At that point I said, “Listen, you are not #819. You are [his name], and my name is Dr. Zimbardo. I am a psychologist, not a prison superintendent, and this is not a real prison. This is just an experiment, and those are students, not prisoners, just like you. Let's go.”
––“Conclusion,” The Stanford Prison Experiment, www.prisonexp.org/conclusion, August 1971 *
***
New Eden Township, Salton Sea, California
Tuesday, December 8, 2054
Week Six of Project Phase Two
The bowl of porridge heated Skylar’s chilled hands. Late autumn was especially cold this morning. The trace heat delivered to the apartments courtesy of the compost digesters helped, but not enough to erase the shiver in the air. He pressed against the door with his shoulder to ensure it was shut. A draft had dropped the temperature in their home and he worried for his mother.
The hinge angled strangely and had since the day of the Great Fire. That night, men—led by the true King and Aether—had charged into his family’s home in search of Skylar’s father, the faction leader. The faction leader and Joel Watson’s killer, a fact his father boasted of privately to him and Leaf at the lab the day following the Great Fire. Others in the community still did not know the latter bitter truth, not even his sisters. Only he and The Elements.
Skylar studied the bent hinge once more. He did not wish to bother Connor over a trivial repair. He tried to avoid the former Fire Element as much as possible, actually. But, perhaps he would discuss the need of a new hinge for his mother’s sake.
The sweet scent of porridge brought him back to task and he straightened his shoulders. Dwelling on his father would have to wait. Skylar was far too busy providing for his family. His father did not deserve even a morsel of his time and energy, though he knew the mental declaration was pointless.
In a few quick strides he reached the relocated cot now placed against their living room wall. Mother stared up at the ceiling with twitching eyes and trembling limbs. Her arms seemed more rigid than earlier and he frowned. Yesterday, she had turned away from him whenever he spoke to her, refused food as well.
“Mother, ’tis time to break your fast,” he said.
Behind him, Gale-Anne rushed by as the last word left his mouth, then slowed to a stop. “My Lord, I thought you had left. I heard the door.”
Skylar peered at his nine-year-old sister. Brown hair spilled in waves to her waist, the ends slightly tangled. Noting his inspection, she heaved a sigh of exasperation as her lips pursed.
“Do you need assistance?” he asked.
“Windlyn left early this morn to aid the kitchen staff. Apparently a few scullery maids have fallen ill.” His sister threw her hands up in the air. “However shall I braid my own hair?”
He looked to Mother and his frown deepened. Then he removed the emotion from his face lest his littlest sister believe he was displeased with her, which was often her perception. Skylar deposited the bowl of porridge upon a nearby cupboard and reached for the comb in Gale’s hand.
“Do you have a ribbon?”
Her eyes rounded. “Oh!”
She dashed back to her room. Long tresses whipped behind her and disappeared into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, she skipped back into the room and, with a final jump, landed before him. Sometimes Skylar believed her energy could easily rival that of a fidgety boy. Her manners were no less inspiring at times, either. Gale-Anne never hesitated to speak what was on her mind. It was tiresome. But he could not fault her. She was willing to say anything for father’s good opinion, as was their mother.
Gently, he retrieved the ribbon from her fingers. She plunked into a neighboring chair, back slouched and feet wiggling. He ran the comb through sections of wavy strands without the slightest notion of how to braid a girl’s hair. Perhaps similar to braiding rope? His heart thumped heavy, afraid to disappoint her or cause further exasperation. Both he and Gale-Anne were silent, much to his relief. The only sounds were Mother’s raspy breaths, shallow and perfectly rhythmic. The hair tugged his sister’s head when his fingers fumbled. He drew in a shaky breath, quiet, and hopefully indiscernible to his sister’s sensitivities.
“You should smile more, My Lord,” she said, much to his surprise. “You are quite handsome when you do. All the girls say so. Well, at least they used to before all this.” Skylar stopped his motions for a moment, unsure of how to respond. “Sometimes I miss Father,” she continued when he failed to comment. “Then I see Mother and I feel angry all over again.”
