by Ivory Autumn
He stopped pacing once more. “And that is?”
He smiled and laughed. “That they are empty!”
“Yes,” Gogindy nodded and closed his eyes. “Empty isn’t always good, and isn’t always bad.”
Gogindy held up a finger. “But to a Twisker, empty is very bad. And silence is like a vacuum. Yet…yet…he continued. Perhaps silence is good, too. For I could not sleep without it. Yes…I suppose there are uses for things like that, after all…”
Coming to this conclusion, Gogindy sighed, and curled up, drifting into a fitful slumber, thoroughly worn out with his debate with himself.
Chapter Twenty
Fuel
The image of Tavron’s old and young frame was forever imprinted in Andrew’s mind. This old and young, helpless man full of desire to do good, a man who had made his decision even if it killed him, made Andrew’s heart burn with a desire to wake the world. To free those who did not know they were in bondage. Something deep within his soul stirred and pounded against his chest, like a bird wanting to get free. This feeling throbbed in time to the ever constant, unceasing pleading of the unsaid words. With each new day, this unnerving sense of urgency inside him ticked, and hammered, not letting him rest, not letting him stop, not letting him have peace.
He had never yearned for something so hard in his whole life. He had never felt the burning desire to proclaim freedom like he did now. Such a feeling was as invigorating as it was powerful. The power of truth. A power that wanted voice, wanted to be heard just like those unsaid words. Such power gave him the strength to go on.
Time was running out. And there was still so much to be done. Still so many cities they had not visited, people they had not spoken to, words they had not yet said.
Time called out to Andrew with every waking moment, speaking to him of all that must be said, all that must be done, all who must be reached before time was no more.
The world, was every day, going more into bondage, inch by inch, one word, one lie at a time. If Andrew didn’t try to stop it, then who would?
Andrew could barely eat or think of anything else except to free the unsaid words, and free those imprisoned by lies---to wake the world. He had never wanted something so much in his life. The importance of what he and his friends were trying to do was more important than anything he could have imagined.
Andrew looked up and sighed, holding out his hands as rain fell into his palms. The day was cold and damp. The clouds overhead were soggy with moisture. Ever since they had left the land of the Inbetweeners the rain had been their constant companion. Andrew couldn’t tell what time of day it was, because of the hazy sky. He only knew that it was cold, and it felt later than it probably was.
“Over there,” Flicker called, as he soared above them, weaving through the droplets of falling water. “The camp of slaves.” He glided down and settled in front of Andrew.
“Good,” Andrew said. “My feet are getting tired.”
“We can walk,” Ivory called from Freddie’s horse. “You don’t have to.”
“No,” Andrew insisted. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired is all. We are almost there, anyway.”
“Yes,” Flicker said, as he folded his wings against his body, and cocked his head. “Only a mile more. Look, do you not see it?” He pointed ahead to a hilly stretch of land where uniform heaps of earth dotted the ground like anthills. “Just beyond those mounds, you will find the slave village.”
“How strange…” Andrew said, stepping closer, and peering through the trees, past the mounds. The overcast sky glowed an ominous orange-purple over the slave camp. Andrew couldn’t help but feel strangely drawn to the place. There was something mesmerizing about it, something almost beautiful. It was brilliantly lit, like a great mansion awaiting guests. From the outside it didn’t look like a prison at all, but a beautiful cathedral, stunning in size, and surrounded by light. Lining the gate were two posts on which were affixed two candles four feet in length, and a foot wide. They burned and flickered like two heavenly beings welcoming those who traversed through the gate. The camp was surrounded by miles of long bulwarks made entirely of waxy dirt. Lining these waxy walls were flickering candles, glowing like thousands of little fairies. From within the walls of the camp, a great orange smoke went up as if someone was boiling a huge caldron of oil. What is causing such torrents of smoke? Andrew wondered.
