Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “And what if you tell the High Keeper?"

  “I’ve told you, myself and the High Keeper have not conversed in a long, long time,” sighed the knower, melancholy entering her voice. “That, of all things, is something you should not fear. And of the Keepers themselves, well, there is scarcely a time when one of them discovers something I do not already know. They walk the same paths as those a hundred years before, yet think they blaze the trail.”

  Around Merrill, the vines withered and fell away, and she was left within the fog once more. In the distance a figure flew forward—the knower herself, though she shone more brightly here, and wore no shade over her eye.

  “The lift arrives. Have we a deal?” she asked, extending a hand that shimmered with pearly light.

  The information was too valuable, and for too little. Perhaps she could trade something else to the knower, but certainly not the intent to murder one of her masters.

  “No,” Merrill whispered, stepping back and falling into reality once more as the vision dissipated.”

  Chapter 37: Merrill

  Merrill did not remember entering the lift; instead, she was suddenly moving upward, the body of the knower replaced by a cold, falling wall. She blinked as if pushing away a daydream, aware that her body had moved her to follow the guide on autopilot, and studied the area surrounding her.

  They were in a cage the size of a closet, just large enough for five or six people to squeeze in uncomfortably, lit by a bundle of glowing kernels at the top. Below, kernels dotted the bottom of the lift, spelling out the number four in the grating—grating that gave way to a rapidly receding floor that made Merrill’s heart leap into her chest. She gripped the mesh at the cage’s side and was immediately chastised by the guide.

  "Are you trying to lose your fingertips, girl? One jostle against the wall and you’ll be left with stumps!”

  Merrill pulled her hand back with a jerk, then clutched them to her heart, turning to focus on the moving wall ahead. She wanted to lay down, to feel the metal on her back as they accelerated, knowing the grate was there rather than peering through it at the ground far below.

  “Outringers,” the guide muttered as he spotted her expression. “I’ve taken this lift a thousand times before. If this is the time that does me in, I’ll be more surprised than you are. If you should be scared of anything, it should be the knower back there. Level seven creature, she is, and she can reach inside your mind like a bear’s claw into honey, scooping out what she pleases, I’m told. Can’t be a pleasant sensation. Not that I have met anyone it has happened to.”

  “I wouldn’t think so either,” Merrill said, fighting a thin headache that started at the lower back of her skull and wrapped toward her eyes, as if her head had a seam that had been unscrewed. She raised a finger to trace along her hair, to ensure the knower hadn’t actually pulled the top of her head off. Then they were slowing, and the guide was speaking again.

  “I will handle introductions. Remember, you are a guest, and a knotted outringer at that. And these... These are some of the most important Keepers in the Tower. I advise you treat them with respect.”

  “Of course,” said Merrill, now grinding her knuckles into her temple as she rolled her eyes. “How could I ever forget my place?”

  Her guide grimaced, but before he could answer, the lift reached an opening, the cage decelerated to a stop, and Merrill stepped off as if her feet were burned.

  The corridors twisted, her guide rushing her forward. For a moment, Merrill wondered why she had come here at all—if there was an actual meeting, or if her guide was luring her farther and farther into the Tower, where she would be lost high in a tower that parted the clouds. Even if she were to find a window, the fall would surely kill her, though that would be better than starvation, or thirst, or whatever else might find her along these hallways. But after a minute of memorized navigation, the guide stopped before a door decorated with hundreds of interlocking symbols, all depicted in paint that glowed from kernels studded into the doorframe.

  There were green grasses and leaves, their color a touch too bright, stretching upward to embrace the kernel light. Tongues of flame licked around them, chased by ice so blue it matched the sky and water that fell in bursting storms. Snow swirled around that, and as it seeped into the ground, it trickled past dirt and rocks to layers of gems, diamonds and opals and coal. Then there were twisted metals, harsh iron matched by soft gold, padded by clay. Fruit gathered in large mounds, accompanied by animals dancing around them, their faces staring out at Merrill.