“We must do our best to move forward.” He folded one strand over another. The braided rope formed in his mind’s eye and he continued as if it were hemp slipping through his fingers.
“Though I am always much relieved for you, even if we never see him again.”
“Do not worry so for me,” he mumbled. “I fare well.” He tried not to think of what her confession implied. Did she know? He thought his father had concealed his punishments from Gale and Windy. Skylar certainly did. Holding the end of the braid with one hand, he wrapped the ribbon until he could form a knot, then a lopsided bow. “I am finished.”
Gale swung her braid over her shoulder and studied his work. The loops were rather disheveled and he postured in wait of her disappointment. Instead, she said, “Passable, I suppose, My Lord.”
“Fine compliment.”
“Do you trade humor now?” Gale spun to face him with a crooked grin. “Perhaps there is hope after all.” She skipped toward the door. “See you in the village!”
The door slammed shut and the bowl of porridge rocked upon the cupboard. Silence settled within the apartment as he regarded Mother. She had lost a significant amount of weight. The Herbalist visited with tinctures made from valerian, stinging nettle, and St. John’s wort, all beneficial for anxiety and depression, she reassured him. Still, his mother had experienced little change since the village burned and father was banished. Whispers circulated that she would die of a broken heart and mind if she did not recover soon. He was beginning to agree with the rumors for once.
He reached for spare pillows and helped her to sit upright, wary of her penchant for strange positions. The visiting psychologists referred to this as waxy flexibility, as her body could be molded as if wax and, stranger still, could hold an obscure posture for hours. Retrieving the bowl, he eased next to Mother on the cot. “Mother, it is Skylar,” he said. “Killie from the kitchen has brought you porridge with cinnamon and molasses. The kitchen staff wished for me to relay that they miss the sound of your voice instructing the children, especially when you sing your lessons in French.”
Dipping the spoon into the porridge, he scooped out a small amount. He wiped the spoon along the edge of the bowl until a small clump raced down the curvature back toward the cooked grains. “Est-ce que tu aimerais prendre une bouchée?” He lifted the spoon to her mouth and waited. Her responses were oft delayed. Eventually her lips parted and his body relaxed in relief. No aversion today. She was somewhat responsive this morn, too. Porridge mixed with drool along her chin. He caught the dribble with the spoon and promptly dumped the spittle onto a cloth. “Une autre bouchée?” He continued the process until half the bowl was eaten.
There were days when he could not stand the sight of his mother. It was not the weakness. He understood the obliterating pain. Rather, it was the abandonment. While she comforted her grief and trauma in a state of catatonia, he was left to face the disgrace and horror of his family alone. The community took pity on his sisters; they were young yet. They did not spare him the same courtesy.
Most forced politeness, as if charity were obligation. Nevertheless, he wondered if even those were attempts to quell any violent or aggressive tendencies he may possess—as if he might strike back or curse their home. Had he ever reacted strongly with villagers? Or anyone for that matter? Leaf often insisted that Skylar stood upon his own merit. Lofty thoughts, he internally argued. In one evening, his father had erased Skylar’s history and inserte
d his own in its place. This is why the villagers had targeted the Daughter of Fire over technology even though he was the Guild Captain. They feared him. Lady Ember suffered because of him, because of his family, and in many grievous ways. It was unforgivable.
Food pushed out of Mother’s mouth and he caught the rejected morsels before they fell to her chemise. “All done then,” he spoke softly. He dabbed a cloth over her mouth and chin and leaned back in his chair with a heavy breath. For a brief moment, he allowed his eyes to close. Both sisters were now off to work and his mother was fed.
A knock rapped three times upon his door and he slowly opened his eyes. The door creaked open and a female voice hushed a “hello the house.”
“Please, come in,” Skylar said when recognizing Lady Rain’s voice. She slipped in and lifted dark eyes to his as he came to a stand and bowed. A light blush colored her cheeks and he worried for a moment. “Is something amiss, My Lady?”
