by Silver, Anna
“What’s the deal?” she whispered to the others. “Do I have freak etched on my forehead?”
“No, but you have Outroader blood on your hands,” Tora whispered back. “Word travels fast.”
By now, they all knew about London’s run-in with Clark at the camp and the stabbing. Zen was going to keep it a secret, but Tora overheard Rye and the regiments in Ag refer to it. She wasn’t happy with London; Clark was still from her old camp, someone she cared about. But Tora let it go. Even Kim defended London, saying that she’d only done what she had to.
“Surely not that fast?” Zen asked, under the watchful glare of a trio of whispering, black-headed Outroader girls.
Tora shrugged.
It seemed unlikely that any scout could outrun their truck, carrying news of what happened in Bayou Camp Four this far west ahead of them, but London couldn’t ignore the dirty looks she kept getting. And she wasn’t paranoid, Zen was noticing it, too. He put an arm around her protectively.
They moved forward down the broad tunnel as it widened into a market of sorts, a vast open room bordered by mud-brick and canvas dwellings, where Outroaders were swapping and trading goods of all kinds, chatting together over bits of food, and generally mingling. The Mesa Camp was much bigger than they’d ever expected. London guessed that all this time underground had left them untouched and allowed the camp to grow fat off the Mesa City outcasts of people and scraps.
Between the two and three story tiers of rooms, smaller tunnels shot off at varying angles, leading deeper into the mountain. People poured in and out of these casually. Some carrying baskets or cloth bags slung over their shoulders, some not. London’s curiosity burned to know where each led, but it was clear that this cavernous room was the place to be, the hub of the Mesa Camp.
It was much cooler in here than one might have expected. Outside, the sun burned dry against her skin, but in here London felt an easing stir of air swirl around her, like the mountain was breathing. Lanterns with golden candles glowed against doorposts and small cooking fires burned in little earthen hearths, casting the room and its inhabitants in a spectacle of angular shadows.
Stone chiseled stairs at the north end of this large intersection room met with a colorful curtain of fabric stretched across the doorway of a stand-alone abode. The way the other rooms were clumped together around the cavern made it clear that this dwelling was special. In front of it towered a middle-aged man in pointy boots, loose pants, and some kind of tunic. His light hair was uncut and gathered in multiple elastic bands and his blond mustache grew over and down both sides of his mouth. Behind him, a small child played on the steps with a handful of wooden blocks.
Everyone watched the man as London and her friends neared. He had that official air London had come to recognize on all the camp Elders and she figured this was the Mesa Camp’s leader.
Following the cues of the Outroaders around them, who waited and watched the man to see how he would react to the visitors, Tora stepped up to the stairs where the man stood. With a timid smile she started to introduce them. “We’re here—”
But the man put a hand out to stop her. His face was unreadable in the cavern’s glow. “I know who you are,” he said. “And I know why you’re here.”
“You do?” Kim asked, as perplexed as the rest of them.
London leaned guiltily into Zen. What else did the Elder know?
“You can’t stay here,” the man said firmly, folding his arms.
“But—” Tora started.
“You can’t stay here,” he said slower, this time before she could finish. His voice carried over the din of the room, which had quieted considerably during their confrontation. “We won’t have you destroying our camp like the others.”
London sighed. This was going nowhere. They’d gotten word of some kind and apparently it wasn’t good. There was no point messing with niceties now. May as well skip straight to the meat of the negotiations.
She elbowed her way in front of Tora and Kim and placed a foot on the first stair. Insolently, she glared up at the Elder. “Look, Elder Whatever, we don’t have anywhere else to go. But we do have a truck full of scrap out there that will make it worth your while to put us up for a bit.”
The Elder came down a step. “My name is Ash,” he said, “and you’ll address me by it.”
London grinned. “Okay, Ash. Do we gotta deal?”
This time he grinned, and she could see that his top front teeth were broad like a rabbit’s. “Sure, we gotta deal…if you can convince one person in here to trade their life for something in that truck of yours.”
That didn’t sound like a deal. London looked at the scowling faces around her. Would she trade her life for anything in there? What could she offer? Hey, I’ll give you this empty bottle if you’d be willing to die for it. It would insult them to try.
London hung her head. There had to be something.
“Dreams,” Zen said loudly behind her. “We can teach you to dream again. Night pictures like they had before the Crisis.”