Flicker cast the glowing prison a disdainful look. “This is the slave camp of the candle makers. The Fallen has many such places. Here, oil is made into wax. Since it is not far from the ocean, many sea creatures are brought and harvested for their oil, and made into candles. There are many other such places where oil is harvested and made into fuel. Oil, coal, bones, wax from bees, fish, and bodies of dead, oily creatures are dug up all around the world, and harvested. And for what? To light the Fallen’s house. To give him power and light. Illumination is his desire, though he cannot illuminate anything. Only darken all in his path.”
“How do you know so much about this place?” Andrew asked. Flicker closed his strange, bird eyes, and sighed. “A bird sees and hears much. Too much sometimes.”
“What do you know of this camp? Is there any way to get through without being detected?”
“The front gates are poorly guarded, I have seen all from above. There are very few soldiers within. I do not think they suspect an attack. I believe that if we are careful, we can slip inside, undetected, with our weapons. All of us together may be able to hold the soldiers off long enough to arm the slaves. The population of slaves, once riled, will cause a great stir, and will easily overpower their masters. However I do have one misgiving. As a bird, I do hate oil and heat. But I will go with you, despite my fear.”
“Thank you,” Andrew said. “I appreciate that. Are you sure that the gate is our only chance of getting in?”
Flicker nodded. “Yes, that is the only way. It is a flimsy structure, made of mostly wax and iron. If your sword is as powerful as you say, we can get through.”
Andrew’s eyes filled with determination. He turned towards his friends. “You heard Flicker. Tonight, we will slip through the gates and free those poor souls trapped inside! If any of you wish to stay behind, let him say so now.”
“I don’t want to come,” Talic quivered, shaking his long whiskers. “I hate fire, and hot things.”
Andrew smiled and nodded. “Stay, then. And you shall be in charge of guarding the chest of unsaid words until we return.”
“Now that I think of it,” Croffin piped, “I think I should stay, as well.”
“But we need you,” Andrew protested.
“Don’t you think someone should keep an eye on Talic?”
Andrew stared at Talic who was picking through his whiskers preening them for bugs. “You’re right. Both of you will stay here, and guard the chest of unsaid words with your life. At nightfall, we will take the other wagon of weapons, and try to arm as many slaves as we can before we leave. Then we will meet you shortly, if all goes well.”
“Ah,” Croffin sighed. “Until night then…” he laughed and pointed at Talic who was now licking the bottoms of his feet, and chewing on his toenails. “Why do I get the feeling that looking after Talic will be a lot harder than coming with you?”
“Probably,” Andrew said, “because it will be.” He laughed, then turned and walked up one of the tall mounds, which Andrew had previously thought was earth, but was really discarded, dirty wax.
He peered over the mound, and probed the waxen prison with critical eyes, wondering if their victory would be as assured as Flicker had determined.
The night was long in coming. At least Andrew thought it was. Time seemed to drip along, like an old worn-out tap. Though the sky was overcast, the sun seemed to not want to go down for fear of what the night might bring.
When at last the sun did go down, Andrew felt a rush of excitement and fear flow over him. He knew not what to expect, except for what Flicker had told him. He worried that they would
be overpowered, that they would fail. Yet, something inside him knew that there wasn’t any other way.
This was a step in his journey that he must complete. The chest of unsaid words had hushed to a pitiful whimper as if it felt the sorrow of those silenced and imprisoned inside the prison walls. How many words, Andrew wondered had gone unsaid, unheard, here? Probably too many to count.
He wondered how long the wagon could hold such a heavy chest, and how long his faithful, uncomplaining horse could carry it.
In the darkness the great prison’s waxy walls glowed, almost seeming transparent. The cathedral-like prison looked uninviting and intimidating, like the glowing eyes of some nocturnal predator, with its mouth-gate gaping at them with waxen fangs, daring any to enter and face whatever horrors it held inside.
“Is it time?” Freddie hissed, leaning up against the mound of wax Andrew had placed himself against.
