Fiction – Page 6 – The Word Worker

First Chill

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The hay was in. The last two bales perched like strange giant eggs at the edge of the field nearest the house, securely wrapped in their white rain guards. Not that the sky gave any reason to believe the guards were necessary; the colors of the mountain grasses shone in brilliant contrast under the cloudless late summer sky.

Looks were deceiving, Uri knew. The mountains played fickle games with the winds, churning storms into existence within hours or stubbornly channeling every wisp of cloud away from the valleys between them. Little grew in the rocky soil, but the grasses seemed to have some special charm that left them untouched by drought or flood alike and held their roots firmly attached to the bedrock. This year’s crop was exceptional, and would feed the family’s small stock through the temperamental winter to come.

Tomorrow he and Bjorn from higher up the slope would make their yearly trip to the city to resupply the root cellars and pantries before the first snows at the peaks. He smiled, a somewhat grim twist to the corner of his mouth nonetheless. The haying had been late, and the first storms would come soon. It would be the mud that trapped them first, deep and miring. Not even a sled could cross the gullies then. They would need to be quick to prepare in time.

A gust caught his shirt where he stood in the cropped field staring up the mountain. He closed his eyes and let it whip around him, alert for the subtle daggers of cold mixed with the last of the summer warmth that would signal the wild end of peace for the year. There it was, an eddy from above, just the smallest tickle at his bare neck. He breathed deeply and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d better call Bjorn before supper; they’d need an early start in the morning.

Cyber

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A handful of Teeners straggled along the copper walkway, following the guide’s bored voice around corners. It was the Festival of Origins; the time when all good Members paid tribute to the past by visiting the Museum of the Ages. Weeks of cybershocks leading up to the Festival were supposed to generate excitement, and holos dressed every portal glorifying the rise of Cybercorp from primitive Ancients.

It was a yearly ritual, one that no Member would even consider skipping, one that hadn’t changed in the memory of the Pensioners. Sixty years! Teener Jarrell was more awed at the thought of such age than the useless metal monstrosity his apprentice group were touring for the tenth time. How anyone could have lived like this escaped knowing; why anyone should be forced to know about it defied understanding.

He tuned his implant to a soothing pulse; he would pay attention again at the Closing Ceremony, when the year’s Decanames would be promoted. This was his Decayear; he would receive the blue uniform of a Laborer. Juvie Jarrell would take his place as Teener and a new Juvie would be Named from the year’s births. The current Laborer would wear Journeyman yellow, the Journeyman would receive a master’s white, and the Master would retire to be honored with Pensioner purple.

As newly promoted Laborer, his first duty would be to pass the brown to his successor, just as the Pensioner would pass the purple to his. Teener Jarrell wondered what it would be like to don the black of the Ancestor and Exit alone. He supposed after forty years in Cybercorp it must feel strange; instead of having one’s implant programming updated, cyber identity would be returned to basic setting and transfered to the new Juvie. Instead of Jarrell, one would be no one, just another bit in the code to be recited at the Opening Prayer to the Origins.

A beep in his implant yanked his attention back to the museum guide. With a sigh he turned off the pulse and trudged off to catch up with the group.

Time

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At first glance the room seemed frozen in time, it’s antiquated charm untouched by the decades. A closer look revealed a different story entirely. The light streaming in the windows cast shadows that hid threadbare patches in the aging carpet. In a far corner, disguised by carefully arranged furniture, a square of plywood barely covered a hole where the floor had begun to rot away.

Worn depressions in the chair cushions told the story of generations, the books whose spines crumbled behind the glass testifying to the many hands that had opened them over the years. One windowsill showed more evidence of water damage than the other, its tracks rubbed nearly free of paint. Perhaps it had been the favorite spot of some long-gone housewife, a pleasant breeze blowing through loose strands of her hair while she mended some article of clothing.

The one thing not fading stood beneath a glass dome in a place of honor on a central table. The roses could have been placed there within the hour, so fresh and full of life were their white petals. Only the photograph the visitor held belied the impression. In it the room itself was newer, black and white print capturing the faces of a young family who couldn’t help glancing at each other instead of the camera. The same bouquet stood in its case, every blossom and leaf exactly the same.

The visitor hesitated, rumors in the town holding his foot at the threshold. With a laugh he replaced the photograph in his pocket and shrugged. He stepped into the room and froze. With a shriek of horror he clutched at his face and tried to flee, but there was no escape. He could only watch in the mirror as his body grayed, wrinkled, stooped, and finally crumbled to dust. The photograph caught a small draft where it lay on the carpet and fluttered across the threshold into the hall outside. The white roses stood motionless in their case, endless life in the midst of decay.

