by Felix Gilman
“Your kind? Flood, are you—?”
“Four things, I said. And I said ’em.”
Those stars again. This time it is because the stars are out overhead. No constellations that I recognize. That is how it is out here, of course. The Vessels have gone, but I guess they’ll be back; if you are reading this it is because they have come back and found me. A while ago I heard shooting, so I will be brief.
We found a cave to sleep in. It was carved and painted red with shapes that seemed to move, though maybe that was only a trick of the firelight. There were spirals and triangles but also other shapes, geometries that I do not have names for. They were all over the walls and the ceiling of that cave. It was kind of like being in church, one of the old-school White City ones with the wrought gold all over everything and the stained glass, only more beautiful. I had strange dreams.
In the morning my assistant was gone.
Flood shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. Guess he went home.”
“He’s stuck with me through worse than this, Flood. Why would he go home now?”
“It’ll get worse, Ransom. Now get moving.”
I wanted to look around for a while, and Flood and me argued until in the end he pulled a gun. I still do not know exactly from where.
“What’s that, Flood?”
“Move.”
We walked. As best I could tell we were still heading west.
“Where are we going, Flood?”
“Where I say we’re going.”
“I guess we’re not looking for the Folk anymore.”
“We are not.”
He kept looking behind him. You know why, of course. There were Vessels in the sky and I heard engines behind us. Your pursuit had woken him.
“What’s going on, Flood? Who are you?”
“You know what I am, Ransom. You’re dumb, but you’re not that dumb.”
I did. He is an Agent of your Enemy, of course. An Agent of the Gun. That means he is a murderer a hundred times over. That means he is even worse than you.
I said to him, and I guess I am saying it to you, that I don’t want to have anything to do with your stupid war. I am neutral. If I work on behalf of anything it is Light, or the Future.
He pushed me ahead of him.
“What did you do with my assistant? If you hurt him, Flood—”
“If I hurt him what, Ransom? What’ll you do? Anyway I didn’t. He ran out on you, Ransom. Weird little mute freak.”
He shoved me again.
“Let me go.”
“You may be useful to me.”
“I’m not much of a hostage, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Line’s soldiers won’t care if I live or die. In fact they’d—”
“Shut up.”
We walked all morning. He kept shoving me. He had his gun in his hand all the time now. I considered running but did not. I hear it said that Agents of the Gun never miss, and that every shot kills. You have fought more of them than me so I guess you would know if that’s true or not, but I did not want to risk it.
He kept changing direction. But whatever he did the V-formation of the Vessels was still there in the sky, still on our trail. And wherever we went there were the markings of the Folk on the rocks, and I began to think the Line wasn’t the only thing on our trail. Sometimes I thought I saw people moving on the edges of vision, darting behind rocks. Not Linesmen, who are slow and heavy-footed. Flood’s eyes must be better than mine, and I wonder what he saw.
I hoped for a time it was my assistant, but it seems it wasn’t; if he is still alive he has fled.
For a time we were going downslope, and I stumbled whenever Flood shoved me; then after that we were going up, and I was getting tired and hot, as if I didn’t have enough problems.
“What’s going on, Flood?”
“If I tell you I can’t let you go—you realize that.”
“One way or another I don’t expect to get out of this anyway, and I always was curious. What’s going on?”
“That’s a bigger question than you know. That’s a question as big as the world. Bigger.”
“All right, then: what were you doing down in Disorder?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For someone to come out of the west.”
“What? Is this to do with—?”
“With what the Line’s looking for? Yes.” He shoved me forward. We were on a steep slope and I kept sliding. “They look in their way—with hundreds of men, and machines, and the law. We look in ours—with a few clever people keeping their eyes open.”
“Why rain-making, Flood? Why lie to everyone?”
“To keep in practice, Ransom. Lying is what we do.”
He shoved me again. “My bosses assigned me to Disorder. To wait and watch and listen. I needed a reason to stay in town, and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t stay in style. So I said I was a rainmaker, and they just about made me king. I met a fellow once who said he was a rainmaker, and it sounded like as good a story as any. I made them make me a Pole—well, it was funny at the time.”
“And the story about the Folk?”
“I made it up. After the first couple of weeks I needed an excuse. And you saw—they were always talking about their big Founding Day celebration. Who the hell’s ever heard of Founding Day anyway? These little towns out here celebrate the stupidest things: The first colony and struggling in the wilderness and all that shit. The terrible Folk of the Woods. Four hundred years and they haven’t gotten over it yet! That’s what gave me the idea. Even I was surprised they took it so seriously.”
He kept looking behind him. We were climbing now, clambering with our hands and knees up over big rocks. He made me go first. The Vessels were closer than ever.
“You know what, Ransom, somebody down in that horrible little town told the Linesmen about me. Told them too much about me—told them enough to get them hunting me. Really hunting me. Who do you think it was? I knew I stayed too long in that town. I told my bosses, I’ve been too long in that town, they’re starting to get suspicious. If I get away from them today I’m coming back, I’m coming back to town; I’ll find out who it was who ratted on me, and I’ll settle the score.”
