Fiction – Page 14 – The Word Worker

The Warp

FB_IMG_1590604606681 The city burned. Well, technically speaking, cities, since there seemed to be several versions all at once. It had started on Times Square. Everyone on the street suffered the same blinding headache at the exact same moment, and when they recovered the billboards had been replaced with the original New York Times building. Brand spanking 1904 new. Except that 1904 hadn’t had access to 2020 technology, and within seconds broken electrical wires and gas lines had exploded half the building.

It hadn’t stopped there, obviously. No one knew what had created the time rift, but every explosion warped it further. Theatre facades from the 1920s replaced gleaming modern glass and steel, only to burn. Modern street signs stood before the flaming remains of storefronts from the 1800s. Over it all towered the twisted and shattered skyscrapers of the last forty years.

After the buildings, the warp affected living things. First trees and other greenery shifted and broke, sparks from the blazing city setting them alight like living torches. Then people began to change. Some were suddenly mysteriously confused, insisting they were someone else and cowering in terror. Others simply disappeared, while men and women in costumes from long ago days blended in bewilderment with the screaming theater crowds. The worst cases no one talked about, the ones caught between as the rift continued to warp. The ones who didn’t survive, could never have survived.

Most fled, trampling each other in wild abandon like animals racing a forest fire. Here and there a trace of humanity survived: a man snatching a crying child from the path of a bus careening out of control, a woman supporting an elderly man who could barely hobble. For the most part, civilization fell to its basest instincts, the urge to survive at all costs.

It was vain. The city lay silent, its hodgepodge of time staring with bloodied and emptied eye sockets on a burning concrete wasteland.

The Fountain

FB_IMG_1590514269688 The river was placid and cold, wide against the narrow horizon. The deepening autumn chill had turned the trees a bright orange that lit up the river brighter than a forest fire. He set his boots against the rough rocks that formed the bank, the crunch of stone against stone amplified by the surface of the water.

He felt as if he had followed this river for a lifetime, at the same time as if he had been born two weeks ago when he left Alakinuk. The silence of the place held a peace that not even the howling of wolves could disturb. The only intrusion of men visible in the entire landscape was his two canoes.

He glanced instinctively toward the section of bank where he had landed, reassured by the sight of both resting half on the rocks. The river could change quickly, he had learned the hard way that first night. A sudden rainstorm had quickened the current and almost swept his poorly secured belongings back where he had come from. He had spent the night feeding a roaring fire trying to warm his soaked body after nearly drowning tying the canoes higher.

He scanned the sky, noting the heavy cloud cover but affirming that he had time to pitch camp before the freezing rain came again. He whistled and the dogs left the canoe with a bound, trotting at his heels as he trudged to the edge of the woods to cut thin timbers for a shelter. They wore their leather harnesses so that he could use them for any necessary hauling and could easily tether them for the night. He had already seen the value of keeping them at arm’s length, especially at mealtimes.

He laughed to himself, reveling in the thought of himself as the sole human in this wealth of wilderness. Soon he would be farther than any map charted; if not for the native tribes that he had heard passed through Alakinuk twice a year, he could almost imagine himself the first eyes to see this country, to uncover its secrets and claim its rewards. Another glance at the sky reminded him that it could also claim him if he was not prepared for its harsh reality.

As he hastily took his hatchet to some spindly pines that stood out green against the orange, he remembered the stories of explorers that had filled his imagination as a boy. The stories of open lands and rich discoveries that fired his soul to seek something other than the tired trappings of civilization. His favorite had always been the far-fetched claim of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the fountain of youth.

Old Juan may not have literally been searching for the waters of eternal life, he thought as he finished constructing his temporary shelter, but he had truly understood what the real treasure was. He straightened and propped himself on the lean-to poles. The dogs sat beside him, tongues lolling out, waiting for their nightly meal of dried fish. This land was the true fountain of youth, the challenge and the wealth that put life into a man’s soul. And he had found it.

