“No,” the Judge insists, her voice cold and harsh. “They’re here for her. She’s the missing progeny.”
The missing what-geny??
Ann yanks my hand, panicked, but I’m stubborn as ever. I’m desperate to hear more … Something to better explain what happened at the tavern that day … Something to give me more truth than I’ve gotten from anyone else, even Grim. Could the people who decimated the tavern that night really have been looking for me? Did being in the bathroom, in fact, save my life?
Or was it not me at all? Was it John they were after?
“We’ve been over this,” the Mayor growls. “There is no missing progeny. That’s a myth, and a ridiculous one at that. Belabor the point again, I swear it, mine-own ears will fall off. Focus on your current duty, Judge, as you still haven’t completed your report.”
“Because the case is still open,” she barks back, “and the report, inconclusive. I’ll turn it in when it’s ready, Mayor, when I’ve uncovered what must be uncovered, when I know the truth that is, unquestionably, undoubtedly, unmistakably still waiting to be unearthed.”
And then I let Ann carry me off, dragged by her clutch as I am, for I sense the Judge is about to leave the Mayor’s office and I hardly think it’d benefit me to have her know I overheard all that. In an instant, Ann throws the both of us into a closet, pulling the door shut as quietly as we can manage. We wait, holding our imaginary breaths, as the Judge’s heels are heard clicking past the door.
“9,999 is what we say the year is,” Ann whispers.
“What?”
“The year.” She smirks, annoyed at having to explain. “Because no one knows the real year. Who knows when the world ended??—So it’s the year 9,999, every year.”
“Oh,” I mumble distractedly. “That’s … useful.”
In a moment, the hallway is silent. Ann peeks her head out, then pulls me with her. Quickly we make our way back out of the building, but not before I stop at the vending machine to grab a few free bags of crisps and a couple candy bars. “Just for my collection,” I whisper at Ann, who rolls her eyes. Then we’re sprinting down the alley and into the Town Square, making sure to blend into the crowd as naturally as we can manage like we hadn’t just snuck into the Mayor’s backdoor.
“Wonder what that was all about,” Ann murmurs. “Who is this missing progeny?”
“No idea.” I answer too quickly.
“I wish I’d seen what happened at the tavern,” she goes on, excited. “No one is allowed to talk about it, even though my mom’s been so … sullen … since the incident. I think a friend of hers was at the tavern that night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. If my mom doesn’t cheer up, she’ll be taken away.”
“Why?”
“People don’t want to see grief, I guess.” She gives a shrug. “That’s Trenton Law. Be happy or else.”
I don’t know which to feel worse about, her mother’s friend who was at the tavern, or the fact that I might be the reason for that tavern incident at all.
“I guess I should get home,” Ann mutters. “I don’t even have time to see if the Heads are meeting up. Not much in the mood, anyway.”
“Me neither.”
“I didn’t even show you what I wanted to! Next time, we’ll go to the criminal’s quarters where they lock up petty thieves and baddies.”
“Next time,” I agree, lost in my own thoughts.
And before it registers, Ann’s left my side. I stand there for a while, the bustling of people all around me going about their day’s errands, and the heavy words of the Mayor and the Judge still hang on my mind.
The Judge, Enea. I hadn’t known her name until now.
I can’t handle being in the middle of a busy street. I push myself through the Town Square, thrusting my feet onward toward the west end of town. On and on, shutting up my thoughts, I press through the city until finally my cul-de-sac looms close, and my house closer.
“It’s a fine day to be whatever,” I sing, ascending my porch steps clumsily. The door clicks, I swing it open and lock it behind me. “Sorry, roomie, I’m not in the mood.” Without giving him so much as a glance, I toss the bags of crisps and candy at the table on my way to the bathroom.
With my cockroach housemate perched in a corner of the ceiling, I turn on the faucet and shut my eyes, listening to the calm rush of running water. My head is foggy with questions, worries … I don’t know where to focus, what to think, what to figure out. I know only one thing for sure: The Deathless, whoever they are, came to Trenton that night in violent pursuit of one of two possible people, both of whom are under this very roof.