He mentioned a couple of names, which I will not repeat. One of them was a woman I like.
“What are you looking for, Flood? Or who, who are you looking for?”
“What difference does it make to you, Ransom?”
“I want to understand.”
“Well, you don’t get to understand, Ransom.” He shoved me again.
Not long after that the first of the Vessels opened fire on us.
It missed, of course.
We were climbing among sharp rocks, along the edges of deep cracks in the earth that I could not see the bottom of. We were heading toward the peak. I do not think that was the way Flood wanted to go, but I guess he thought he was cornered.
When the Vessels opened fire something changed in Flood’s face. A fixing of resolve. It was as if he had been waiting for days for them to start shooting, which I guess he had.
Another one of the Vessels opened fire. It missed. Bullets hit the rocks about thirty feet from us. I do not think your Vessels are very accurate: it must come of the wind and the altitude and the difficult angle, and probably the pilot is trying to keep the thing even-keeled and up in the air with one hand while he directs the motor-gun with the other. Anyway that is an interesting engineering problem which I hope you never solve.
We got to where we were sheltered by an overhang of carved red rock, so your Vessels could not shoot us or probably even see us.
“Strip,” Flood said.
I took off my white shirt and white trousers, and he put them on. I put on his clothes. Even the shoes. He went through my pack and took my water and matches but did not think the ink or writing paper worth stealing, it seems.
“All that nonsense about clouds and light and electricity and the future. You think you’re sm
art, Ransom? You don’t understand anything.”
I do not think he knows exactly what he is looking for, either. And I bet whoever finds this note will not know. I expect it makes sense in someone’s Grand Strategy for this stupid war, but I do not think Flood understands, or you understand, and I know that I don’t.
He leveled his gun at me. He said, “Good-bye, Mr. Flood.”
Then there was a spear in Flood’s shoulder and blood all over the white shirt, and he screamed.
It was a long spear of hard red wood with a stone tip, which you would not guess would be very sharp but obviously it is. It had come from the rocks above us, and I did not see who had thrown it, but I recognized it as a weapon of the Folk, of course. I might have noticed more, but when Flood cried out I jumped back in surprise and my foot slid on the edge of this pit. I think maybe if I hadn’t been wearing Flood’s shoes, which do not fit me, I might have kept my balance, but as it was I did not.
So far as I know nothing is broken, though my ankle is sprained. The pack got caught on my foot and it fell down after me, which accounts for some of the bruises, but by no means all.
I have had a lot of time to study this goddamn hole in the ground, and I do not think anyone dug it. I think it is just a hole in the ground, a kind of cave, but open to the sky. It is just an accident, like everything else. But if someone had dug it, for the express purpose of keeping people in, they couldn’t have done a better job. I mean that I cannot climb out. But that is not your problem, of course, and you do not care.
I think Flood is still alive. I heard him shouting for a while. I do not know why he didn’t come back to finish the job.
I do not want to take any side in your horrible War and I would not care if he gets away from you, except that I did not like what he said about going back to Disorder, later, because one or two people there were kind to me. So if you meet a man in white who says he is me (the undersigned) you should shoot him.
Yours,
“Professor” Harry Ransom, Lightbringer, Inventor of the Ransom Process, &c &c.
V. The Peak
Dear Jo,
I am well and I hope you are well too. I like to hope that everything is better in Disorder these days. For my part I am doing well—with the money I got from the Mayor for ending the drought I was able to buy a new wagon, and a horse, and Carver and I were able to reconstruct the prototype of my Apparatus better than ever. It is still not perfect, but it comes as close to perfection as anything in this fallen world. Also I had a tailor in the last-town-but-one run up a new white suit; I did not feel altogether myself without the white suit.
About that money—my conscience has been nagging at me, Jo.
I told you that I spoke to the Hill Folk out on Big Witch and they agreed to let Flood’s machine do what it does. That was not exactly a lie, but it was not exactly true either. This is what happened.
So Flood and me had kind of a falling-out up there. You will not be surprised, I know. Like you said, he was an asshole and he was a crook. You do not need to know exactly what it was all about, except that we got to shouting and then some harsh words and even blows were exchanged. It scared off poor Carver, who despite his hirsute and grimy appearance is a sensitive soul. Do not ever trade blows with anyone up on the peak of a rocky hill, Jo, because there is a fair chance you will stumble and fall down a pit which you cannot climb out of, which is exactly what happened to me. It is not as comic as it sounds. I sat down there for some time feeling sorry for myself and writing letters which I did not ever send, while Flood, that asshole, just left me there and went about his business. In fact I sat down there all day and most of the night before I heard someone hissing my name and then there was an arm reaching down to me, fingers outstretched, and Flood’s round face leaned over the edge of the pit, with the smoky yellow moon encircling it like the halo they assign you for being whatever the opposite of a saint is, and he said, Take my hand.
Well I was still sore over the aforementioned altercation and I was not inclined to trust him. But we talked things out like reasonable businessmen.