Daniella and the Lions

FB_IMG_1590513867980 Now, then, Leo, it is time for our story. It’s bedtime, you know, and you must lie down quietly and listen. Teddy came to keep you company and remind you to be good. Zara, don’t you mess up, now, you know Leo hates it when you crowd.

Now, what shall we read tonight? I know your favorite story, Leo! Here it is, Daniella and the lions. Daniella was only four, but she had a special gift. She could talk to lions. Every day she went to the zoo to visit and talk to the lions who lived there. They wanted to know all about her, and she wanted to know all about Africa. Sadly, they didn’t know about Africa because they had been born in a zoo like this one, but Daniella didn’t mind. She brought a book from the library and told them all about it instead.

All the zookeepers knew Daniella and enjoyed her visits. They often let her help them feed the animals, and sometimes they let her give tours. No one knew that she could actually talk to the lions, and Daniella kept her secret, but the zookeepers noticed that the lions behaved much better when she was around.

One day, the biggest lion escaped from the zoo. All the zookeepers and the visitors and the mayor and the council and the police and the firefighters and animal control were very upset. They ran around in a tizzy, huffing and puffing and getting red in the face. When Daniella went to the zoo that day the lion keeper told her what had happened and asked if she could help.

Of course Daniella could! She asked the other lions where Leo had gone, and they told her he had decided to go and see Africa. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Well, no one believed Daniella when she told them, because of course no one knew she could talk to lions. She knew she would have to find Leo all by herself, and she had an idea where he might have gone to find Africa.

Daniella went to the Museum. Sure enough, when she arrived the lady at the desk shakily pointed toward the savannah exhibit, her hair standing on end and her dress all in a tangle. Visitors to the museum hid under benches or ran screaming for the door. No one wanted to be around with a lion on the loose.

They all yelled for Daniella to run away, but of course she didn’t listen. She went right in and found the biggest lion staring at all the stuffed lions and giraffes and zebras. He was astonished that they were not in cages, and very excited by the stuffed lion chasing the zebra. He wanted to stay there all day.

Daniella scolded the biggest lion for scaring the whole town and told him it was time to go back to the zoo. The lion pouted and growled, but Daniella put her arms on her hips and gave him “the look.” He closed his mouth and followed her without more argument.

Everyone shouted with excitement when Daniella and the lion marched through the gates of the zoo together. They asked her how she managed it, and Daniella just smiled. And every day she still went to the zoo to talk to her friends.

Now, Leo, no more story tonight. You really must go to sleep. You too, Zara, and all the rest of you. No more begging, Teddy and I have to go home now. We’ll be back tomorrow, and I’d better not hear that you ran away to Africa again!

The Memorial

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There they hung, the uniforms, lining the hallway where they had hung all my life. It would be the last time he walked past them for many months, probably years. He took it slowly, pausing before each one to remember.

First the cuffed olive green of his great-great-grandfather’s, the pockets fraying away and the seams worn with age. Although it had been well laundered, he could almost see the bloodstains that must have covered it as it had carried the wounded back behind the lines amid the spatter of gunfire. He rubbed his fingers together, slick with the imagined mud that soaked the fabric in the shallow trenches as rain and explosives pelted the ground. He smiled at the thought of the wrinkles crushed into it by his great-great-grandmother when she welcomed her husband home safely.

He wondered what she had felt when she saw his great-uncle march away wearing the next uniform on the wall. The green had once been the same, but time had faded it less than its predecessor. This one had been mended, the holes where shrapnel had ripped through it still visible despite the stitching. He imagined his great-grandmother’s hands shaking as she arranged the pieces, the only thing returned to her from the trenches of France. Her son’s body had long since returned to dust in the very fields where he died, his cross tended by grateful strangers.

Next hung his grandfather’s tiger stripes. His grandfather had never been able to talk about what had happened in the jungles on the other side of the world. He had watched his grandsons grow and play with distant, haunted eyes. Loud noises had always agitated Granddad, and Grandmother had quietly sent the boys home whenever Granddad lost his temper and started yelling about cowards. His heart had been broken, she had explained, first by the horrors of the jungle war and then by the resentment and ingratitude when he returned safe but changed.