Network

Photo by Becky Strike, Oak Alley Plantation, LA

The storm clouds rolled in to compete with the afternoon’s brilliant blue sky. Right on schedule, Lije thought with satisfaction. He settled onto the bench beneath the metal pergola to watch the show.

It was a particularly fine one today. He had put the finishing touches on it himself only this morning, and rather regretted being the only one in the Botanical Walk to see it. He would have enjoyed watching the reactions. No matter; he wouldn’t have long himself if he didn’t want to get wet.

He rose and moved to lean against the brick pillar opposite the bench, patting it affectionately. No one would ever guess the pergolas true purpose; the designers had been brilliant. He let his gaze drift to the metal over his head and froze. Was that rust? It couldn’t be! With a quick glance around just to be sure he was alone, he yanked the bench closer and stepped up for a closer look.

There. Just at the joining. His cheeks flushed with hot anger; someone must be removed from the Maintenance Corps immediately. Neglect like that could jeopardize the entire network; the delicate fibers forming the weather matrix within the pergola could survive no exposure.

A peal of thunder jerked his attention to the sky as the first drops struck his face. His jaw dropped in horror as what should have been lightening pixelated across the sky. Once, twice, as the water plinked against the metal rows, then a section of cloud went blank. The storm roiled distortedly around the electrified tiles revealed behind them, pixels flickering.

The Quarter

Photo by Becky Strike, French Quarter, New Orleans LA

Jean rested in the relative darkness of the tiled alley. The fan, incongruous against the ancient brick, did little to improve the sticky New Orleans heat pouring in from the open courtyard. Why couldn’t he have died somewhere cooler, he grumbled to himself.

He’d certainly had the opportunity. Born the younger son of the old city elite, he had craved adventure and excitement. The river had offered both, and his father had been only too glad to send his troublesome offspring north with the traders, away from the gambling halls that threatened the family fortune and reputation.

Ironic, then, that it should be fever from the delta swamps that took his life after all. Why he had been cursed to eternal boredom skulking in the darkness he had never learned. Two hundred and fifty years had brought bewildering change to the old city, at times almost its destruction. He would have welcomed that; perhaps he would have been released from his spectral prison.

He sighed at the sound of amplifiers whining on the other side of the wall. The courtyard still reflected the brilliance of the coastal sun through the dirty arched panes remaining overhead from some discarded doorframe. Apparently it was never too early for nightlife in the new old city. If only he could be part of it.

The Key

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“Do you see that?” Shana’s forehead creased, and she side-eyed Jesse as he stepped beside her.

“See what?” He glanced around, eyebrows raised. His gaze slid easily over the stump in question, and she knew he couldn’t possibly see what she was seeing, but she persisted anyway.

“That stump over there,” she pressed, pointing with a finger that trembled slightly. “Don’t you see anything?

He peered with a slight frown into the underbrush. “You mean, that moss-covered rotting thing that’s half buried?” He turned to look at her, head cooking to one side in that usually endearing little habit of his. Now it just irritated her; if he couldn’t see it, she was definitely hallucinating, and she could not be hallucinating. Not again.

“Yes, that one!” Shana half-screeched and clenched her fists at her sides. She stomped over to the stump and glared at him. “How do you possibly miss something this weird?” She bent down and snatched the key from where it lay on the smoothly cut surface of the wood and thrust it toward him so hard she almost threw it.

But he wasn’t there. Instead, an old man smiled at her and reached out to catch the key as it fell from her nerveless fingers. “Ah, there you are! What luck! I’m never sure I have it right, you know. And you’ve missed it so many times already.”

“Missed it?” Her voice quavered, barely audible even in the quiet under the trees.

“Nevermind all that now, you’re here now and that’s all that matters.” The old man tossed the key and caught it casually before slipping it into a voluminous pocket in his robe. “Come, we must get you settled in and ready to assume your duties.”

He turned and strode off into the woods, leaving Shana staring after him with her mouth hanging open. “Come… where?” She demanded, her voice trailing off as he ignored her completely. She slowly followed him with a wild glance back at the empty, rotting stump.

Under the Oaks

Photo taken and edited by Becky Strike, Oak Alley Plantation, LA

He stared down the well groomed brick walk, his worn pack slipping from his shoulder to land with a metallic rattle. His torn, mud-stained uniform was a sore thumb against the impossibly manicured lawn and the milling people nearer the big house.

A woman in skintight pants, of all outlandish costumes, skirted around him with a sidelong glance. A little girl in garishly combined colors jumped up and down and pulled a man’s sleeve; he heard her ask as they passed why he was dressed in such weird clothes. He raised an eyebrow, locking eyes with the open-mouthed child until she lost interest and skipped on toothed road.