Andrew pushed himself up, and nodded. “Yes.” He turned and faced Ivory and Flicker. “It is time. You all know what to do. Be careful. The wagon of weapons must be protected at all times. Freddie, Ivory, you are to hand the weapons to the prisoners. All of you, be safe. Flicker, you keep an eye out. If anyone comes, let us know.”
With those words they all got into the wagon loaded with weapons, and made their way along the wax-covered road, passing the waxy mounds that dotted the land, until they stood before the prison gates where the two large candle pillars stood.
The candles flickered as they passed by them as if they were afraid of their coming. Everything seemed unusually quiet and heavy. The air smelled of burning oil and hair. It was as if the whole camp was in a deep sleep. Candles were glowing along the entire ridge of the waxen walls. It seemed that no eyes except those of the candles watched. The light from the walls cast the strangers in an almost ghostly glow. The gate stood before them, a gaping apparition, daring them to enter.
A great uneasiness filled Andrew’s heart. Shadows beneath the waxen walls stirred and hissed, like a flock of bats sleeping in a cave.
The time was ripe, yet Andrew felt hesitant, afraid.
“Who goes there, a muffled voice suddenly cried from atop the wall above the gate.
Before the man could utter another word, Flicker soared through the air, grabbed the man with his sharp talons and knocked him off the wall. He hit the ground with a sickening thud.
“Hurry!” Flicker cried, soaring above them. “There is no time!”
Andrew’s heart filled with resolve. He stood before the gate, with sword raised. In it he felt the heavy hearts of every soul imprisoned here yearning for a voice, yearning for freedom, yet they were unable to free themselves. Such woe and sorrow, remorse, and such strength he felt. Here the truth lived, though freedom did not. Here slaves lived, their hearts unfettered and free, though their bodies were not. Here the truth and end of The Fallen’s reign was known in all its horror. Here nothing was covered, because it did not have to be. No lies could be believed because these slaves were living the product of the lie.
Andrew closed his eyes. He could feel the strength of those imprisoned flow through the blade into his arms. He set his jaw. His arms grew firm, his eyes gleamed under the light of the prison walls. Far behind him he thought he heard the chest of unsaid words pounding louder and louder, keeping time with his own anxious heart.
“You will be slaves no more!” Andrew cried, bringing his sword down on the gate. Heat, oil, and water flowed beneath his feet, as the gate gave way, and fell open with a jarring thud.
Flicker flew out through the opening, his long feathers almost transparent from the glow of the wax structure behind him. “The way is clear,” Flicker called, soaring high above them. “Many of the slaves slumber in those hovels. Quickly! Quickly! We must awaken them!”
“Yes!” Andrew cried, jumping into the wagon as Freddie led it forward through the open jaws of the gate. “We shall. We will awaken them.”
Flicker flew before them, his eyes gleaming out like torches lighting their way.
Inside, all was dismal and shrouded in shadow. Short, miserable structures, that looked leprous and decayed, filled much of the muddy courtyard. The structures looked unstable and old, filled with dark windows. From the gate, a vast expanse of land spread out before them, inclining steadily downward, encompassing these houses, leading down to a very large pit that glowed ominously. A small but precarious road was built into the side of the pit, spiraling steadily downward. The buildings hid most of the road and the pit. But the crackling sounds of fire, and great puffs of smoke rising from it, could not be hid, nor could the howls of trapped souls crying out in pain, either. Such haunting sounds scraped through the air like jagged teeth, wrenching those who heard it with such pity that it was almost unbearable.
They stopped at the doorway of one of the dismal structures. “Ivory,” Andrew commanded, “you stay here. Freddie, come with me. If there is any danger, Flicker will let you know.”
Ivory’s green eyes filled with fear. “And then what?”
“Hide. Keep safe till we come.”
Before she could protest, Andrew had disappeared into one of the houses with Freddie.
Chapter Twenty-one
Oil
Andrew held his cape over his nose to stifle the nauseating smell inside the building. The heavy smell of too many bodies packed together in a small space, unwashed and sweaty, mixed with that of fish oil, permeated the room.
