at exploits than you?’

  ‘He’s showing off – he wants us cowering.’

  Frinelia pointed ahead. ‘We should move.’

  Phos nodded and brushed tar gobbets from her suit. Rastersen’s words still rattled inside her; if they met again, he’d have new arguments.

  ‘I looked ahead,’ Mitch said. ‘The land’s peculiar: it folds away.’

  ‘Stick together, and check for footprints or wheel marks.’ Caliper pointed at Phos’s backpack. ‘Still got Christina’s present?’

  She nodded: the hoop’s weight tugged at her shoulders. Each step saw more of the disc’s mottled patterns rise into view. A fine black thread divided land from sky, and one last step made her certain. A gulf stood between the parched land and the luminous yellow disc ahead; the plate covered the bowl without touching the rim.

  Phos lingered before sitting and inching herself towards the brink while holding her breath. She’d seen cliffs before, creased slabs of jagged rock wrinkled with grassy clumps, and she poked her head over the edge.

  Phos recoiled. She should have seen stone sweeping down, but no. There’d been a gritty desert littered with pebbles. Old worlds failed her, but if she’d scrawled a map of this land over cardboard and folded the top half away from her, she’d have made what she’d seen: the builders had folded the desert.

  Phos raised her head. She’d reached the rim of the First Enclave’s bowl, and now she sat at the bottom of a vast ring of sand, a ten-mile-wide tunnel sweeping over her, but if she stuck her head past the edge again, she’d stare onto a circling plane like the brim of an upside-down hat. Mitch squared his toes against the cliff edge and chucked a stone forward. It curved through air before jerking into a new arc, and she heard it smack against sand.