“You alright?” he mutters, having come partway down the hall.
“Who the hell are these Deathless??” I ask the air.
“The what?”
I sigh. Of course he wouldn’t know. “Never mind. I just need to be left alone. I’ve had an awful day. I … I wish nothing more right now than to be able to sleep. How I so envy your humanity.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Quietly, he turns and does exactly as I requested: leaves me alone. A part of me wishes he wouldn’t.
I stare at the mirror studying my hair, my snowy cascade, the inspiration for my name, the first thing Helena noticed when she pulled me out of the ground. No, my hair wasn’t a product of the Refinery. The Mayor was wrong. My hair was like this from the first minute of my New Life … White as winter.
Maybe the Judge is right. Maybe they were after me. Are after me. But who am I?
Who was I?
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, John’s already seated at the table writing. He’s been doing a lot of that lately, scribbling page after page—of what, I’ve no idea. Very secretive he’s deciding to be. I’m not one to pry, so I let him have his space without argument and just sit on the couch in silence. Small as our home is, privacy’s a nice thing to be afforded now and then.
“Did your laundry,” he mumbles without looking up.
He has his own way of showing thanks, I guess. Little as his gratefulness for all I do for him goes.
“I didn’t ask you to … but thanks.”
“Yup,” he grunts, still writing.
I watch him for a while as he writes. Finally, I get up and head back to the bathroom to change, peeling off my dress and slipping into something more comfortable. I don’t have plans tonight. I figure, after seeing Grim so much over the last week or so, and with recent info considered, I’m just not in the mood. Also, Jasmine lent me a book I’ve yet to read past the first chapter of.
I run the faucet and, just as I’m about to rinse my hands, I notice something peculiar: the stream of water seems to bend. I tilt my head, fascinated by this behavior. I put my hand closer to the water, it bends further away.
At the sound of a footstep behind me, I look up at the mirror, find John in the reflection by the bathroom door.
“Not going out tonight?” he asks.
“No. Why?”
He shakes his head. “No reason.”
We just stare at each other, my fingers under the faucet of misbehaving water. He’s still holding a pencil, thumping it against his thigh as he stands there like a ghoul. He’s lost weight over the last few weeks, probably not eating as much as he’s accustomed to. For one stupid moment, I feel inadequate in caring for him.
“What does Reaping mean?” he asks out of nowhere.
I shut off the faucet. “Huh?—Why?”
He produces a letter from his pocket, holds it in the air with his fingers. “This was slipped under your door today. Something about a Reaping, whatever that is.”
“You’ve been reading my mail?” I snatch the letter from him, hurriedly unfold it and read, to my horror, the following handwritten words:
To Miss Winter,
Your Mayor Of Trenton summons you to the Town Hall at Middle Night on the day of your receipt of this document, so you may be properly briefed in your rightful duty
of performing your First Reaping. Should you any questions, or a request of gloves, direct them please to the Judge upon your Town Hall arrival.
Righteously,
Trenton Raise Coordinator
I read the letter three or four times before deciding that it really says what it says. This has to be wrong. There’s no way the time’s already come to perform my first Raise. This must be some elaborate and tasteless joke. I’d expected many more weeks to pass, months, maybe even years before I was called upon to do such a thing.
This has to be a mistake.
Could this have something to do with the dialogue between the Mayor and Judge? Is it really already my time to have my first Raise, or is this part of some devious plan? After all I’ve heard—overheard—how can I possibly trust anything now?
“So what is it?” he asks guardedly. “Reaping …?”
“I can’t believe it’s my time already.” I can’t stop myself from voicing these thoughts out loud. I’m too wound up. I’m too … everything all at once. “It’s too early. It’s way too early. This isn’t right.”
Now John looks concerned. “What happened? What’s going on? Are you—Are you leaving?”
I push past him, drop the letter onto the table and stare apprehensively at the floor. I wonder also if this could be a result of my having made it “official” with Grimsky, if maybe the Mayor saw this as a sign that I’ve finally come to terms with being Undead, that I’m at last a part of this town, that I’m ready.