  She could spend a week studying that door and still not know all of its secrets, the details hidden within details, waiting for her eyes to wander across them for discovery. Too gaudy for her taste, she decided. Forced colors, and intricacy with no other reason than to show the skill of the craftsman. At the top, a single word declared them under its dominion, a word written in bold capital letters, pushing out from the door itself.

  Aurelists.

  At a touch from the guide, using a button pinned to the left side of his shirt, the door opened revealing a long room not so different from the hallways where they stood. A table ran down the center, half smooth wood with a light surface char, the other half sanded and finished with kernel dust to glow. Though the table could have sat twenty people, only three chairs were pulled up to it. Two at the center of either side, separated by only the small width of the table, already filled. And one at the end, equidistant from them both, which Merrill’s guide pulled out for her to sit.

  On the right, a woman smiled, the soft smile of a schoolteacher on a child’s first day, and spoke as she pivoted her chair.

  “What a shame to hear of Fel,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “A true shame. For years he worked in this city with us, bringing us the materials we needed for magics without fail. Where else would we have gone to find our desired aurels? We would surely have had to travel to the stretches of the Earth—even now, we have sites set up for that exact purpose, but they’re dangerous, bleak. I do not envy those who inhabit them. With Fel, that was no concern. It is a surprise to meet you, his heir, Abigail. Never before did I anticipate shaking your hand. I am Rhea Falstor, the Keeper responsible for those aurels that arrive in Consuo externally.”

  Rhea did not rise; rather, she stayed seated, her ankles crossed and hands folded tight across her lap. The same smile stayed on her face as she waited, patiently, expectantly, and Merrill shifted as her gaze failed to waver. Was she supposed to shake her hand? Or say something polite in response? Somehow the woman’s smile seemed to intensify without moving, correlating with the thickness of the silence, sensing Merrill’s indecision. But just then, the man across from her broke the pause, shattering it with a voice as worn as the deep bags under his eyes. His head was nearly bald, though he couldn’t have been more than twenty, and when he spoke it was as if it required deep concentration.

  “Bernard,” he said, jabbing a thumb at himself. “The last of the line that once gave your ancestor his license. It’s my position to watch over the gardeners, regulating them. Surely you’ve already met my assistant, Gervis?”

  “We’ve been acquainted,” Merrill said as Bernard’s eyes fuzzed over once more, and he fetched a small tin from his pocket, taking a thin pinch out of it and spreading it under his tongue. Across from him, the woman’s upper lip turned, though she remained silent. In the discomfort, Merill examined the rest of the room, especially what she had initially mistaken for paintings, until they had moved.

  They were windows, spanning the length of the table, separated by bookshelves filled with thick volumes every few feet. Merrill peered into the one directly to her left, displaying a mountainous landscape, filled with ice and snow. A herd of creatures trekked against the blizzard—elk, but with antlers of ice and white fur that blended into the landscape. The sun beat down, an angry orb with harsh rays, upset that it could not melt the permafrost beneath it.

  The next window down showed a desert, the san
d swirling as if it were water, parting before lizards that waded through it, their feet invisible beneath the dunes. They darted back and forth, running so fast they left a wake behind them, chased by cresting waves. Merrill blinked, then turned, looking behind her to where yet another window peered out into the corridor from where they had just come. This one instead showed a forest, the leaves rustling, ferns coiling and uncoiling in the wind. A wolf stared past her, a wolf with fur made up of pine needles and teeth of amber.

  Turning back, she noticed many of the other windows were dark as night, and Merrill caught Rhea studying her before she could inspect closer.

  “Ah, what it must be to be an outringer. I had nearly forgotten. You see, few experience this room, even those in the Tower. It’s something of a secret.”

  “My family secret,” corrected Bernard, jaded, but the woman ignored him.

