The Secret City

by Carol Emshwiller

  “You want to.”

  “Of course I do. Isn’t that why we’re waiting here?”

  She says one of her dirty words. She knows them in lots of languages. There aren’t any in our own language. That says something about us being better than the natives. We never needed words like those.

  I say, “It’s better on our home world. Well isn’t it?” But I know she was a servant of some sort when she came over. For her it was different. Except she got to be the most important one up here because of her wisdom and her nursing.

  She says, “Some used to say so. They wanted things I didn’t care about.”

  “We’d better not take it out. We’d better wait till we can ask him. “

  “It’s now or now. If he wants it he can keep it in his pocket. And he’ll have to leave here anyway. I have enough to do without looking after him and trying to keep him from getting shot again.”

  If he goes, I hope it’s to the Down and that he’ll take me with him.

  Mollish hands me the beacon. “Get rid of that right away if he doesn’t want it, or better yet give it to me and I’ll lock it in the vault with the others.”

  “I’ll get rid of it.”

  I put it in my inside pocket and button it in. I’m going to keep it. I like having one all to myself instead of depending on the vault. Having one, means I won’t have to stay here in the city to get taken home. I won’t tell Lorpas and I especially won’t tell Mollish.

  LORPAS

  I WAKE TO A GREAT CREAKING AND GROANING. THE whole room is shaking. Bits of earth trickle down the walls. The ceiling is low and slants inwards, corbelled. The walls are earth and stones. Tree roots grow down them. I’m underground. The trees above must be waving in the wind. It must be storming.

  There are two narrow dirty windows, high on the walls. A low door is cut into the roots on one side. There’s a small stove opposite. Its chimney goes up the wall, across the ceiling, and into the wall above the door. Probably to heat a room beyond.

  The ceiling is too low. I wonder if I can stand up. I wonder if I can squeeze out that little door. It’s too warm. I start to sweat. I’m breathless. I can’t stay here. I get up off the pallet. I’m dizzy, but I have to get out of here.

  The door sticks. Or did they lock me in? I kick at it. Both my shoulders hurt, but I can’t stand this place one second more. I bounce my whole weight against the door. It breaks. I rush into the next room.

  Allush and that other woman are there, cross-legged on the floor. It’s a bigger room and has a higher ceiling, but even so I have to get out. I rush at the door in front of me. No, that’s a closet or is it a vestibule? I push at the back.

  Allush yells, “This way, this way.” And shows me another door. I rush up stone steps and out, lift my face into the hail and wind, and can breathe again.

  That older woman (one of the old ones, still alive!) stands in the doorway. “What? What’s wrong? Is he crazy?”

  I collapse down on a boulder. I’m pelted with hail but glad to be out of there.

  Allush pulls at me. “Come back. You’re not well.”

  “I can’t stay underground.”

  “Where should I put you? You’ll get shot again.”

  She pulls me under a tumbledown roof not far from the … what to call it, the burrow? Sits beside me. The wind is blowing the hail sideways. The old one comes out with a tarp for us to huddle under and then goes back in. She doesn’t approve of me. I can see it on her face.

  “Are you all against me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “How many are here?”

  “We haven’t counted up. The old ones kept track, but we don’t bother anymore. We’re less and less all the time. It could just be us now, Mollish, Youpas, and me.”

  “Are all your houses like that?”

  “You’ll freeze out here and you have to hide.”

  I turn and flop down so I’m flat on my back.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  I’m not. Not at all. Now that I’m out from underground and not feeling claustrophobic, I realize how weak and dizzy and sick I feel.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “I’d rather.”

  She pulls the tarp up close around me. Says, “I know a place. I’ll go open it. Rest here now, but then you’ll have to walk. It’s across the avenue.”

  All the way across the street! I wonder if I’ll have to climb stairs. Maybe I could crawl. I wonder where my cane is. Probably back where I got shot. Plenty of wood for a new cane here, but that one belonged to my friend Ruth.