The last uniform was the most important to him, and he placed his hand on the glass case as if by doing so he could touch its owner. Dad had put on the sand colored uniform with its rusty splashes of color as a way to honor the father whose sacrifices had been forgotten. He had worn it proudly for five years, seeing his tiny son only a handful of times before hitting a land mine in a faraway desert. His picture and this last uniform were the reason for this last walk today.

By this time tomorrow, a fifth uniform would begin its own journey to the wall. He placed his forehead against the glass in the closest thing he remembered to a hug from Dad. “I’ll make you proud, Dad,” he whispered before continuing his last walk out of the front door, the promise hanging in the air as the final memorial.

The Leaving

FB_IMG_1590364184563 She had waited for this day for twelve years. Every time an Underage met his or her Milestone, she had followed them up the tracks as far as she was allowed, dreaming of her own Milestone. This morning, her twelfth Day, Da had woken her before Lights, a ready bag in hand.

She had dressed carefully in her brand new Topside clothes, her hands trembling with excitement. She had to blend in, but the clothes felt so strange she couldn’t quite move correctly. The long skirt hung around her ankles, and she kept tripping. Da told her to take shorter steps and move more slowly until she adjusted, and she tried.

The long pack was heavy and hit her thighs just behind her knees with every step. She was relieved to climb on Da’s Motor and let it hang behind the seat. She had to hike the skirt up as well to straddle the Motor, and she relished the freedom of movement, the last she would experience for several… months? Yes, that was the word. She was going to have to remember to talk like a Topsider. Starting with not saying Topsider, she thought with a grimace. Surface dwellers called themselves Citizens.

The Motor made the trip up the tracks much shorter than she remembered. Da was a good driver, but the crossties still made for quite a few jolts. She kept her jaws clenched tightly to keep from biting her tongue, and when they finally stopped at the Door she ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure they were all still there.

She and Da stood together, his hand on the lever that opened the Door. “Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded. This was how it was. No ceremony. Only one witness to confirm the Leaving. He pulled the Lever, and the steel panels slowly rolled back into the walls.

She had seen charcoals of Topside, even a few oils, but she was not prepared. The city stretched vast before her, its towers reflecting in the river like bridges of glass. Gleaming silver transports mirrored the colors of the sky as the sun tipped the horizon. It was her first sunrise, and for a moment she thought the whole scene burned until she remembered one particular oil.

Da pointed downriver. “There’s an old highway about a mile that way,” he told her. “Topsiders haven’t used it in decades, but it will get you across.” He squeezed her shoulder tightly, and she knew he was worried. Miners always worried about the Leaving. Sometimes they had reason.

“I’m ready, Da,” she assured him. “I can do it. I’ll be the perfect Citizen. You’ll see.”

He nodded, his eyes reddening. “Bring back everything you can,” he choked. “See you as a Miner.” He stepped away from her, ready to close the Door. She took a deep breath and stepped into the Topside.

The Flower Girl

FB_IMG_1590179770886 She was my friend, but no one knew about her. She said no one would believe me anyway, so I never told anyone. Until now. Maybe you won’t think I’m crazy.

Her name was Daisy, but I called her my flower girl. She was so pretty in her white dress with a clover chain draped around her head. I thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world and my eight year old heart was smitten.

Daisy didn’t talk much. Mostly she smiled, giggled, ran away, and buried her face in every flower she found. She loved flowers and I could always find her hiding in the trailing roses at the edge of the cemetery.

I met her one day when I followed a lizard into the bushes. She had crouched behind them, watching the people pass by, she said. My lizard escaped while I stood and stared at her. She laughed at me and told me to chase her.

I had never been inside the cemetery before. It was an ordinary one, I suppose, but my child’s imagination had conjured all sorts of evil existing there. That day, with Daisy glancing over her shoulder at me as she ran, I forgot to be afraid. She led me a merry chase, up and down the rows of headstones, ducking behind trees and slipping away before I could catch up to giggle at me from behind another.