It seems Flood had run into two big problems.
First, the Line’s forces were out on that hill, looking for whatever it is they’re always looking for—hunting for enemies, real or imagined. You know how it is. I know they passed through Disorder and questioned everyone, and I know they were rough, and I am sorry about that, Jo. But out on that hill they were rougher. Neither Flood nor I wanted to be caught by them.
Second, the Hill Folk were not happy to see us. In fact, while I’d been down in that pit, happily writing letters to strangers, the Folk had been giving poor Flood a bad time, almost as bad as he deserved. He was bleeding and he looked scared.
He said, “I thought I’d never find you again, Ransom.”
I awaited his apology.
“You said they liked you, Ransom. You said you could talk to the Folk. They left us alone while you were with us. They hate me, Ransom, they hate my kind. Help me.”
In fact I had not told him I could talk with the Folk. I had said I would try. I think that is all I ever really promised anyone. I had not said that they liked me any more than they like anyone else—certainly they have no particular reason to. But it seemed he had forgotten exactly what I had said. He was desperate, and desperate people are poor negotiators, as you know.
I said, “Give me water and let me out, then, and I’ll do what I can.”
“Wait,” he said. He tried to look shrewd, but that is hard when you are as tired as he looked. “How have you lasted down there without water? Have they been bringing you water?”
I observed that I had only been down there about nine hours—longer than I had enjoyed, but not long enough to perish of thirst. Well, long story short, Jo, he was quite convinced he’d been lost out there alone for a week or more. We could not reconcile our accounts, and so being practical men of the world we forgot about it and moved on.
That was a long night, Jo.
Flood said, “Put this on.” It was the jacket of my white suit, which he had stolen and kind of ruined. I saw that it had brought him no joy.
He said, “Where do we go?” And I did not want to admit that I did not know either, so I started walking.
It is dangerous to walk in high and rocky places in the dark, but as I have said the moon was very bright. When I got out of the pit and started walking, what I saw was that the moon lit up the rocks of the peak of Big Witch, which are tall and jagged, like houses or at least like tents, and every single one of them is carved. There is something the Folk use in their carvings that is not exactly like paint. It catches the moonlight and sends it back. So everywhere out on the peak of Big Witch there were red spirals and loops and triangles and various other patterns and geometries, glowing softly and winking from every shadow. I have said to someone else that it was like being in church. Really it is like looking at a city at night from a high place. You think it should mean something if only you were smart enough to understand everything all at once, but I am not. Another thing you think is that it must have taken a thousand years for them to carve the peak like that, but then you think, well, look how big Jasper City or Keaton is and we built those in fifty, so who knows? Different kinds of Time. Anyway I got lost.
The Folk were hunting us. You could see them out of the corner of your eye. Sometimes Flood shot at them. And there were no clouds above, so you could see very clearly that the Vessels were following us too, half a dozen of them, looping and looping the peak at wide angles, in a long trailing V-formation like geese, only hideous and frightening.
I tried to lead us down, but we kept going up instead. I still do not understand why.
The Vessels went away to refuel, and came back. Hours passed and we kept walking.
We came to a place between two tall walls of rock. We could not go forward anymore because the way ahead was blocked by the Folk, and we could not go back, for the same reason.
I know you have seen the Folk
before, Jo. There are a few chained ones who work in the fields of Disorder, I noticed. They are long-maned and long-limbed and very tall and bone-white. When you see them in their own places they are different from when you see them in ours.
They stood very still. I could not count their numbers, because some of them were shadows and I was not sure which ones. A lot, anyway.
“Move,” Flood said. “Talk to ’em.” He shoved me with his gun and I stumbled. “Do it.”
One of the Folk stood over me. I believe it was a woman. The long black manes are like robes. I looked up into her face, and it was all angles and planes and deep shadows. I could not read her expression.
Jo, you will not believe this, but I did not know what to do and so while my mind was thinking about it and mostly trying not to panic my fingers reached into the pocket of the white jacket and took out my last business card, and I smiled and gave it to her and said, “Hi.”
She held the card in her long long fingers, and turned it over. I had not noticed it before, but they have one more knuckle than we do, Jo. It is strange, though of course hardly the strangest thing that night.
Flood shot at the ground and said, “Tell ’em, Ransom. Tell ’em to let us go or else. Tell ’em they don’t know what they’re messing with.”
Jo, I am pretty sure that they did.
She turned the card over again. I wonder if she could read our language. I do not think that she could, but I think she understood everything all at once anyway. She didn’t say much, but her silences were expressive. I would swear that she was smiling at me. I did not bargain with her because I knew I had nothing to offer her.
Behind me I heard Flood scream. I did not look round; in fact I closed my eyes and soon it was over.
Without saying too much about things it’s better you don’t know, Jo, I will tell you that he deserved it, and nobody should be mad at the Folk for what they did to him; in fact I know that Disorder has some of the Folk in chains working their fields, and you should consider releasing them in thanks and maybe saying sorry as hard as you can. I don’t know if it would do you any good, but it couldn’t hurt.