  Then I remember my beacon. I feel at my armpit to see if it’s gone and it is. Finally and thank goodness. They must have taken it out along with the arrow. I hope they took it well away from here.

  I listen to hail on the tumbledown roof and the tarp. This had seemed like a paradise. And I could—sort of could—see what Mother meant. There’s a kind of grandeur to the phony buildings different from what the natives have. I want to stay. Maybe with Allush. If she doesn’t mind a disfigured cripple. But if everybody lives underground, and if one of my own kind already hates me enough to shoot me….

  I doze. Maybe pass-out. I don’t know how long it takes until they come back. Allush and that woman.

  “This is Mollish. She’ll help.”

  She’s not dressed all in skins as Allush is. She’s wearing worn out store-bought clothes. A black turtleneck and torn black jeans, faded so as to be almost white in spots. Over them she wears what looks like a rabbitskin vest—several skins all pieced together.

  I thought all the old ones would have died by now, but Mollish is still going. Pure white hair. Handsome—in our way, the natives wouldn’t think so. It can’t be easy for an old person to live up here. The ground all around the Secret City is rough and rocky. Even rocky right in the middle of the city. But I can feel how strong she is as they help me, one on each side, across the street and up the steps. They argue about me every slow step of the way. Mollish doesn’t want me around. I ask why not?

  “We’re getting along just fine without you.”

  The huge, huge door carved out of the granite cliff is open just far enough for us to squeeze in. I don’t think it can open any farther. Inside there’s a cavernous hall. Four small windows near the ceiling. More just holes than windows. An oil lamp burns in the middle of the floor, even so it’s dark. Dust flies about. They’ve brought a pan of broth and a little stove. It’s cold. Much colder than outside. I suppose Allush thought this room would be big enough to be all right for me but it isn’t.

  Again… all of a sudden I have the energy. I squeeze out the door and sit down on the steps—again breathless. I can’t imagine anybody, neither us nor the natives, being able to live like that. And I’m not more claustrophobic than most. Or at least not that I knew until this.

  Now that I’m out of there I’m cold. The hail has stopped but the wind is still blowing. Trees are still whipping back and forth. Allush and the other one come and stand in the doorway again.

  “What will we do with him?”

  The old one says, “Take him to where the archeologists camped.”

  Allush says, “He’ll never make it that far. Besides, Youpas will shoot at us again.”

  “I’ll be with you. He won’t shoot when I’m there.”

  We get started. But I only have energy when I’m scared of being closed in. Even with one of them on each side I can’t go far. When I get to the bottom of the long stairway I sit down to rest.

  And then, again, silent, mysterious, magic, and at the perfect time … comes the white mule. They help me up on her slippery back, I hold her scant mane and she tiptoes me down to a lean-to at the edge of town.

  They set me up with the tarp hanging down across the front and leave to go back to get the lamp and the food. I hear the mule moving around outside. Having her there cheers me. I wish they’d left the tarp open so I could watch her. I curl and collapse into my pain. They’ll bring me something for
that. It won’t be long.

  But then the tarp swings open and there’s a man, a quiver of arrows and an unstrung bow slung across his shoulders. He’s dressed like some sort of Daniel Boone. A mountain man. A scraggly beard, another mop of hair. They have gone wild.

  I sit up. I wonder if I still have my knife or did Allush or maybe that woman take it? I don’t dare check my pockets. He hasn’t said anything, but I keep my hands in view.

  If he wanted to kill me before, he’ll no doubt want to now. I’m in no shape to fight. And he’s one of us, so just as strong as I am.

  He says something in our old language, but I’ve forgotten it.

  “I can’t speak Betasha anymore.”

  But he goes on in our language.

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  I start to get up. I don’t want him attacking me while I’m sitting down.

  He kicks me. I should have grabbed his foot and pulled him over, but he kicked my wounded shoulder. I gasp and fall back. I say, “I’m one of you,” though he’s knows that. Maybe that’s why he hates me.

  I turn on all fours and try to get up, but he kicks me again and I’m flat on my back.

