But if that is all there is to it, then why has he revealed himself to me? What is going on? Does he want me to see him as a good person? Does he want to help me?
He raises his hand toward Lorelei to stop her from speaking. “No,” he says. “My actions are not intended to help the innocent. I am too self-centered for that. True, now and then, thwarting the plans of my voracious compeers has resulted in some benefit to another. But that was unintended.”
Another silent voice comes to me just then. I seem to be getting better at identifying who such messages come from, for I know right away it is Lorelei.
He won’t admit that he’s unselfish and cares about others. But he does. I know him.
The Dreamer looks over at her. Perhaps he used his own faint ESP to catch the drift of what she just thought because he shakes his head wearily.
“No,” he says, “I am quite selfish. My motives are to protect my position or to weaken the others. To survive. That is my sole paltry ambition. And in doing so I am prepared to use anyone.”
As I plan to use you right now.
He points a finger at me. “My prime aim,” he says, “is but to play the game and continue breathing. Paltry as this little life of mine may be, it is all that I have. I am such a coward that I have to work twice as hard to appear the opposite.” He opens both arms wide. “So, Lozen, now that you have seen the great Oz to be a pathetic little creature behind a curtain, do you despise me?”
I don’t say anything. It’s too complicated for a yes or a no.
The Dreamer laughs. “My, it is hard to get a word in edgewise around you, isn’t it?”
I nod to that one, a small ghost of a smile on my lips.
The Dreamer laughs again, a laugh that I have to admit is rather friendly and a bit infectious.
“Well,” he chuckles, “you do have a sense of humor.” He settles back in his chair again, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “But now I need to let you know why I have brought you here. Although I would love to run you through a whole battery of tests in my little laboratory here, alas, there is no time for that. Are you aware that it has been decided by at least two of my fellow Ones that you have been a bit too successful of late? That you pose a potential danger to them? That they are actually afraid of you?”
“Yes, I do know that.”
The Dreamer looks back over his shoulder at Lorelei. “You see, she can say more than three words at a time.” He turns back to me. “So you know that they are planning to eliminate you?”
I nod to that one. They’ve already started.
“Good. So I have called you here for two simple reasons, one of which is paramount. The first reason is to let you know that I am not your enemy. I say this not because I want to be your friend, but because I suspect that being your enemy is not what I would call a strategic choice if one hopes to see another sunrise. So, if and when you do gain the upper hand and wreak vengeance or justice or whatever,” he waves a hand dismissively, “you will remember our little talk and spare me and my dear Lorelei. No?”
I nod.
“Aha! Now on to the second reason I summoned you to this tete-a-tete. It is to tell you what you must do, now, if you wish to both survive and aid me in my plan to weaken my peers.”
A pregnant pause. I stand here, he sits there, both of us waiting. Finally I raise one eyebrow and cock my head slightly.
The Dreamer nods. “Run,” he says.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Outside
I stand there staring at the Dreamer.
Run.
How helpful is that advice, eh?
Doesn’t he know that if I do try to escape it is not going to be alone? It’s going to include Mom and Ana and Victor. Leaving them behind would only leave them in danger.
The Dreamer nods at me. Is his ESP getting stronger by being in my presence?
“Yes,” he says, “on both counts.” Then he chuckles again. “And your escape must include your singer friend as well, is that not so?”
He rises gracefully from his chair. “Come.”
He leads me over to a dark grayish brown table, taps its surface lightly with his knuckles. “Chippendale,” he says, as if that should mean something. Then he unrolls a schematic that shows the entire layout of Haven.
“Here,” he says, pointing to the area of the interior wall that is a blind area for the wall guards. “Your point of egress. But you already chose that spot, didn’t you?”
I don’t bother to nod.
“However,” the Dreamer continues, “did you know about this? Or this?”
“No.” I have to admit he’s right. I did not know about those two secret passages that lead in and out of the family bloc and the solitary confinement area.
“Of course,” the Dreamer adds as he re-rolls the schematic, “there are the problems of the monsters that shall likely be lurking out there in the darkness.” He studies my expressionless face and chuckles yet again. “Or should I say the problem for those monsters when they encounter you in the darkness?”
As the Dreamer’s guards escort me out of his chamber, I think about the steps I need to take to effect our escape.
Although Haven was originally designed as a prison to keep people locked inside (and is currently serving that purpose rather well), the lookouts on its ramparts, behind its gun turrets, and in its towers all keep their eyes glued to the space outside. Especially at night. That’s one of the weaknesses I am about to exploit tonight.
Another is that one place where, even when Haven was a full-fledged prison and not a fortress protecting those inside from the hungry creatures without, a determined prisoner could reach the wall and scale it without being seen by any watcher on the walls or in the towers.
Once outside, though, one might be visible within the range of the light cast from the night fires atop the walls. And while one person with the right training—me—could probably be furtive enough to avoid being noticed, the chances of four further fugitives going undetected would be slim. Unless one could cause a diversion. Which I plan to do.
