The White City

by John Claude Bemis

  Si narrowed her eyes. “Well, what else do you—”

  The lantern’s flame died.

  Conker reached out quickly to grab Si, as if the empty blackness would devour her. Si was struggling with the lantern. “It won’t light!”

  “Stay calm,” Conker said.

  “Do you have any matches?”

  “No.”

  “Conker!”

  “Calm,” he said slowly.

  Si grew still and then bent to place the lantern on the floor. Conker reached out with a hand to find the wall. The tip of his finger caught in the teeth of a gear, and he pulled back. He felt again and leaned his palm against the cold metal.

  “I’m touching the wall,” he said. “We should be able to—”

  “Conker,” Si’s voice called from the dark.

  “Yes.”

  “This is my crossroads,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The crossroads Mother Salagi and the seers spoke of. I’ve reached it.”

  Conker drew in several slow breaths through his nose. “What’s it mean? This crossroads?”

  Si moved closer to him, pressing against him for assurance. “Conker, I couldn’t leave you. I made a choice. I stayed with you. Even though it meant following you to your death, I stayed with you.”

  “You did,” he said, a pressure forming within his chest, painful yet full of joy.

  “I feel it,” she whispered and backed away from him.

  “Feel what?”

  She was quiet. A sparkle emerged, like a solitary star in the night. Then another rose at its side. The two lights, small and pure, hung for a moment together and then were joined by others, growing one after the other until the outline of Si’s hand, her thumb, her three fingers formed.

  Conker gasped and then bent down to Si with his cheek close to hers. The light from her hand glowed on their faces, and he saw Si smiling. They looked at each other, illuminated by the sparkling lights, and laughed.

  “It’s beautiful,” Conker said.

  Quickly Si kissed him, then again and again. “Yes, it is,” she laughed as tears fell down her cheeks and wet Conker’s face. “She was right. The seer was right. Mother Josara said you would return something lost to me, Conk, and you have. I had nearly forgotten, but look. My powers have returned.”

  “I didn’t give you back your powers,” Conker said.

  “Yes, you did,” she said. Then looking at the glowing constellations across her hand, she slowly turned.

  “There,” she said, her smile disappearing. Her lower lip trembled. She looked back up at Conker fearfully. “The passage to the right. The heart of the Machine is down there.”

  SHEETS OF RAIN LASHED THE EXPO. LIGHTNING CRACKED like cannon fire. As Ray flew past Buffalo Bill’s burning coliseum, the wind battered his weary crow body. He struggled to stay aloft.

  Other buildings were alight with flames. Although the low storm clouds reflected the dull orange glow from the fires, the Darkness dampened the light so that it was like moving through mist. Ray could see that the battle had moved from the encampment. In its wake strewn along the grounds, among the cabins and tents, were bodies. Dark-suited agents of the Gog lay fallen alongside men from Buffalo Bill’s troupe—horsemen and warriors from all those far lands, as well as Comanche and Sioux fighters and cowboys. Among them were the bodies of several pirates from the Snapdragon.

  Ray swept over the dead, searching fearfully for his friends. There was Malley and a few others he recognized, even if he couldn’t remember their names. How long had the battle raged? Many hours, possibly. The storm conjured up by Nel had surely slowed the fighting.

  Ahead, a troop of Cossacks passed through the muted electric light of a streetlamp to take cover between two buildings on the Midway. They fired out into the street. Ray moved away from them, following the backs of the Midway’s buildings. Down each passage, he glimpsed the chaos of battle—men firing at one another from the corners of buildings and trees, others engaged at close quarters, swinging cudgels and swords. A band of Arab horsemen were cornered by a Hoarhound against the steps of a music hall.

  Ray flew between two of the buildings, keeping low, just inches above the puddles and rain-splattered ground. He saw Big Jimmie leap from behind a pushcart, the greasepaint streaked and the hammer abandoned. He roared as he fired a pair of pistols at a group of agents charging from the trees around a beer garden. One of the agents spun as he was struck, but the others fell back to the trees, returning fire. Jimmie dropped behind the pushcart to reload.