  Last time I used the freeze it didn’t work on my own kind, they just laughed, but I can’t think of anything else to do.

  I stare into his eyes. I hold stone still. Eyes…. That’s all I see. All I know. It’s as if I’m looking through a dark tunnel with his eyes at the end of it.

  First I see surprise there, and then nothing… a blank. He tries to turn away. It takes a moment but then he’s stone still, too. Two stones facing each other. I, breaking the rule of lesson number one not to ever do this on this world. Except this is my own kind.

  I mustn’t let go. How long will it take? How long can it take?

  FINALLY ALLUSH AND THAT OLD ONE COME. I LET GO and he falls back with an angry shout and more of our language. And then they’re all jabbering away in our language. I’m exhausted and he looks to be, not only angry, but as drained as I am. He’s shaking. Could be with rage. If he wanted to kill me before, he wants to even more now.

  I interrupt. In English. I say I’ll leave as soon as I can. Just let me rest a couple of days and I’ll get out of here.

  They talk more in our language. I recognize a word or two here and there but useless ones like “and” and “maybe” and “tomorrow.” I notice, too, that Allush and the man sprinkle their talk with a lot of native words as if they weren’t that good in their own language either.

  Finally the old one says, “All right. Long as you’re gone within a week.”

  I didn’t think they’d give me even that much time.

  Then the old one says, “The freeze…. That was unfair. Haven’t you been trained not use it?”

  “There wasn’t anything else to do—that I could see. He wants to kill me.”

  Then she talks to the man, again in our language. Scolding him. (I remember, but, and, therefore, and the little fill in words all languages have: “for,” “uh,” “like,” “you know” … things like that.)

  Finally he leaves. The old one and Allush set out the things they’ve brought. The little smoky pot of fire and the broth, blankets, a sleeping pad.

  I feel as if I’ve never been this tired in my life. I fall asleep before the soup is heated.

  I WAKE TO SHOUTS … WAILS, ACTUALLY … OF horror. I jump up, almost trip over the fire pot and the soup heating there and rush out. Allush and the old one are outside and before them is a limp pile of red and white. My God, it’s the mule. The beautiful white mule with her throat cut.

  Allush and the old one kneel beside her. They’re stunned.

  Nothing to be done. Nothing to say. I kneel beside them.

  We all know who did it.

  I feel for my knife. They did leave it.

  Without me here it wouldn’t have happened.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I came. Without me….”

  Allush says, “It’s not your fault.”

  “It is.”

  If I wasn’t so burned and then shot, I’d go after him right now. But I have to wait. And this isn’t my city. I don’t know my way around.

  Allush says, “This isn’t the first thing he’s done like this, but it’s the worst. I never thought he’d go this far.”

  But she can’t talk anymore. Then she manages to say, “I’m not staying here. Ever. I’m going with Lorpas.”

  She doesn’t know me anymore than I know her. She may be sorry she said it and I may be sorry, too. I don’t even trust my own: “Love at first sight.” That’s what it was. Besides, it’s not me she wants to go with, she just wants to get away. But I feel happy even so. When has there ever been someone among my own kind who’s a suitable mate for me? And it’s easy to see she likes me.

  We all feel too bad to eat, but they insist I have the broth. Even the old one who obviously can’t wait to be rid of me. She’s one of those people that’ll help either side of any war or any kind of hurt creature. When she sees how I’m in pain even trying to eat, she feeds me. She uses a battered stainless steel spoon. Everything’s old and scratched, the pan and the fire pot, too.

  The dead mule lies right outside. They can’t drag it away. I could help if I had even one good arm. The body will attract wolves and maybe even a mountain lion. Best not to be near it. They’ll move me instead. They want to hide me in a different spot anyway in case that man comes back.

  This time we won’t have the mule to help me move. And this time I’m worse off than ever. After eating, all I want to do is lie where I am. And I don’t think they know where to take me. Just away.

  I lean on them. I stumble. Each time I fall and don’t want to get up, they say, “Just a few more yards,” but I don’t think they know where they’re going.

