The Blue Shoe

by Roderick Townley

  “Is that where I’m staying?” he asked.

  “What, in Xexnax Command Central? No, my friend.” The guard took the pipe from his mouth and put it back again. “That’s where you meet Mr. Slag.”

  “Who?”

  “Come on.” He grabbed Hap roughly by the arm and marched him up the steps into the sudden warmth of the house.

  Hap looked around warily, taking in the imposing rolltop desk that dominated the room. Above it hung an equally imposing portrait of the Lord Mayor of Aplanap— minus the famous wart.

  A creaking sound made him turn. Two men he hadn’t noticed sat on a bench along the wall. One of them glanced briefly at the boy, then back at the floor, as though he were of no interest. They seemed to be waiting for something. From the looks of them, it wasn’t anything good.

  “Better sit,” the guard said. “Could be a while.”

  Hap took a place at the other end of the bench. His hair was soaked with ice melt, trickling down the back of his neck. His mind wandered, drowsy. It was almost too hot in here, yet there was no fireplace or stove. That’s when a steady, low whooshing sound caught his attention. The source of it, he realized, was a metal pipe by the baseboard. That’s where the heat was coming from.

  Curious, he thought, though he was not really curious. He just wanted to be away from here.

  Why had he allowed Sophia to come to this horrible place? Somehow he had confidence in Mag, the mule driver. Mag would take care of her. Hap’s frown gradually relaxed.

  With an icy rush, the door burst open, and several workers came in bearing provisions. They laid them on the floor, as if for inspection. Among them was the rolled-up carpet.

  Sophia!

  Hap was suddenly alert. He had to get her out of that carpet!

  Too late. A door to the back opened and two soldiers strode in, followed by a tall man in his forceful forties, holding two black shepherd dogs on a chain wrapped around his wrist. He carried a heavy ledger book and wore a snappy-looking hat with the front brim turned down and the back turned up. His features, from what Hap could see under the hat’s shadow, were composed entirely of right angles, and his eyes were a cold green.

  The two unfortunates on the bench jumped to their feet, and then Hap got up as well. In the presence of such a presence, it seemed the thing to do.

  One of the big dogs swung its heavy head in Hap’s direction.

  “Well,” said the man crisply, “here’s a sorry bunch.” He flopped the ledger book onto the desk as his eyes narrowed on the men. “What do you have to say?”

  One of them took half a step forward. To take a whole step, it seemed, would have been too daring. Besides, it would have taken him closer to the dogs. “Sorry, Mr. Slag. It won’t happen again.”

  “Why did it happen at all?” His voice rose with the question.

  “We was hungry, sir.”

  “Hungry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you waltz into the galley and stuff half a dozen potatoes in your pockets.”

  The men looked at the floor.

  “Well, you’ll be hungrier soon enough. For the next week, there’ll be no lunches in Portal Three. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You can explain to your comrades why they’re eating less.”

  Hap stared at the men. What was this “Portal Three”? Did they know his father?

  “Now, out of my sight!”

  The men shuffled away, and the door closed. Hap turned his eyes to the man called Slag. He couldn’t help staring. The mayor of Aplanap had his hypnotic wart. This man had green eyes that looked sharp enough to cut emeralds. There’d be no way to deceive him.

  “And this one?” said the man, turning to the guard.

  “The prisoner.”

  “The prisoner. Do they think we run a nursery?”

  “No, sir.”

  “His crime? Let me guess. Begging for a bottle of milk.”

  “Actually, sir, he was caught stealing.”

  “Stealing.”

  “So it seems.”

  Slag gave his hat brim an irritated tug. “Stealing or begging. Can’t anyone in that town do something original?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. At least they’ve sent our provisions.” He nodded to one of the soldiers, who hurried forward and began unrolling the carpet.

  “Don’t!” Hap blurted.

  The soldier paused. Slag’s eyebrow made a tiny mountain peak. Even the dogs looked over.