Step Numero Uno is to alert my family. And here is where more of the Dreamer’s help comes in. I’m taken by his black-arm-banded men not to my cell but to the dining hall. It’s time for the last meal of the day.
My audience with the Dreamer did not last that long—even though I feel as if more time than I can measure passed while I was in there. Mom, Ana, and Victor are in the hall, already sitting at the table we go to when we can eat together. I take my bowl to the servers, hold it out for the two ladles of mashed and gelatinous goulash that is this evening’s gourmet delight. The brown flecks are pieces of venison jerky. There’s never much meat in the food that ordinaries are given. My family and I would eat a lot better if we were away from here and living off the land as we used to do in our valley. I pick up a spoon and join my family.
As always, Victor has finished all of his food and Ana is playing with hers, shaping the mush in her bowl into little hills and valleys.
“Look, Lozen,” she says to me, “I’m making a place for us to live. See the hills here. And this is a cave. And here’s a river. Just like Valley Where First Light Paints the Cliff.”
I bite my lip. It’s almost as if she is reading my mind and describing the very escape route I plan for us to take. Not that we could stay long in our valley. That’s one of the places any search party might come looking for us. But not right away. If my plan works they’ll be too busy licking their wounds.
“Good,” I say to my sister, making a seemingly random motion of my right hand that I know my mother will see.
Mom leans over her bowl so that her head is closer to mine. We’ve communicated this way before, just as Guy and I have done. Hand movements, gestures, code words. Our secret language for a time such as this. Getting out of Haven has been something Mom and I have been thinking about ever since we were captured a year ago and herded into here.
“Tonight?” Mom says in a very soft voice, not
moving her lips as she speaks. Though I’ve never told her any details, she has known since we came here that I’ve been planning our escape.
I nod as I drop my spoon on the table and lift my hand to swat at a nonexistent fly. As I do so, my spoon slides to the floor. I pick the spoon up, tap it three times on the table top as if to clean off whatever may have stuck to it from the floor. As I wipe the spoon off on my shirt, my mother crosses her hands, laying three fingers across the back of her left wrist. I take a bite of my mush and nod once more.
Tonight after the three bells that signal for the changing of the guards on lookout on the walls.
My mother waits a while before asking her question. She leans forward. “Victor drew a really interesting picture today,” she says. But it’s not her words that she wants me to pay attention to. It’s her left hand held close to her stomach making the sign for where.
Where will we meet?
That is what she’s asking. I wish I could just talk to her by thinking the way I have with Hussein and the Dreamer and my “perhaps” friend Hally. Hally. I’d be willing to bet he is going to make make contact with me as soon as we get out of Haven.
If we get out of Haven.
I look at Mom, at Ana, at Victor. Then I hold out my index finger. One more. I trace the letter H on the table top.
Mom smiles then. She understands that my plan is going to include freeing Hussein, too, and she is happy with that plan.
I place my left hand palm down on the table. My index finger on my left hand stands for the east wall. My middle finger stands for the south wall. Ring finger, the west wall. Little finger, the north.
I wrap my right hand around the ring finger and crack the knuckle.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Mom says, placing her hands on mine and grasping that same finger. West wall. “Cracking your knuckles may lead to rheumatism, you know.”
I nod.
Ana and Victor look across the table at me.
“Mom is right,” Ana says.
“She really is,” Victor agrees.
Young as they may be, they also understand. We’re getting out of here! Their faces are calm, even though I am pretty sure their hearts may be beating just as fast as mine right now. Although their time with Dad and Uncle Chatto was so much less than mine and they were still very little then, they remember what they were taught. Like that day when we walked with Uncle Chatto in the desert.
“Little ones can survive by staying still,” Uncle Chatto said, pointing out the motionless quail chicks that were crouched down in the leaves under an ocotillo, looking like nothing more than part of the earth.
“Can you stay still and watch?” he asked my little sister and brother. And though each of them had no more than two handfuls of years between them, they solemnly nodded.
I know that Dad and Uncle Chatto would have been just as proud of them as I am now.
Two bells sound from the entrance to the mess hall.
They were struck by the monitor. His job is to keep everyone moving in or out of here according to the schedules set by the Ones. Two strikes. Time for us to clean up, whether we are done eating or not, and get ready to exit the room.
Even in this world after the end of electricity, we are still being run by time. Not our time, their time. There’s this story that Mom told us. It’s not one of our stories, but one that she heard from a friend of hers in vocational school who was a Salish basket maker from the northwest coast where their hero is Mink.
Mom told it to the three of us soon after we arrived at Haven.
“Mink,” Mom said that day, “is the one who stole the Sun so that the People could have light and warmth. Before that, they were cold and living in darkness because the Sun was being kept on the other side of the world by selfish monsters. The lives of the people became better after Mink stole the Sun for them. He was always trying to help the People. Then the Europeans came and brought a new thing called Time. Mink saw right away that it was really important to them. So he stole Time. But as soon as he gave it to the People things did not get better. It turned out that Time began to run their lives. They no longer had any time to do the things they wanted to do. Time told them when to eat and sleep and get up and work. They longed for the old days, but those days were gone now that they were owned by Time.”