  Ray flew farther, searching for his friends. Bullets whizzed and pinged all around. For the most part, he could not see the shooters or their targets, just misty forms racing this way and that, taking cover, charging from positions, falling to the paving stones of a nearby boulevard, never again to rise. He had not seen Nel or the Gog in the smoke and rain and confusion.

  His arms grew heavy, the feathers fading. Ray spied a cove of boxwoods next to a building. His crow form left him, and he crashed through the bushes, striking the sopping earth and tumbling. His head hit the brick of the building’s foundation.

  Weakly he tried to sit up but found he didn’t have the strength. He was not injured, although his head throbbed from the fall. Ray was drained—drained of all remaining strength and hope. The toby was lost. His friends were going to their deaths. Nel might already have fallen. What was there left for him to do? The Darkness filled his eyes.

  Shouts echoed. Gunshots resounded. A Hoarhound roared, followed by another. Men and horses cried out in pain

  Ray lay in the mud. The cold rain splattered against him. He realized this overwhelming weariness was not simply from crossing or taking crow form or the battle with the clockwork sentinel. This was something profoundly worse. Nel’s charm had been lost along with his toby. There was nothing protecting him from the Darkness.

  Feet sounded on the paving stones. A bullet sang as it struck the building behind Ray. A voice shouted, “Over there!” And more bullets thunked and pinged off the stone.

  Ray felt the Darkness flood over him, as if he were sinking into a pool of thick black oil. He sank deeper and deeper. He wanted to struggle to stay conscious, but poison filled his heart. What was there left to struggle for?

  He opened his eyes and saw Conker and Si. He almost called out to them. What were they doing here? But then he realized he was seeing them as they made their way down the circling pathway deep in the Gloaming. Suddenly the bolts broke free from the wall, and the ramp began to crumple. Conker dropped the Nine Pound Hammer as he grabbed the ramp. Si tumbled into the dark void. Conker reached for her, but not in time.

  “No!” he roared. The ramp ripped away completely, carrying Conker down until he disappeared into the Gog’s pit.

  Ray opened his eyes again and saw the bushes around him. The leaves dripped with what at first seemed to be rain and then became an inky black fluid. Some part of his brain felt certain this was not real, but it was too hard to hold that thought.

  Ray trembled with fear. He heard gunfire and shouting agents just around the corner. He knew he had to get away. He knew he had to help the others. But what did it matter? His friends were all going to die. They were never going to stop the Gog. They were never going to destroy the Machine. It was all too late. He closed his eyes and waited for the agents to discover him.

  He saw Nel. The Gog had him trapped, surrounded in the Midway by scores of agents. The Pirate Queen lay dead at his feet, along with Hobnob and Buffalo Bill, and there were Marisol’s and Redfeather’s bloodied and motionless bodies. Nel desperately drew vials and powders from his toby, but it was no use. The agents opened fire, and he fell.

  “It can’t … be,” Ray murmured. He tried to force the evil visions from his mind, but they kept rising.

  He saw Jolie emerging from a pipe in a room deep beneath the Hall of Progress. Her sisters were locked in a cage, submerged in an enormous tank. Jolie dove into the water and broke open the
lock. She opened the door, and slowly one by one her sisters swam out. Casings of machinery were bolted into the skin of their shorn heads and along their bare backs. Their faces were monstrous. Jolie tried to escape, but her sisters surrounded her, lashing with their claws and sinking their long teeth into her.

  Ray shuddered violently. His vision swam in and out of focus.

  He saw Stacker Lee standing before him. His once fine clothes were filthy. His hat was gone, and in the center of his tattered shirt, Ray saw exposed machinery, revolving gears and squeaking parts protruding from his chest. Stacker tried to speak, but only faint gasping escaped his blood-speckled lips. He reached for Ray.

  “No,” Ray said, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He sank deeper into the Darkness until all sight, all sound vanished. Inky blackness filled every corner of his thoughts. The whole world seemed lost to him, and him to it.