When the factory whistle reminded me of supper and my mother, she blew me a kiss and told me to come play again. So I did. Every afternoon, so long as it wasn’t raining, I ran to the cemetery to find her. She was always there, hiding under the trailing roses, and she always greeted me the same way. Every afternoon we played tag among the stones.

Some days, she would stop for a while at this grave marker or that, pointing at the words engraved there. I would stumble through the names and epitaphs, wondering what held her attention so long. Sometimes it would be a child’s grave, sometimes a soldier’s. Usually it named just an ordinary person. Some were new, some were so old the inscriptions were all but illegible. She never told me why they were important to her, and she never stayed long.

I never questioned that she was always there beneath the roses. I never asked why she never changed her dress. I never thought about the fact that her clover chain never faded or was lost, or her bare feet never dirty no matter how long we played. She was my best friend and the love of my young life.

Eventually other interests claimed me. The neighborhood boys recruited me for football practice with scraps from construction sites and dumpsters as goals, bicycle helmets and wadded newspapers in our shirts our only protection. My third grade teacher, a pleasant looking woman with a will like iron, believed in homework to keep idle hands from mischief, and thus stole many of the afternoons not devoted to “the game.”

Fewer and fewer days found me at the cemetery. When I did go, I found that playing chase and staring at headstones soon grew monotonous, and I would say goodbye to Daisy. She still blew me kisses and told me to come again, but she seemed different all the same.

One day, I followed her slowly into the graveyard instead of chasing her as usual. She stopped and turned to look at me, her smile gone. “Goodbye,” she said simply, then ran away. I went home to do my homework, and although I went to the cemetery for a few weeks afterwards, I never saw my flower girl again.

The Mirror World

FB_IMG_1590121467061 All his life he had watched the world overhead. All his life he had wondered what it felt like to be surrounded by trees and green things. His own world was barren, a world of ice and rock. The two mirrored each other only in position.

There had been tales of adventurers who tried to climb the ice cliffs to cross the mirror. The few who returned had done so cruelly maimed or altered. None had reached the mirror and lived to tell the tale. None of the missing had ever been found.

Those attempts had been driven by curiosity, by restless individuals unsatisfied to observe from below. He identified with the feeling, but his uncle had kept him on a tight sinew. Adventuring didn’t pull fish from the ice or render whale blubber. So he had gazed at the green sky with its teeming life in longing.

Now the whales were growing scarce. Several years of bitter storms had thickened the ice and even the seals struggled to reach food through its layers. In recent cycles half of his village had sickened from starvation and exposure, and many had died. The Ice Elders had convened an emergency council and called for volunteers for an expedition to breach the mirror.

Not even his uncle could stop him this time. This attempt would be successful; he could feel it. He raised his hand as if to touch the trees. Soon enough, he thought, he would know. Soon enough he would have the answers he had always longed for.

His supplies lay at his feet, arranged carefully on a blanket of whale leather and tied with cords of sealskin through slits in the leather. He made a last check of picks, heavy leather ropes, leather repair kit, dried fish, and seal jerky. He lacked nothing, and rolled the blanket tightly before sealing the ends with more cord.

He looked around to find his uncle glaring at him from under the thick fur of his hood. The old man would never understand. He was angry with the Elders for their decision, refusing to believe the truth that the world was dying. Most of all he was angry with the boy. This was an act of defiance, an unforgivable offense. The boy could only hope that when he returned with wealth from a new world his uncle would see things differently.

He hefted his pack, fastening it securely to his shoulders. There would be no luxury of polar bear sleds on this journey. Most of it would be straight up where the bears could not follow. The Elders would be waiting at the village center. The time for goodbyes had passed. The new world called.

The Moth Princess

FB_IMG_1590103491783 The day had come. The entire insect kingdom had gathered at The Willow for the official Emergence ceremony. The bees buzzed with excitement, their song rising harmoniously under the gently drooping limbs. Dragonflies swooped from branch to branch, their vibrant colors and crystal wings creating quite the show for the waiting audience. Beetles clicked and clacked around the roots, while ants scurried busily about carrying leafy trays full of good things to eat and drink.