  Where they finally put me isn’t a shelter at all. Just under a tree where the branches hang down around us. We have to push through them to get to the sheltered spot next to the trunk. Then they go back and get the pan and blankets.

  They’re going to spend the night with me. I’m already asleep when I feel them tucking me in. The old one doesn’t like me but even so, what sweet, sweet women—both of them.

  ALLUSH

  I COULDN’T TALK BEFORE BUT NOW I CAN’T STOP talking. Mollish listens. At least Lorpas is sleeping through it.

  “What an evil thing! How could anybody? We loved her. We need her. How can she be dead? I know exactly what happened. She would have come right up to him. She would have put her head on his chest. She’d have come to be killed. And then, just as if one of our deer for the larder…. Has anything ever happened here as bad as this? We’re as bad as the natives. When one of the old ones died I was sad but it was a normal thing. It was holding hands. People sang. How could this have happened?”

  And then I say it all over again.

  Mollish doesn’t say anything. She holds me. I cry. I miss the cosy burrow, but I feel safe in her arms. Except where is there any safety if Pashty can die like this? And from one of us? Us!

  If Lorpas hadn’t come…. Youpas always thought I belonged to him but I never ever did nor wanted to.

  At least Youpas would never think we’d hide under a tree. We’re below the city and away from the trail. I hope he’s back there checking to see if we’re in any of the burrows. That’ll keep him busy all night.

  IN THE MORNING, FIRST LIGHT, WE MOVE LORPAS yet farther down—beyond the elderberries. We stay away from the stream-side path so it’s hard going. He probably misses his cane. I’d go back and get it, but I’m scared to. I’d rather make him a new one.

  We always let Youpas do all the butchering. He must have gotten used to blood. Cutting throats is a normal thing to him.

  We don’t talk at all. We feel too bad. Lorpas limps his usual limp. He’s using a dead stick for a cane. We try to help him but it’s hard with so much brush in the way.

  And here’s a hut I never knew about before. Hidden behind rocks and trees. It’
s not one of ours. Looks like an old miner’s hut. How did Mollish know about it? Though the old ones must have examined this whole valley before they built the city.

  It’s made of logs caulked with moss. Must be a hundred years old yet still solid. Door at one end and window at the other. No glass, but shutters. It’s dirty and dusty and full of cobwebs. We spread our blankets and lie down anyway. I was awake all night last night, but this time I fall asleep right away.

  I don’t know what we’ll do when Mollish dies. I should have paid attention more. I shouldn’t have spent all my days climbing trees and making pets of everything.

  When I wake Mollish is gone. The sun slants sideways in through the doorway. It looks to be late afternoon. How could I have slept so long, uncomfortable on the floor with no pallet? You’d think I was the wounded one. Lorpas is outside in the sun, sitting with his back against the doorway. I’m relieved to see him. I was worried he might have left us all on his own to protect us from himself.

  I go and sit beside him. Maybe now I’ll have a chance to talk to him. I’m not as afraid of him as I was. I want to talk about going back to the Down.

  LORPAS

  SHE COMES OUT AND SITS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF the doorway. Not too close. We look at each other but then, shy, we look out at the view. We’re about as low in the valley as you can get. Everything is up from here. I can see part of the rocky path where I first scrambled and stumbled and fell, down into this valley. A little river isn’t far. You can’t see it, but you can hear it bubbling. The miner or shepherd or hunter who built this hut had a good spot. I’ve seen this kind of hut in these mountains before. Twice I spent nights in ones just like it on the way here. They’re not built for anything but sleep and shelter in a storm. The ceiling is so low a man my size has to hunch over but it’s light and airy. Not like being in a burrow. There’s never a chair or table. The fireplace for this one is outside a couple of yards beyond me. It has a log next to it for a bench.

  I have questions I want to ask, but I see her screwing up her courage to talk so I keep silent. Just when I think she isn’t going to speak, she says, “Are there more white mules down there?”