But I’m so, so not ready.
“We come from somewhere,” I decide to tell John. He might as well know, I guess. “Someone was with me on my first day when I, well, woke up as what I am now. At least I think that’s how it happened, I can’t remember. Very foggy, that day. Literally foggy. Fog all around … Misty … the Harvesting Grounds were so misty. And now, now it’s my turn to … to …”
“Bring one of them into this world yourself,” he finishes with a grimace.
I don’t even mind the grimace. I’m grimacing too. I’m terrified. I’m angry. I never asked for this responsibility. Helena, she warned me my day would come, but not this soon. Something must be wrong. This letter was meant for Grimsky, surely. But of course it bears my name…
“Name,” I murmur. “I have to give him a name. Or her. What if it’s a child? What if—I can’t bear this. I can’t bear the thought of—”
“You’re not gonna flake out on me, are you?”
I turn to him, furious. “Oh, it’s all about you! All you care about is yourself, making sure I’ll come home after it all. You just want to know I’ll still be around to feed you like a nurse. Birds and salads and soggy tomatoes. I’m not your mother!”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move or anything. His arms just hang there, that pencil still tapping against his thigh as he watches me panic and squirm and flip.
Like he cares. “I need to talk to someone. I need to process this. Middle Night is … is probably soon. Maybe. I can’t believe—How long ago was this letter delivered??”
“Few hours ago,” he mumbles. “You were out.”
True. Can’t blame him for that. “I was out,” I agree solemnly. I sit down at the table, the fight draining out of me like a liquid into the floorboards.
He comes up quietly behind me, I hardly notice when he puts a hand on my shoulder. The weight of his hand, it’s like an anchor, pulling my enormous ship to a stop in the middle of a very turbulent sea of feelings and not-knowing-who-to-blame-for-this-dumb-dead-crap.
Also I think … I think it may be the first time he’s touched me since putting his hand over my lips at the tavern. His hand on my shoulder … it comforts me immediately. His little act of kindness.
If it can be called that. “It’s so unfair, all of this,” I finally whisper. “I never asked for any of this.”
“Life’s unfair,” he agrees. “I guess so’s death. And you’re not old enough to be my mother.”
I laugh. For all the anger brewing in me, I laugh at his timely compliment. He said it standing behind me, but I heard the smile creep into his voice. “Maybe,” I respond. “I could be upwards of a hundred years old for all you know. For all I know.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty, I’d reckon.”
I press my lips together. I don’t know why he’s paying me such random flattery. I assume it’s because he wants something. Why else would he feel compelled to tell me these things? I’m no fool … I know he resents the help he’s been getting from an abomination like me. That’s what he said I am, the first night he spent in my house. Abominations, we are called. Crypters. Wraiths. Soulless. Unholy of the Flesh … I recall those terms of endearment he said Humans have for us. I may not remember a second of my life, but I remember those words perfectly.
Or maybe being called twenty years old isn’t so much a compliment at all. “Whatever I am, John, I’m still dead.”
“You don’t look that either.”
He’s being nice because he needs me. Not because he cares for me, respects me, or even likes me. He just wants food. A roof, albeit a creaky one. A bed to sleep in until he’s ready to bolt back through deadly trees and whatever awaits on his way from here.
“Why’d you leave home?” I ask. “So determined to return, makes one wonder why you left in the first place.”
“Long story.”
His hand slips off my shoulder as he crosses to the kitchen. The moment’s broken, and that’s all I get for an answer: Long story. So much for conversation.
“I don’t know the first thing about you,” I argue, “and you know far too much about me. That isn’t fair.”
“My name’s John, that’s all you need to know,” he mutters. “Besides, I don’t know anything about you either. Don’t know how you died. Don’t know who you were when you were alive.”
“That makes two of us!—I don’t know those things either! And besides, you know who I am now.”
“I’m a whitesmith.”
“And you also know that I’m—Wait, what?”