“That is a sad story,” Ana had said.
“Maybe Child of the Water could go and kill Time?” Victor suggested.
Mom nodded. “Perhaps,” she said, looking at me. “But until then Time is here and we have to follow Time’s rules.”
And now that it is dark, I am at Step Numero Dos. I am sitting in the shadowed spot I chose near the west wall. I am listening and watching, waiting for the right moment to make my move. And also waiting for time to pass.
Of course I can only guess at the time. No one is allowed to have a clock of their own in Haven. The only time pieces, aside from those in the private chambers of the Ones—especially Lady Time—are kept by the monitors and guards. Those spring-wound clocks, like the one in the mess hall, are used to regulate us, keep us in line, herd us as if we were nothing but sheep or cattle. Docile cows.
A silly little song that Mom used to sing to us comes to my mind. It’s an old, old nursery rhyme.
Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
the dish ran away with the spoon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport
and the cow jumped over the moon.
Dad told me, though, that songs such as that one were often in code. The “dish” was a queen’s serving lady and the “spoon” a young man whose job it was to taste the king’s food to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. So rather than just being for little kids, they were a way for common folks to comment on things they weren’t supposed to talk about. Just like some of the spirituals that the black slaves sang were subtle messages. “Steal Away to Jesus” was about escaping from their masters.
And right now this cow is about to try to steal away and jump—or at least climb—over the wall in front of her.
I look up into the sky. From the position of the crescent moon, it is still perhaps an hour before the three bell signal for changing the wall sentries, one of whom is easily visible from my vantage point that is invisible to him.
As I watch him patrol the top of the wall, I’m counting.
One and one pony.
Two and one pony.
I’m making sure that sentry atop this part of the wall is following a regular routine, behaving as predictably just as most people do when they have a boring task to endure.
Ten and one pony.
Eleven and one pony.
His eyes are focused on the outside, the only direction from which everyone expects any threat to come. He never looks back inside.
Twenty and one pony.
Twenty-one and one pony.
Just like the last ten times, he is following the same pattern.
Twenty-nine and one pony.
Thirty and one pony.
And now he has reached the spot where he meets another guard walking from the opposite direction.
Forty and one pony.
Forty-one and one pony.
They stand, heads together, exchanging a word or two. Then each turns back the way he came.
Fifty-nine and one pony.
Sixty and one pony.
Just like clockwork, the whole thing takes a minute. And that should be more than enough space for me to do it. But can I? I take one deep breath, then another. Will my plan work? So much depends on my doing everything just right.
“Listen to the night, Lozen. It speaks to us.”
That is what Uncle Chatto used to say.
And just as the memory of his words comes to me, from somewhere out in the desert outside, a coyote howls. Another answers and another until the night is filled with their high ululating voices. When the new people came to this land, they made war on the coyotes and tried to wipe them out. But no matter how many
they killed, more survived. Even the powerful new genetically modified monsters that were loosed on this land have not been able to get rid of the coyotes. They are too quick, too smart, too much a part of this land.
As suddenly as they began, the coyotes fall silent. But the sound of their singing has given me back the courage I was beginning to lose. Beyond the wall in front of me is our old land, breathing, living, waiting for me.
True, there are monsters out there. I would be surprised if I don’t run into one or two of the Bloodless before this night is done. But as Uncle Chatto used to say, the Twenty-third Psalm is a little different when a Chiricahua says it.
Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death
I will fear no evil
for I am the meanest son of a bitch
in this whole damn valley.
I slide my hand down my side and grasp the handle of my old friend, my Bowie knife. The Dreamer did just as he said he would—he arranged it so that my knife and a climbing rope with a grappling iron on its end would be left in a hollow under a paving stone behind the armory. The knife and rope are all I need for now.
Now!
I slip through the shadows, reach the base of the wall and start to climb. Unlike the smooth outer surface which drops straight down, the inner face of the wall at Haven is rough and slanted. Anyone with a little rock climbing expertise could easily scale it, especially here where two angles of the wall come together to make a corner. It takes me less than a ten-count before I slide an elbow over the top and lift my head just enough to look down the top of the wall to my left. Just as I hoped, what I see is the guard’s back, less than halfway to his rendezvous point with sentry numero dos.
I crawl, silent as a sidewinder, on my belly across the walkway. When I reach the parapet, I take a quick look below to chart the course I’ll follow when I reach the bottom. I carefully hook the grapnel so that it can be dislodged quietly and quickly with one fast snap from the bottom. Keeping pressure on the hook end with one hand, I drop the rest of the rope off the wall. It makes a hissing sound as it falls and then a thwomp when the end strikes the hard earth at the wall’s base.
Killer of Enemies Page 19