  “I—I mean,” Hap stammered.

  Slag waited several long seconds. “What’s your interest in my rug?”

  “I thought it looked like, um, one my uncle had.”

  “A thief who can’t lie. Not very promising.”

  Hap stood silent.

  “What have you hidden in there? Never mind. We’ll know soon enough.”

  The soldier unrolled the carpet the rest of the way: a colorful piece, with reds and greens, and blue roses in the corners. But no girl. Not of any description.

  Mag, Hap thought gratefully.

  There was, however, one small, limp bit of pink cloth.

  Slag held it up. “Yours?”

  Hap shook his head.

  “What would a girl’s sock be doing here?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “We’ve caught people being smuggled out of here,” Slag mused. “But I don’t recall people being smuggled in.” He turned to the soldier to his right. “Have the base searched! We’re looking for a girl—or short woman.”

  The man saluted.

  “And bring that ferryman in. I want to question him.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Never trust a Blueskin. Wait a minute!” he called out.

  The soldier paused.

  Slag held the little sock up to the dogs’ noses. They growled deep in their throats, then let out little yips and moans of impatience. “Take the dogs. They’ve got the scent now. They shouldn’t have trouble finding her.”

  “Yes, sir!” Bracing himself, the soldier took the leash. The dogs were almost uncontrollable with excitement, their sharp toenails scrabbling about on the wood floor as he led them out.

  Hap watched the door snap shut.

  Slag came to the front of the desk to watch the sacks and packages being opened. That’s when Hap noticed the man’s shoes. Boots, rather. Soft, buff-colored sheepskin, lined in velvet.

  “Where did—?” Hap began, then caught himself.

  “Are you addressing me?” said Slag.

  “It’s nothing,” said Hap.

  “You seem to be admiring my boots.”

  Don’t say anything, Hap told himself severely, remembering Mag’s warning: Sometimes it’s smart to be dumb.

  Slag’s eyes glinted. “Come closer. It seems we have the same bootmaker.”

  “Do we?”

  “Even the same insignia. See it? The little backward G?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Is this one of the things you stole?”

  Hap started to deny it, then caught himself. “Yes, sir.”

  “At least you’ve got taste.” He consulted a list, then scratched the back of his head, under the upturned brim. “Barlo, it says here. That your name?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you, by any chance, have a relative named Silas?”

  “He’s my father. I believe you’re wearing his boots.”

  “I resent the implication.”

  “I only meant—”

  “A thief accusing me of stealing! It’s funny, really.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can take your boots off right now! You won’t be needing them where you’re going.” Slag turned to the guard.

  “See if they can use this lunatic in Portal Four, Section Nine.” “Section Nine, sir? There’s just Blueskins down there.”

  “That’s right. At his size, he should fit right in.”

&
nbsp; “Whatever you say.”

  Slag folded his arms. “You disapprove.”

  “No, sir. Well, it don’t seem right, humans doing Auki work.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to take his place.”

  “Oh no, sir!”

  Slag’s smile was the narrowest of slits. “Good,” he said. “Now get him out of here!”

  Twelve

  YOU WILL HAVE noticed our story has taken a darker turn. It’s likely to get darker yet. Can’t be helped. We’ve got to follow our hero wherever he takes us, even if he hasn’t the faintest idea where that is.

  Hap Barlo didn’t see his story as dark. It would be natural, with the black mouth of a mine entrance looming ahead, to feel despair, even panic, but Hap felt only excitement. He was getting closer to his father. He might see him any moment!

  The guard poked him with a pole, and Hap took a seat at the back of a low, roofless train car behind a half dozen stoop-shouldered men. One of them, with a hound-dog face smeared with grime, turned to look at him.

  “New, are ya?”

  Hap nodded.

  “Well, keep your head down.”

  “Keep my head…?” The rest was lost in the groan of metal as the car jerked into motion and started along the flimsy-looking track, straight for the entrance. The opening was low, no more than four feet high, and the car slid through like a deck of cards into a narrow drawer.