“No, I simply came to visit with your mother a spell.” Lady Rain glided past him to Mother’s bedside. “Lady Emily, this is Rain Daniels.” She took Mother’s hand in both of hers. “I brought soaps and lotions from the Herbalist. Shall I do your hair this day? It is ever so long and lovely. I also brought a book and thought I would read aloud to you as well.”
A pang constricted Skylar’s heart with her kindness.
Lady Rain peered over her shoulder at him. “Could I trouble you to fetch warmed mineral water?”
“No trouble at all,” he replied. “Anything else I may do for you, My Lady? I am entirely at your service.”
She released Mother’s hand and tucked it beneath the covers. With graceful steps, Lady Rain reached for the iron ring on the entry door and gestured for him to follow her outside. He shut the door with a slight lift to compensate for the bent hinge. Embarrassed, he focused on the village path that separated his ground floor apartment from the forest. Two wash buckets and a basket of toiletries rested in the grass below the front window.
“I do ask one more favor, if I may?” Rain touched his forearm and he made himself meet her waiting gaze. “Would you find Canyon and ask him to deliver the mid-day meal for both your mother and me?”
“I would be honored to do so myself, My Lady. Unless, that is, you need to speak to your brother.”
Her complexion warmed once more and he tried to conceal his confusion. Was she falling ill? “I simply did not wish to add to your workload this day, My Lord.”
“My gesture is little, ’tis easy enough,” he mumbled as his eyes shifted to a passerby. “I am deeply humbled by your care of my mother’s needs, My Lady.”
Long, slender fingers caressed the length of his forearm before dropping to her waist. “’Tis nothing, really. I cared for my own mother for so long, it seems strange to not do so anymore. It brings comfort to my heart. I am quite selfish, really.”
Skylar smiled politely—or so he hoped he smiled—once more too moved for words. The wash buckets caught his attention from the corner of his eye. “Do you need both buckets filled?”
“Yes, please.”
He opened the door for her with another bow, then strode toward The Waters. The task did not take him long and he found he rather enjoyed the solitary walk. Lady Rain was filing his mother’s fingernails when he returned. Long, dark hair swished to the side when she smiled up at him and his throat tightened, unsure of what he should do next.
“If there is anything else?”
“No, My Lord. We shall fare well.”
“Then I shall see you at mid-day meal.”
He bowed again, flustered with shame over the state of his mother, and that neither he nor his sister Windy had thought of caring for Mother’s nails until now. Had others noticed, such as Lady Brianna and Her Highness, who often cared for Mother when his family was working? Though he had two sisters, the ways and needs of women were a mystery to him. He was a man of straight lines and angles, who found tremendous comfort in rules and social customs. To provide and protect and honor, to lay down one’s life for a lady, chivalry and duty, these were gentlemanly qualities he understood and upheld with utmost seriousness. But feminine nuances were almost always lost on him.
He pulled the hood of his cloak far over his head and moved in the direction of the village. His sister Gale toted a sloshing bucket and ladled water to men and women busy with rebuilding shops and apartments. They thanked her and she grinned, eager to please any who would kindly spare her a compliment. Tension stiffened the muscles in his neck and jaw as he passed by, pained by her emotional neediness. Being affectionate did not come naturally to him as it did Leaf or other men in the community, he noticed. Perhaps if he were more verbally and physically comforting rather than dutiful she might not seek constant affirmation from others. He would try harder, for his sisters and his mother.
The remains of The Forge appeared on his left. The heavy smoke accosted him and his mind raced in a panic, an unfortunate response he now endured. It was always triggered by the scent of smoke, though the intensity of reaction differed from one encounter to the next. Skylar slowed his steps and faced the wattle-constructed, open-air forge Connor employed until his shop was fully restored as before. The clank of a hammer connecting with hot metal slashed through the other work-related sounds. Skylar eased into the shadows and Connor glanced up and halted the momentum of the tool swinging in his hand.
“My Lord,” Connor said with a dip of his head. “Good day to you.”