  He slipped deeper and deeper.…

  A pleasant breeze seemed to be blowing across his face. Warm light filtered through his eyelids. Ray opened his eyes and blinked at the bright sunlight. Where was he?

  He sat up from where he was lying in tall grass and saw the empty prairie rolling out to the horizon. For a moment, Ray thought he might be back with Sally and his father and the rougarou at the roots of the Wolf Tree. But as he turned around, he saw trees growing at the shore of a large lake.

  This looks familiar, he thought. It wasn’t so different from the wooded section of shore to the south of the Expo where he’d met the crew of the Snapdragon. But as Ray looked around, he saw no houses, no White City, no Chicago. There were no boats on the lake or signs of people anywhere. It was as if the world had emptied of all people and he was all that was left.

  Something sat in the grass not far away. Ray squinted at it curiously. As he walked over through the windswept grass, he found it was a simple wooden table with a polished brass box resting on top. No decorations adorned it, except for a small button-like latch on the front. After a moment’s hesitation, Ray pressed it and heard the latch click.

  He backed away a step as the lid parted and tilted up slowly on its own with a tick-tick-tick of turning gears. When the lid had fully opened, Ray saw a metal cone rise from the center like a blossoming flower. Stacks of thin gears filled the box, their teeth meeting in swirling circles. Even after the cone had risen up from the box about a foot or so, the brass clockworks continued to turn with a chorus of clicks.

  A voice, thin and tinny, came from the cone. “Hello, Ray.”

  He backed up another step. “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am,” the voice said.

  Ray felt a chill wash over him despite the warm sunlight.

  “You’re … are you the Magog?” he stammered. Then looking around at the lake and prairie and cloud-speckled sky, he said, “Where am I?”

  “Chicago,” the tinny voice replied, with a trace of laughter in the tone. “Or at least the place where Chicago is today.”

  “What am I doing here?” Ray said.

  “I’ve brought you here to show you something.”

  Ray felt an uneasy knot forming in his stomach. “What?”

  A panel opened on the side of the box. A lens, like a large monocle, extended out on a metal frame. Once the frame finished telescoping out, the voice said, “Please. Have a look.”

  What was the Magog doing? Ray couldn’t understand what it wanted from him.

  “I promise it will bring you no harm,” the voice said.

  Ray frowned skeptically and stepped to the lens, looking through the glass. He simply saw the prairie beyond. It seemed no different than what he saw without the lens.

  “I remember this age,” the voice said. “Before man came. When it was nothing. It was a long time before the first people passed through.”

  Ray saw a party of hunters in furs, carrying spears, jogging through the trees. Startled, he pulled back. The men were not actually there, but as he leaned back to look into the circle of glass, he saw the hunters again, this time with women and children, butchering bison on the shore of the lake.

  The tinny voice continued, “Even as time passed and new people came, little changed.” The images in the lens came in and out of focus, each time showing a different scene—tribes people in hide tents, and then others building huts of branches and logs. Then Ray saw bearded white men in wool coats pulling boats up on the shore. “Others came. Trappers, soldiers, explorers, and eventually settlers.”

  Ray watched the images shift, each time revealing more and more huts on the shore, then a village with roads, then a town with a church and stockade. The number of people grew, each shift showing men, women, and children in slightly different styles of clothing but ultimately not that different in how they lived. They cooked over fires. They hunted. They gathered and grew their own food. They built houses from the trees and mud around the lake’s shore.

  The voice sighed. “A mundane history, and wearisome for me to watch. Savage people, all of them. Savage people living out savage lives. That is, until recently. Do you realize how rapidly the world has changed in the past several decades, Ray? A single generation has seen an explosion of innovation and growth that all the generations before could never have imagined.”

  Ray watched as the town rapidly expanded, wooden houses being replaced by brick and stone. Dirt streets being paved with cobblestones. Stores and churches and warehouses and factories being built as a city rose up where only prairie existed before. Finally Ray saw the Midway filled with the exotic buildings and mobs of smiling fairgoers. Overhead towered Mister Ferris’s marvelous wheel and, beyond, the domes and spires of the White City.