  A howling darkness engulfed him, relieved every few seconds by the dim glare of a phosphorous torch set in the wall. As the speed picked up, Hap kept his eye on the jags of stone whizzing inches above his head. The wind was cold against his face but grew warmer as the car wound steadily downward, following the sloping track. After what must have been a mile, it slowed and coasted to a stop.

  It was a scene from a strange underworld. Odd, humanlike creatures, short and swarthy, hopped about in the torchlight, their ankle chains jangling as they banged on machines, bored holes with whining drills, and shouted at one another in a language Hap didn’t understand.

  “Who’s Barlo?” called the driver.

  “I am, sir.”

  “You get out here.”

  The worker in front of Hap watched as the boy struggled from his seat. “You get on somebody’s bad side?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Hap stepped out and found he couldn’t stand up all the way.

  “Startin’ you workin’ with Blueskins!” The man shook his head.

  “With who?”

  “Is that Mr. Barlo?” came a voice from the darkness.

  Hap looked around but saw nothing.

  The train car, meanwhile, ground its gears and started down the track, carrying the men away to the next workstation. When the taillight had disappeared, Hap was aware of a sudden silence. Not quite silence. The air was laced with the faint trilling of birds.

  In a mine?

  “Mr. Barlo, is that you?” came the same smooth voice, bouncing off the rock walls till it seemed to come from everywhere at once. A metal pipe, just like the heat pipe in Slag’s headquarters, projected from the wall. Was the voice coming from there?

  The boy glanced around. All work had stopped. The Aukis were no longer banging or shouting as before. They were staring at him, a human boy hunched over to avoid hitting his head.

  “Hi there!” ventured Hap, nodding at the nearest worker.

  No response.

  “They won’t talk to you,” came the voice from the shadows. “Not most of them. I’m the fellow you want to see.”

  Hap peered into the dimness. The glow of a cigar caught his eye. Then he made out the curve of a rocking chair, of all things, and in it a man with an impressive mustache, the ends waxed and twirled to upturned points. He wore a velvet jacket, sipped an iced drink, and in general looked as if he belonged at a party, not in a filthy mine overseeing Aukis.

  The first thing Hap thought was, How do you get ice in your drink a mile inside a mountain? “Hello, sir,” he began.“Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes, quite. We don’t see many of our kind here. And likely lads such as yourself are rare indeed.” He touched a finger to his mustache to check that the point was sharp. “We will strive to make your stay here a pleasant one.”

  He reached over to touch a golden cage hanging from a stand, making it swing back and forth. “I think they’re hungry. Would you mind?” He held up a small box of seeds.

  That’s when Hap saw the two birds, yellow with dark stripes on their wings, hopping in the cage. He took the seeds and shook some into a dish.

  “That’s enough,” the man said. “We don’t want them getting fat. We want them to sing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Singing is a great comfort, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may call me Maurice. Everyone does. We don’t stand on ceremony. Indeed, most people find that they don’t stand at all.”

  “Um…”

  “Ceiling height and all.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “That was a joke, Mr. Barlo. You may laugh if you wish.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Maurice.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Maurice. I’m sure I’ll laugh next time. You took me by surprise.”

  “Yes, of course.” The cigar glowed briefly brighter. “But why wait? Who knows when the next opportunity will present itself?”

  “Um…”

  “Go ahead.”

  Even in the dimness, Hap blushed. “Ha-ha?”

  “Very good! Thank you. Quite enjoyable. Moving on to practical matters, you’ll find a ledge over there to put your gear. Oh,” he said, “I see you don’t have any. Well, then, let’s get you started. Pec!” he barked, his voice suddenly hard.

  An old Auki hop-hobbled over, his bluish complexion hidden by wrinkles and grime. His face reminded Hap of a weathered tree stump. Only his eyes were bright. Bright yellow, as Hap noticed with alarm. Nothing alarming about yellow eyes in general, of course, especially in cats. But in this creature, by torchlight, well, it was quite a different thing.