“Good day to you,” he parroted, also with a shallow bow of his own. The older man used tongs to pick up the iron rod he was forging and placed the object deep into the orange coals. A spray of embers flew through the air with the disruption. When finished, he removed thick work gloves and wiped his large hands across his leather apron. Skylar built up his nerves and finally said, “My apologies. I shall not take much of your time, My Lord. I came to inquire over a spare door hinge for a front entry?”
“Alas, I am out. It is a simple thing to make, though.” Connor tilted his head. “Is it for your door?”
Skylar dropped his eyes, then thought better of it. Instead, he acted as if he were taking in different objects around the room before saying, “Yes, our top hinge.”
“How is your mother?”
“Much the same, I am afraid.”
Connor nodded his head, his movement slow and thoughtful. “You walk a difficult road at present, Son of Wind.”
Skylar looked away. The words seared him and he hoped he concealed the pain he was sure had flashed across his face. Quietly, he said, “Thank you for the hinge, My Lord. Please send a shop boy when complete, though please do not rush. I know there are many needs at present. We are well.”
With a quick bow, he exited and pulled the hood of his cloak even further across his face. Today he must remain as strong as possible. The dehumidifiers needed to be changed in a quarter of the occupied apartments. To face so many villagers in closed, intimate proximity liquefied his courage. But the mundane task would give his mind leave to contemplate greater problems, such as the Techsmith Guild.
Maybe it was time to lay it to rest along with his father. It was his father’s project, after all. Nothing within Skylar wanted to honor anything his father had touched, save his own family. He had accepted the position of Wind Element to honor Leaf, and nothing more. For his friend, his King, he would do anything. But his father?
Skylar turned toward the East Cave to seek out the Cooper. Word had reached him that an order of activated charcoal was ready for the dehumidifiers. He straightened his shoulders, removed all thoughts from his face, and moved forward.
Three barrels of charcoal lined the side wall of the Cooper’s shop, which was miraculously untouched by the Great Fire. At least Lady Rain’s family shop had not been affected.
Skylar picked up a lump and turned it over in his hand. Sturdy but light, he scraped his fingernail over the surface and inspected the carbon. The Cooper, Lady Rain’s father, shifted on his feet when Skylar blew th
e black dust from his finger. Next, he picked up another lump and tapped it against the first and listened for the tell-tale metallic tink. Satisfied, he threw the lumps back into the barrel and looked up. A pile of unrepairable chairs, buckets, and other hardwood pieces of furniture were mounded in the corner. So much was damaged from the Great Fire and Blood Rains.
“Does it meet your approval, My Lord?” Alex Daniels asked. He pushed a pair of spectacles up his thin nose.
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, sir.” Skylar filled two buckets and tied the handles to a yoke beside several empty buckets for the waterlogged charcoal being replaced.
Alex rushed in to help. “Allow me,” he said. Skylar squatted and lifted the yoke with ease. Still, Lady Rain’s father fussed and ensured it was level. “All set, My Lord?”
“Yes, I believe so.” He looked around and did not readily locate the evaporating bins. “Where shall I unload the damp charcoal, sir?”
“By the far corner. I shall have two aerated barrels ready upon your return.”
With a dip of his head, Skylar slipped sideways out of the shop and left the village to amble through the forest toward the North apartments. He would attend his farthest locations first and save the closer apartments for when he grew tired.
The forest was rather peaceful in the early morning and he allowed his thoughts to wander where they pleased until arriving at his first location. He unslung an arm from the yoke to knock upon the door. Unsettled, as usual during home visits, his eyes trailed over the stone doorframe as he waited. Near the doorknob, a small chunk was carved from the rockery. Strange, he thought. It was a relief to no longer claim the only imperfect front entry, however. Skylar searched the ground for the missing piece when a middle-aged woman opened the door a crack. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth parted.
“Forgive me, madam,” he began. “May I check your dehumidifier?”
Transitions: Novella Collection (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2.5) Page 6