  “These are the windows to the heavens. Not all the heavens, of course, as some of the connections have been lost over time. You see, each of the heavens is as wide as the Earth itself, with an abundance of topographies and resources. But what the heavens do not have in plenty is what you bring for us, Abigail: aurels. Raw aurels, that is. The heavens have energy, but often lack the means to use it, the focus. Sure, there are some rare exceptions, but the purest are always from Earth. Which brings us back to our current situation.

  “Bernard manages the harvesting of aurels from interior means—means like the city gardeners. I manage from external. For instance, if you should wish to pull an ice aurel from a glacier. Together, we work to keep the city supplied. Quite unfortunately, with the fall of garden-created aurels, there has been more pressure on my own operations.”

  Bernard took another pinch from his tin and leaned back against his chair. He expanded his chest, though the buttons on his shirt easily held their purchase against his bony figure, and spoke in a voice as if he were speaking down to her from a throne.

  “With you being the only gardener in the city, it puts me at something of a high risk. Fel did well, but Fel is dead. How do I know that you can perform as well as he did?”

  Both their eyes fell on her, and for a moment, Merrill sensed the pressure they were intending to place on her. She had what they wanted, she realized with a start. She was the sole source of aurels in the city. Despite their titles, these Keepers were nothing more than the lenders she handled, and they had simply come to collect.

  Merrill needed to show them that they couldn’t intimidate her.

  “That does sound like a problem,” she said, leaning across the table. “You probably shouldn’t have let all the other gardeners die out, then.”

  Bernard froze, the next pinch halfway to his mouth, and the woman’s smile set deeper in her face, like a rubber mask stretched too tight over her features.

  The guide stiffened, his hands tight on the back of her chair, as Bernard coughed up a handful of his snuff. Then the woman released a soft, tinkling laugh, discarding Merrill’s statement as if it were a crude joke.

  “Of course, of course,” she said, her laughter growing louder and more forced. “You are very important for an outringer. How could we, of the top levels of Keepers, dare insinuate you're incapable of doing your part?”

  Bernard’s face flushed as he leaned in toward the table, changing from the disinterest a moment ago to bright red.

  “Do you think I won’t take away the very license which my ancestors gave to you? Just try me. Try me and see how quickly I am to retract that signature.”

  “Actually, I don't think you can,” said Merrill, the statement confirmed by the look of rage on his face. “Otherwise, I think you would have done so a long time ago. I don't think you would have bothered with sending Gervis over to me at all, would you have?”

  Bernard’s face turned more flustered, and the woman's laughing increased, but this time genuine and aimed at him.

  “She’s smarter than I would have anticipated. And they say formal education is essential,” Rhea said. “Sounds like we underestimated this fine gardener.”

  Then her attention snapped back to Merrill.

  “But surely you understand that without Fel, we cannot allow you to hold the keys to the last remaining garden in the city? We will send one of our own to help you out—someone who can instruct you in the ways of gardening and ensure your methods are stable.”

  “You can already do that,” said Abigail. “If so many gardens closed, then there are plenty of open plots of land. Go open your own garden. Forget about me.”

  “You speak out of place,” said Bernard, pinching from his tin and throwing an almost fistful of the material into his mouth. For a moment, Merrill wondered where all the powder went. He didn’t seem to be spitting it anywhere or swallowing it, nor did he have a full mouth. Maybe his saliva wicked it away over time, as if it had never been there at all, trickling slowly into him.

  “Bernard, relax,” chided Rhea. “As you said, she's an outringer. She doesn't understand. She doesn’t come from higher society. But if it irks you so, you’ve already done your part by attending the meeting. I'll handle things on my end, since it is in both of our best interests. I do handle Gervis already.”

  Bernard looked down at the table, unsure, his tin catching his eye once more and distracting him as the woman spoke again, commanding his attention.