In the darkness, the room felt extremely cramped as if the night further compacted the room, making it feel even more compressed, heavy, and saturated in slavery. It was stuffy and unbearable. Andrew marveled that open windows did nothing to stir the air in the room. It was as if they, too, had shut out the light, cramming the poor souls inside, mocking them by giving them no air to breathe.
Andrew raised his sword against the mantle of darkness, feeling its heavy weight and presence on his blade, like a heavy curtain that would not be lifted. He cried out, and cut through the darkness, feeling the strength inside the sword buoy his arms up.
Freddie stood by him, watching in wonder as the sword instantly lit up the room. Such light neither Freddie nor Andrew had seen come from the sword. Such power Andrew had never felt in its blade. Never before had he been in the presence of so many, so young, so youthful, whose minds were awake, but whose bodies were trapped.
“Awake!” Andrew cried, lifting the sword high above him like a torch. In the sword’s light he was met with a sight that he would never forget. Slaves, everywhere, row upon row--lining nearly every inch of the straw-strewn floor, their bodies nearly piled on one another trying to sleep.
The sleeping mass stirred at his words. Moaning and speechless, they stared at him---their attention glued on him. Andrew surveyed the mass of slaves with compassion. Their bodies were covered in tar-like oil. Some were burned, their hair singed, their faces scarred by the bubbling oil they had been forced to work over. Their eyes were wide, their bodies frail, their ribs vivid against their starved frames. Yet, despite all this, Andrew knew something many did not---their hearts were strong, and their minds were still awake.
“If you desire your freedom,” Andrew cried. “Awake, all of you and fight for what is yours. Fight for your freedom, for your brothers in bondage! I have weapons enough for you all. Come, and be free. Your hearts are strong. I will fight by your side!”
A cry went up, both of fear and jubilation. Slaves swarmed in around him. He and Freddie were taken by the strong current and out into the courtyard. It was as if he had awakened a mighty river that had long been pining underground. Now it burst forth, spilling out in all directions. Swords, weapons, spears, and axes, were handed to the outstretched hands of the slaves.
They moved through the buildings, waking more slaves and arming all who would fight. Rallied, and ready, they pushed through the prison, an indestructible force that none could stand before. They went further down the narrow road, closer and closer to the pit of smoke that belched up from the groun
d like a great dragon buried in the heart of the earth. Lining this narrow road that led to the pit were endless rows of boys, girls and children---both old and young who were pulling carts full of oil, and wax. The slaves tugging carts were shiny with wax. Their hair was oily, and their skin was scarred and hardened by heat and oil. Manning the endless rows of slaves were other men, if you could call them that, for they did not look like men. Their eyes had grown dark and unseeing. Their skin was scaly and splotched with the shadows they had ingested.
The rows of slaves were chained to their heavy carts so that if the carts tipped or rolled, or happened to get too close to the vats of oil, they would be dragged down with the carts. The poor souls looked miserable and full of suffering. Screams and cries went up from those who tripped and were dragged down into the pit. Some slaves pushed carts full of candles, others wax, others huge pieces of whale blubber. The faces of the guards were hard as tombstones, unbending, full of judgment and anger, unforgiving and unfeeling. They stood over the slaves, watching them like poisonous snakes ready to strike if one wavered.
These hardened slave masters were shirtless, their biceps bulging and shining from the light and heat the pit emitted. In their hands were clubs and whips. In their eyes was a gross lack of compassion. Their skin was pasty gray. It seemed to Andrew that they looked more like shadows than humans. The spark that made them human was vacant, as if it had long since blown out. Instead of that human spark, a coal-like ember smoldered and hissed, giving off more smoke than light.
A sickening vapor of burned oil that smelled of fish tallow burbled up from the pit. It caused Andrew’s stomach to lurch from the overpowering smell. The eerie sight of the slaves working so close to the burning oil, cast long, wretched shadows.