  “I’d like you to meet our new recruit.” Maurice gave a nod toward Hap. “We’ll start Mr. Barlo on drilling the emplacements.”

  The old one gave an emphatic nod. “Yes, Mr. Maurice, sir.”

  “Mr. Slag wanted to put him on setting the charges, but I’m afraid he’d blow us all up. Can’t have that, can we?”

  Pec again nodded, and this time his mouth twisted up in an imitation of a smile. Aukis, Hap was learning, were not very good at smiling.

  “Well, then,” Maurice went on abruptly, “what are we waiting for? We’ve got quotas to meet.”

  Pec laid a bony hand on Hap’s shoulder. “This way, human.” His fingernails were long and hard and made Hap want to squirm free. He forced himself not to.

  They started off, the boy keeping his head down to avoid low-hanging rocks. In the darkness behind them, Hap heard Maurice mutter, “You want to blow up Aukis, that’s one thing, isn’t it? But I’m down here, too!”

  Hap glanced back and saw the cigar glowing in the darkness.

  The Aukis had returned to work but kept casting glances at Hap. Pec seemed not to notice. With his fingernails still biting the boy’s shoulder, he led the way through a side tunnel toward a room where several Aukis were busy with picks and drills.

  As they approached, a wild-haired young Auki darted out, his ankle chains jangling, and spat on the ground in front of Hap’s foot. He glared at the boy, then clanked away into the darkness.

  Hap looked at Pec with alarm.

  “Don’t expect to be liked here,” said the foreman. “No, don’t expect that.”

  “Yes, but …” Hap shook his head. “They don’t know me. How can they hate me?”

  “You’re a human, aren’t you?”

  “But …”

  “See the chains on their ankles? Who do you think put them there? Who? I ask you.”

  As they trudged on, Hap couldn’t help noticing that Pec h
ad no chains on his ankles. Clearly, not all Aukis were treated the same.

  “You speak like us!” Hap exclaimed, suddenly realizing.

  “When I must. It’s a bloody ugly language. Oh, ugly, ugly.”

  Reaching the rock face, Pec brought over an air drill. “That button starts it,” he said.

  Hap tried to lift the thing. It was heavy as a man.

  “Into the wall there where it’s marked. Into the wall. The wall!”

  “Right.”

  Hap managed to hold the drill up and laid the bit against the stone. I can do this, he thought, pushing the button. The machine let out an angry scream and flung Hap violently backward, right off his feet.

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!” The Auki made a grab for the drill and punched the button. His face, corrugated with wrinkles, looked fierce. “Off, I said!”

  “Sorry.” But no sooner had Hap spoken than he felt a searing pain burn his cheek and forehead.

  “Humans!” Pec muttered, sticking his little whip back in his belt.

  The pain was keen, but Hap’s sense of insult was keener. “Why did you do that?”

  “Why? Why? You needed it. Here. We’ll start you on something easy.” He picked up a bent shovel and tossed it over. “Think you can shovel these loose stones into a trough?”

  Hap nodded warily.

  “Then do it! Do it!”

  It was better than working the drill, but it wasn’t easy. The drill would scream at the rock wall, sending shards whizzing about like shrapnel. Then Hap and two Aukis would set to work shoveling the broken stones into the trough. One of them was a teenager, by the look of him— it’s hard to tell with Aukis. The other was quite old, with an ancient scar on his temple. The teen, when not scowling, ignored him; but the old one’s eyes sometimes crinkled with what looked like sympathy. When Hap slipped on the shale and fell hard, the old Auki silently put out his hand and helped him up.

  “Thanks,” said Hap, rubbing his hip. “My name’s Hap.”

  The other nodded and resumed his work.

  “What’s yours?”

  The old one said something—“Bane” or “Pain,” Hap couldn’t quite catch it—and turned away. Apparently, talking with humans was not looked well upon.