  “Bernard, do this and there'll be enough in that tin to last you a year. I'm here to care for you, just as I always have. Before I intervened, your entire garden network was falling apart. Now you have but one wager left. Perhaps the problem is not so much that she cannot handle her garden. Perhaps she is right—the problem is that you let them die.”

  Bernard’s eyes flashed, as he was now caught between Merrill and Rhea, and he spoke to Merrill directly as he stood.

  “Have you ever even left the city?”

  “No, not at all,” said Merrill. “That qualifies me as an expert for what happens on the inside.”

  Bernard snorted. “Inside the city, outside the ring. Ignorant in the ways of the world.”

  Each of the merchants that Merril had interacted with flickered through her mind. Sure, she had never been to their lands, but she knew their customs and ways from Fel. Maybe not all of them, but the basic ones at least—how to serve tea, gestures to be avoided, a few words in their languages.

  “Imagine how much more effective you could be if you were cultured,” he continued, his lip the powder hid behind trembling slightly. “The solution is simple. We will find someone else that can manage your garden and will allow you to take a journey around the world. Heavens, we will even pay for it. Not a trip in squalor, not the one you take with a caravan of other travelers; rather, we will pay for you to have a nice cushioned cart. Going around to each city as our contacts personally take you to the sights and educate you. You might even pick up a few new plants along the way! It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for you.”

  Merrill paused. If she did want to escape the Keepers, this would be the best way to do it. Simply travel to another city and disembark, leave, flick away into the night. With the Keepers themselves escorting her out, she no longer had to worry about preparation. Already, she knew enough merchants that if she did want to set herself up somewhere else, she could. Stay quiet for a few years, lie low, then set up shop somewhere else. Find a city that actually did have gardeners that she could blend among.

  But something here did not add up.

  Why? Why was it that every other gardener in the city was already gone, and now they were prying her loose as well? How come they hadn't revived the other gardens? Why did they pretend she was so important if they cared so little about the others?

  No. They wanted something, and they were desperate enough to summon her here to them. And desperation always, always, meant a sweeter deal at the end of negotiation.

  “I'll consider it,” Merrill said, unmoving, and Bernard cast a sour look back to the woman.

  “I've offered what I could. If she doesn't wa
nt to accept it, that's on her,” he said. “You can handle her now.”

  As he passed Merrill on his way out, he paused.

  “You are like an insect in our house. Do not think we will hesitate to squash you if you cause trouble.”

  “Perhaps,” said Merrill, “but if you kill all your bees, you no longer have honey.”

  As soon as Bernard left, Rhea looked toward Merrill's guide, flicking a finger to indicate he should step outside. He hesitated, pausing his hand on the small sword at his hip—really a knife, though he carried it as if it alone provided him with authority. Rhea chuckled at that, speaking. “Oh, do you really think I cannot defend myself? If I cannot keep myself safe from someone such as this outringer, well, I dare say my title should be revoked immediately. Your services are not required, though the theatrics are admirable.”

  At that the guard grimaced, stepping back and closing the door softly behind him.

  “It’s a nasty drug,” Rhea said, swiping away the bits of powder that Bernard had left. “I do not envy him, but he turned to it in his youth.”

  ”What's that?” asked Merrill.

  “The pinches of powder from his tin. Interestingly, the drug itself has little to no physical harms. It touches not the heart, nor the complexion, nor the organs. If anything, it’s known to prolong life rather than shorten it, likely due to the reduction of stress.

  “But the drug does alter the mind. It makes you forget about our world. It saps the ability to care. All that matters is the next dose—not in an urgent way, but a more subliminal fashion. A hunger, a thirst, coupled with a complete disregard for surroundings. When the drug is not available, the subject withers away. Hygiene becomes an afterthought, the bedroom more preferable to sunshine, even food becomes drab. This is when the subjects die, simply because they cannot be bothered to survive. I suppose, in that way, it fits Bernard well.

  “But we are different from that. We care about our impact on the world, the two of us. Or are you too complacent?”