  “This Expo is a turning point,” the voice said. “The world will never be the same. Electricity. Engines. Machinery big and small. If this much has changed in so quick a period, can you imagine, young Ray, what lies ahead?”

  As Ray stared breathlessly through the lens, he watched as the buildings grew taller and taller, towers of lights and steel and glass that seemed to rise beyond the clouds. The scant trees and patches of earth that remained soon disappeared under cement. The streets were flooded with such a mob of people that none seemed to be able to even move. These were not the smiling faces of the fairgoers. These were lifeless, ashen-faced people. The lake was clogged with monstrous barges and the sky filled with winged airships. Stretching out to the horizon were endless crowded streets and colossal buildings. What had been earth and air and water was now blotted out like a gray mold covering a piece of fruit as the city of smoke and steel and darkness expanded.

  Ray staggered back from the lens and saw that twilight had fallen over the prairie as he’d been watching the Magog’s vision of the future.

  A thin laugh came from the cone. “Impressive, isn’t it? And shocking. What man is capable of. Consider this, Ray. My servant Mister Grevol, he did not make Chicago what it is today. He did not conceive of this Expo or its wonders. And neither did I. The Chicago that you just saw, the Chicago that is to come—that is to say, the very world that is to come—will arrive whether or not Mister Grevol or I are here to play our small part in it. What you saw is progress. What you have witnessed, Ray, is the inevitable.”

  Ray felt terror and anger welling up in him so fast that he grew dizzy. “No!” he said. “That’s not true.”

  The grass around him was shriveling and dying, the waters of the lake receding into mudflats. The sky grew darker with no stars or specks of light overhead.

  The gears continued to tick as they swirled around in the box. “You cannot stop it by stopping us,” the voice from the cone said.

  Ray stumbled, feeling as if the entire world was toppling around him. He shouted and reached for the box to slam the lid, to stop the Magog from saying any more, but he could not find it in the dark, and he fell.

  The tinny voice said, “What place will there be for a Rambler in the world that is to come?”

  Ray tried to sit up but the ground beneath him was no longer there. He seemed to
be suspended in a black void.

  The voice spoke one last time, but now it was not the thin, tinny voice from the cone but a low whisper that seemed to come from lips pressed to his ear. “So I have a question for you, Ray Cobb. What are you still fighting for?”

  He couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel or hear anything. He saw only Darkness surrounding him. The Magog’s words swirled in his head.

  What was he fighting for? What hope was there in stopping what could not be stopped?

  Something crept through the black of his mind. Sounds slowly emerged again. At first they were indistinct: A thud. Shuffling. Scraping. Then a sharp twang and another twang, like arrows being fired.

  Ray recognized a voice, but it was barely audible through the Darkness filling his thoughts. “What’s … happened …?”

  Ray couldn’t tell who was speaking. He no longer cared. The world would embrace Grevol’s aims no matter how this battle turned out. And even if Conker and Jolie and Nel succeeded and Grevol and his Machine were destroyed, the world would become a twisted, dark place that he could no longer live in.

  Whirling muffled noises surrounded him. Through them, words emerged: “is … hurt … no … what’s wrong …”

  Ray felt a hand touching him, but it was as if it were through thick blankets. He tried to drive his concentration from whoever it was. He wanted nothing more than to slip back into the Darkness and disappear.

  “Toby’s gone … doesn’t have … charms … protect … Dark.” The voices came through clearer, closer. Despite his efforts, Ray cracked open his eyelids.

  Marisol was kneeling over him. She was sliding her pouch from over her head.

  Redfeather grabbed her hand. “No! You mustn’t,” he said. “It will take you too.”

  She hesitated but finally let go of the pouch. Ray’s vision grew blurry and dim.

  “Did you do it?” Redfeather asked, kneeling closer to Ray. Fire glowed from the cupped palm of Redfeather’s right hand, casting an orange light into Ray’s eyes. “Is it destroyed?”