He comes back to the table with a bowl of nuts. Cracking one open, he says, “I make arrowheads. I forge blades and knives. I also make jewelry,” he adds, looking up at me, “and cups and forks. I’m not all brute.”
“How—How advanced is this Human place you come from?” I ask with little humor. “How do you have access to things like … like metal? Did your people secure a place from the old days?—a place with means?—with facilities?”
“You’re asking too many questions.”
“I’ll decide when I’m asking too many questions,” I retort. “You owe me that much. What am I gonna do with this information anyway? I don’t know anything about where you come from, how your people survive in this horrible world, what wonderful things they do …”
“They do just as much good, just as much bad as you do,” he answers, simple enough, “except we don’t get any second chances. We live just the once. Mess up your chance and you go to the grave with all your regrets.”
“You never know. You could wake up after your death in a misty field with some woman named Helena staring at you. Or someone like me,” I add, thinking on the duty I’m clearly stalling to attend. “I really should go.”
“No offense,” he says, “but I’d rather stay dead.”
I watch his face awhile, the softness in his eyes I’ll never get used to, all the hundreds of Undead eyes I’ve stared into that don’t compare in the least, not even Grimsky’s. I can listen to his heartbeat from here, from across the room, like my favorite song on the radio.
“I don’t blame you,” I whisper.
Then I’m heading for the door. He isn’t right behind me this time when I leave the house, but as I descend the porch steps, I hear the click of the lock.
For a moment, I thought I might talk to Grim next door, but the idea of running to him makes me feel weak, and I need to feel strong. There’s no way to avoid this thing I must do, as Grim said himself. The day th
e Mayor calls, it is your duty to answer. And now, someone’s grave awaits me. Some very unfortunate someone.
I’ve never actually entered the Town Hall the proper way before, but I know where it is, thanks to my teenage friend Ann. When I pass through its creaky doors, I see a sad little desk with a perky woman doing absolutely nothing at all. She looks up, her big sprightly eyes frightening me at first. “How may I help you?” she asks, coming to life.
“I have a letter from the Mayor. He summoned me.”
“For what grievous offense?” she asks politely, thumbing through a yellow notepad in front of her. “Are you the skull sketcher, or the terrorist?”
“Um, what?”
She glances up, brows raised. “You’re not the girl who’s stealing spare eyeballs from the Refinery, are you?”
“I’m here for my First Raise.”
“Oh!” She flips her notepad over, jabs a finger at it. “Winter! Wonderful, of course, right this way.”
Reluctantly, I follow the cheerful woman down a short, dismal hallway. She taps on the last door three times, then swings it open with the flare of a magician presenting a magic trick. I nod to her, pass into the room and stand before yet another sad little desk, this one occupied by none other than the plump Mayor himself.
“Winter, yes, mine-lovely lady, have a seat!”
I sit down hesitantly. The lady shuts the door, leaving us to ourselves. There’s a little instrument sitting on the edge of his desk swinging back and forth, clicking as it moves, giving the audial illusion of a ticking clock.
“Tonight is a big night for you,” he tells me. “Say, how have you been enjoying Trenton thus far?”
“It’s just fine,” I say, a little on edge. I watch his eyes for any sign of his demeanor, the conversation between he and the Judge still sitting heavy on my shoulders. “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t it a bit early for me to be doing my own Raise? I hadn’t expected this so soon.”
He shakes his head once. “You’ve nothing to worry you. The Harvesting Grounds aren’t scary in the least. Simply listen in the mist for your cue, find your mark, then aid your mark in wholesome unsubmergence. No sense in doing it partway. Be present, be comforting. The best rope you can hand them is a name, I always say mine-self! That brings them to this reality, just as their eyes adjust to the overabundant dark. Bring your Raise to the Refinery quickly and your good friend Helena Trim will be there to receive, just as she was to receive you. Such kind favors we each pay in our own turn, don’t you think? Two minutes from now you’ll be embarking on your quest to the Grounds. Any questions?”
The Beautiful Dead Page 8