Above all of them, the showy Atlas moth and his queen, the delicate Luna, flitted beneath the branches followed by the wise Polyphemus and the feathery Gypsy moth. They perched on the princess’s branch, two on each side of the cocoon, and waited while the undermoths quieted the crowd. When everyone was silent, King Atlas fluttered his crimson and orange wings, the carefully rehearsed pattern telling the story of the Princess’s time in the egg. When he had finished, Queen Luna danced the slow, beautiful story of the child’s days as a caterpillar, of how she had excelled in mulberry leaf eating, growing larger and more lovely than all the other caterpillars.

Prime Minister Gypsy fluffed his feathers to regale the audience with the presumed virtues of the soon to emerge Princess. Owl-marked Counselor Polyphemus waved his eyed wings in a stodgy explanation of the Princess’s royal duties. Finally, the preliminaries dispensed with, the cricket chorus tuned their legs and began the song to signal the Princess to awake.

With bated breath, the entire kingdom watched the strands of the cocoon began to snap. One by one they fell away until the Princess, wet and bedraggled, crawled out into the shaft of sunlight lying across the branch between the king and queen. For several long moments she rested, the circulation reaching every new vein and the bright sunlight drying her iridescent wings. Finally, when the watchers thought they could bear no more waiting, she spread her wings and looked down upon her kingdom.

She was as lovely as Gypsy had foretold. Enormous black eyes slanted upward into points above a pure white face, impossibly long black and white antenna waving gently above them. The tops of her wings gleamed like silver dust, while the bottoms sported delicate black pinpoints on a breathtaking greenish-white. The insect kingdom let out a collective gasp and bowed in awe.

The Princess was just beginning her welcome dance with the king and queen when a commotion on the ground interrupted the ceremony. Around the base of The Willow marched a great army of spiders, their long legs tossing any hapless insect in their path. Above them flew a silent horde of wasps and hornets, stingers at the ready. Horrified insects scrambled aeay from the invaders as ants deposited their refreshment trays and formed ranks against the spiders. Honeybees, bumblebees, and even the slowmoving carpenter bees joined forces against the flying army.

The battle raged fierce on both fronts. The spiders were larger and much better equipped, but the ants had strategy in their side. One after another the eight-eyed monsters fell before the organized defenders. The bees sacrificed themselves with admirable devotion, though only their numbers gave them victory in the end. When it was over, the victors surveyed great carnage, enemies and defenders lying dead alike between the roots.

The beetles rallied themselves and set about removing the bodies of the dead, while the crickets struck up a doleful lament for those who had paid the ultimate price for their sweet Princess. She peered down at them all from the safety of her branch, nodding her head in approval and thanks. When all evidence of the battle had been removed, she fluttered close to the ground, her wings glimmering in the fading light, including every insect in her welcome dance. Then her moth retinue surrounded her and bore her away to the treetops, her Emergence complete.

The Elevator

FB_IMG_1589902792589 I stood on the boardwalk, gazing out at the elevator glowing faintly in the reflected light of the moon. The water was eerily still, barely a whisper in my consciousness. Pap, Mam, and I had been in line on the boardwalk since a week gone, since the day we were granted our tickets at the shore office. We’d been given a week’s rations in a wheeled cooler, issued uniforms in various shades of blue according to the strict set of guidelines posted on the wall of the office waiting hall. Mine was an ugly flat royal shade with large pockets and no distinguishing marks, the uniform of a pre-productive student. I hated it.

Pap and Mam sat on the the single duffel bag we had been given, that held the change of uniform provided, our passports and tickets, and the few personal items we had been allowed to bring. Their backs against the opposite rail, they huddled together, Mam’s head on his shoulder. She beckoned for me to join them, but I wasn’t ready for sleep yet. The elevator stood visible at the end of the boardwalk, just waiting, motionless for the first time since we had first seen it early that morning. Over and over I had watched it spin its way under the waves, carrying family after family to their new future.