The road was all wrong, as well, and shining contraptions sat in neat rows near it on what should have been the cane fields. At least savory smells wafted from the big house. Maybe he could fill his empty stomach while he figured out what was going on.

If only his head didn’t feel so muzzy. He must have had fever; he really didn’t remember how he got back to the plantation. What had he been doing? He flushed with shame at the flash of memory. Cannonfire and screaming men, rivulets of blood polluting the rainwater churning under patched boots. A welcoming hollow in an ancient oak, just waiting at the edge of the field. Curling into a fetal ball with head wedged between his knees and hands locked white knuckles behind his head as battle faded into nothing. Then he was standing under the great oaks of home, only it wasn’t home. It was a nightmare.

Window

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It was unique among the dwarf cities, his window. None of the nether people could understand why he had insisted upon its installation when he inherited the throne of Dor. It had cost him more deepsilver than the coffers could well support, and if Olor ever let leak his methods of obtaining the required amount he would be deposed by a unanimous council vote.

He didn’t regret it. If there was no other benefit, the advantage of throwing every dwarf ambassador off guard the moment they entered the throne room would have been worth it. Dwarves hated the open spaces of Above without the comfort of stone protecting their heads. Even the illusion of exposure made them nervous, and they could barely present their petitions and platitudes between glances at the moon rising behind them in the great glass arch.

He had come to Dor as an orphan and fought his way from nameless tunneler to respected aristocrat with his wits and ore fragments hidden in his beard during his shifts in the mines. He’d always been good at secrets, even bigger ones than the black market, and no one had ever caught him sneaking up the airshafts for a glimpse of the sky. And although many commented on his unusual height, no one ever guessed his deepest secret.

Born on the surface to a human mother, he had lived a strange life halfway Nether and Above. Torn between the comfort of the caves and the glory of the sky, he had never truly belonged with human children who swiftly outstripped him in height but remained children long after he gained full strength. When his mother died, he embraced his dwarf heritage and joined his father’s people. Only then did he realize that he would never belong. Power alone would allow him excuse to be different, and so power he took.

The Tomb

“What a depressing place! Why on earth did you bring me here, Jack?”

“Oh, I dunno, I think it’s pretty cheerful with the sun shining through the trees and all.”

“Whatever, weirdo! Seriously, what’s with the creepy mausoleums?”

“Come here, I wanted to show you something. Look at the door on that one.”

“What about it? It’s an old slab of stone, like everything else around here.”

“Don’t you see the color?”

“Ooh, I see what you mean. That’s weird! Why would somebody just clean the one door?”

“There’s no writing on it either, like there is on all the rest. I wanna know who’s in there, don’t you?”

“Now that you mention it, but how are we gonna do that?”

“I left a crowbar in the weeds there yesterday. Nobody ever cleans up here, it’ll still be there. Yup, right where I left it.”

“Oh, hurry if you’re gonna break in. What if somebody catches us? Wonder what you get for graverobbing?”

“I told you, nobody ever comes here. Besides, we aren’t robbing, just looking. Come here, help me, this rock is heavy.”

“Whoa, what in the world is that? It’s awfully dark, did you bring a flashlight?”

“Yes, let me… Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? Ooh, no, something is moving in there. Let’s get out of … Jaaaaaaaaaaack!”

The Relic

No one would ever have known it was there, in that tiny retreat from the bustle and concrete tucked in a cluster of apartments. No one remembered that before the garden, before the apartments, before the city, it was there. The city rose around it from apocalyptic waste, slowly but determinedly reclaiming the destruction.

Once walls had surrounded the artifact, high impenetrable walls guarded by marines armed and armored with the pinnacle of military technology. Then budgets and memories failed. First guards then walls disappeared, redirected to new pursuits and construction as civilization marched onward to cover the past. Still it remained, an unimposing but immoveable relic of forgotten death.

Eventually the city overtook it, and a developer born into Upper End luxury fancied it to be an old broken fountain. It became the centerpiece of nostalgia, a hodge-podge tribute to the geometric tranquility of the ancient English garden incongruous between siding and palmettos of The Southern Age as discovered by archaeologists. Birds and lovers alike twittered about its intricately molded layers and cooling sprays, pretending to know of times far before memory.

Until the day the topmost fountain ground to life and the birds flew away. Iron screamed against iron and gears long unused turned layer after layer, settling each within the other until all rested in the base with a click. And they came to repeat history, the hordes of destruction, pouring from the lock to scour the Earth clean for another beginning.