Everyone turned to face him and he stepped to London’s side, daring them to say his offer wasn’t good enough. London couldn’t believe he was dumb enough to admit it in front of everyone, but she could have kissed him for thinking of it. It might be the only thing worth the risk.
Only, Ash didn’t look impressed. He kind of smirked, his long mustache twitching up on one side, before he said, “We already got someone who can do that. And he can’t stay here neither.”
ASH LED THEM through the dark tunnel that wound deeper and deeper into the rock and farther and farther from the busy camp cave they had just met in. London felt like they were in an ant hill. The chill of the shadows reached out to her and she suddenly longed for the sunny surface outside. They’d walked so long that she imagined they must be clear on the other side of the mesa by now.
“You should know,” the Elder began after they’d traveled in silence for a while, “how we learned about you—that you might be coming.”
London ignored his comment and let Zen do the talking. “Scouts, huh? How’d they reach you so fast?”
But Ash only shook his head. “Not scouts.” He turned a sharp corner in the stone and they climbed a brief incline before arriving at a wooden door fit into an irregular frame in the tunnel. “This is it.”
“If it wasn’t scouts…” Kim began to ask as Ash turned to them, his broad shoulders filling the space before the doorway. Behind them, two Mesa Camp men were carrying weapons and flashlights, which washed out the Elder’s appearance and made his shadow loom large across the door behind him.
London scrutinized the flashlights, wondering where the Outroaders had come across a battery stash to work them, but she didn’t ask any questions. To these people, she was a murderer, if they knew about Clark. The less attention she drew to herself, the better for everyone. If only she’d considered that before piping up earlier.
Ash squared Kim in his muddy gaze. “Tycoons have been here, or men working for the Tycoons. They’ve been to every camp they could find within a two hundred mile radius of Pillar City.”
Tora gasped and London wrapped her arms around herself.
Ash looked earnest. “You should know…they’ve made offers. If we turn you in, hold you until they can come for you, we can live in peace.”
“And if not?” Zen asked.
Ash swallowed and closed his eyes. London could see that he cared deeply about his camp and his Outroader clan. “I don’t want to think about the alternative.”
Zen tensed and London scooted closer to him. Where did this door the Elder had brought them to lead? Was he going to imprison them here within stone walls? Hold them hostage until Tycoon back-up could arrive? Could she blame him if he did?
For the first time since leaving the main camp area, London spoke. “What are you going to do?” she asked the Elder quietly.
Ash looked into her eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.” Then he opened the door.
&nbs
p; Chapter 11
* * *
The Beekeeper
They jostled single file into the gloomy room with Ash behind them. A peculiar buzzing sound seemed to hum behind the rock walls and London’s eyes settled on a lone candle burning against a far wall, its thick yellow wax hardening into frozen drips along the surface. There was a sweet odor in the air, misplaced. The candlelight danced across the scattered pieces of furniture and more than one stack of books. London marveled to see so many in one place and at an Outroader camp no less! Maybe mesa prison wouldn’t be so bad.
“Elias!” Ash shouted, causing London to jump. “They’re here!”
London turned to peer up at Ash quizzically, hoping for some kind of answer about what this was, but the smile playing at the Elder’s lips only confused her more.
A shadow moved from an open doorway across the space. London grasped Zen’s hand tightly. Only when the shadow neared the lit candle did London see it for the man it was. Tall and dark skinned with shining black marble eyes and blindingly white teeth which were exposed in a wide, hungry smile, the man, Elias, came forward to greet them.
“Welcome,” he said in a whispery tone and a shiver crept up London’s vertebrae one by one. Something about this man wasn’t quite right. In fact, she was willing to bet that something about him wasn’t quite human.
Ash slapped a hand on Kim’s shoulder. “For now,” he said to them as he began to back away toward the wooden door they’d entered through, “I leave you to the Beekeeper.”
London turned back to see their host bearing down on them with his keen grin, his round eyes dancing in their sockets as he looked from one face to the next. She heard the door close, latch, and then lock behind them and her heart lost its rhythm. For better or for worse, they had at last found the Beekeeper.
“Welcome,” he said again, a soft hiss apparent in every syllable. He moved deftly around the room, lighting a dozen or so candles more. “I apologize for the lack of light. I have always been most comfortable in the dark.”