I folded my arms on the railing and set my chin on them. Pap had talked for weeks and weeks about fair work, and new opportunities. Mam had been dreaming about a new house and neighbors. They hadn’t asked me what I thought. I remembered Ellie’s face when I told her we were leaving. And Boris, who had scowled and stomped away never to speak to me again. They were my best friends. We had done everything together since we were tots. Ellie and I had made pinkie promises just last year in third form to grow up and take care of each other. Boris and I had planned to join the Fieldball team together next year. Now I would never see them again. No one who went below ever came back.

That was the deal. Start over, that’s what they said. No ties to above. Personal items were heavily restricted, only useful items allowed. I was just glad that my fieldball was considered a useful item for a pre-productive. Mam had her art supplies; they barely qualified, and she had cried over leaving the portrait she had painted of Granda and Grana. No ties, not even to memories. Pap had a handful of books; they wouldn’t let him keep his Pap’s tools.

In the morning the elevator would descend empty and bring the welcomers up from below. Their white uniforms and slicked-back hair would shine in the early sunlight, like the surface of the waves. Only welcomers wore white; only welcomers ever returned to above. They would walk down the final stretch of boardwalk to unlock the gate, where they would stand and count the people jostling through. When the day’s limit was reached, they would close the gate, and those behind it would watch the space gradually widen behind the lucky ones who made it to the elevator.

In the morning we would be the first. In the morning we would see the sun, the surface of the ocean, the above, for the very last time. We would step onto the elevator with the shining welcomer and spin into the depths forever. So tonight, I stood at the railing and watched the moon. Tonight I said goodbye.

The Crater

FB_IMG_1589859101791 “There it is!” Quinn whooped, making Michaela jump and clap her hands over her ears. “I told you! We’ve got it made now!”

“Good grief, how many times did Mom tell you to use your inside voice?” Michaela grumbled. She pressed her palm against the window glass in several places. “One of these days you’re gonna break the sound barrier.”

Quinn ignored her and swung the jeep door wide open, feet sinking into the shifting sand as he barreled out of the vehicle. Michaela followed more slowly, leaving the headlights on to supplement the unusually bright moon. Deep tracks trailed into the crater ahead of the jeep, signs of the daytime activity that had drawn them into this nocturnal investigation.

“Not much there,” Michaela sniffed. “Just some junk half buried.”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Sis,” Quinn snapped. “Something made this crater long enough ago for the sand to have filled in most of it and blown into drifts. We’re gonna find out what, and we’re gonna do it right now!”

He plunged down into the crater, sliding rather than walking in the loose sand. Michaela followed gingerly, grimacing at the sand that promptly poured into her hiking boot. They headed for the nearest “junk” protruding from the surface, a jagged edge of metal scored and dented beyond recognition. She sighed. Why she had let Quinn talk her into this hare brained scheme…

Well, there was no point in that. Here they were. Maybe they could at least get some scrap metal out of it. Although, she doubted anything worth money would fit in the carrier he had insisted on strapping to the roof of the jeep.

Quinn happily yanked pieces of wreckage out of the sand, examining them haphazardly before tossing them aside. Suddenly, he stood unusually still (especially for him), staring into the small pit his rummaging had created. He was still for long enough that Michaela became curious in spite of herself and slid closer to investigate.

“Quinn?” He didn’t look at her, and she noticed a glazed expression in his eyes. His back was to the moon, and his face should have been in shadow, but it was lit by a faint glow that originated in the sandy pit. “Quinn, talk to me!” She grabbed his arm and shook him violently, and least as roughly as she could manage while trying to get around the pile of junk he had thrown to the side.

When she finally made it to his side, she glanced toward the pit looking for the source of the faint glow. She had assumed it was moonlight reflecting from some smooth surface, but the object glowed on its own with a faintly blue light. As she watched the color shifted to orange and intensified, and she couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

Something whispered, words she couldn’t make out. Something brushed her hair, then caught in her shirt, but she still couldn’t look away. The whispers swelled, and shadows on the surface of the orange light coalesced into a familiar face. Quinn’s face was ghostly, set in an expression of horror. “Help me!” His lips shouted soundlessly, but she could no longer respond. The whispers became gleeful as Michaela saw her own body standing motionless above her.