The room around them began to come into greater focus, every detail swimming in the warm, flickering glow. A small table and chairs at one end with a dusty cloth, a stack of books and two candles on top. A tall shelf behind it stacked with rows of glass jars in varying sizes with tightly screwed lids, all empty. More chairs across the space circling the empty shell of a mud-brick hearth, carefully stacked and built into the hard mesa wall. A sturdy table behind them, for eating and preparing food. No less than three dark portals leading off into other, unknown rooms. And all around, the low hum that London had heard when they first entered, setting her teeth on edge.
“It’s cold,” London whispered to Zen and the Beekeeper spun on her.
“You must forgive me if I don’t light a fire. My hearth is really quite useless, I’m afraid. Perhaps…for guests…but first, your readings. Come, we must get straight to your readings!” He moved with a dragging gait to the little table and two chairs.
London pressed into Zen. Something about the Beekeeper made her very bones uneasy.
“Readings?” Zen asked, squeezing London’s hand in his to reassure her.
Elias relocated the stack of books to the floor and brushed a slender hand across the tablecloth. London could see now that it had a hastily scrawled chalk circle on it, inside which were drawn a series of peculiar signs in each quarter. His veins bulged under the surface of his oily skin. He took a seat in the high-backed chair and peered at Zen. “If the Oracle can’t answer your questions, no one can.”
London stood half behind Zen, feeling Tora’s warmth just behind her. “The Oracle?” she asked.
But Elias seemed not to hear. “I see the questions burning in you like little fires. Too much heat melts the wax! Careful…careful.”
His vernacular was a peculiar mix of oddly formal speech and broken English. London could make little sense of what he was talking about. Clearly, the Beekeeper was a nut job. She should have known. Only a nut job would encourage Keziah to wear those stupid, knotted bracelets.
“Come,” he said again, gesturing at Zen. “Maybe, boy, the Oracle will choose to speak to you.”
Zen looked back at London and she shrugged. What could they do? There was nowhere else to go for the time being.
Zen moved to the chair opposite Elias and sat down hesitantly. He laid an open hand on the table and said, “What is the Oracle exactly?”
Elias chuckled, his white teeth gleamed against his dark lips. “What is the Oracle ex-act-ly,” he repeated, stressing each syllable in the final word. “What are you? What am I? That’s what the Oracle is precisely!”
Zen squinted at Elias. The old man was half unhinged and they’d only just arrived. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”
Elias chuckled some more and bent to retrieve a small canister from beneath the table. He began to shake it rhythmically, whatever was inside bouncing noisily against the metal surface. London had seen one of these before, when Ernesto was selling one like it a couple of years ago. It was a thermos. This one had a small dent in one side but otherwise looked okay.
Elias’s eyes began to roll back in his head as he shook out the entrancing rhythm. London, Tora, and Kim all stepped closer, waiting to see what was coming. They stared into the whites of Elias’s eyes, fearful the old man was having some kind of fit.
All at once, he jerked forward, ripping the lid from the thermos and spilling a heap of contents across the tabletop towards Zen. Then, he slumped down in his chair.
London and Tora both screamed and Kim practically fell over himself stumbling backward when Elias let the contents fly. They’d been pulled into his act, lulled as they watched and waited, and Elias had gained the moment of surprise.
But now he hung limp in his chair, eyes closed, and London moved closer again. She stared out over the objects lying in front of Zen and began to label them accordingly: a marble, a couple of coins, a wing-nut, a feather, a cork stopper, two jacks, a bottle cap, and countless other little items were arrayed across the dulling purple of the cloth.
“It’s just scrap,” she said, meeting Zen’s eyes.
She looked back at the Beekeeper who was showing no signs of stirring. In fact, she wasn’t even sure he was breathing. London inched toward him and snapped her fingers under his nose, “Hey! Elias! Wake up. Snap out of it, man.”
With an awkward jerk he sat forward, eyes flung open and staring, startling everyone all over again.
“Would you cut that out?” London gasped, but Elias ignored her. Instead, he began to search over the scattered scrap with his eyes and fingertips. Careful not to move or stir anything as he marked where it lay. An eager smile parted his lips. “Yes sir, yes sir. The Oracle has spoken to you, lucky boy!” he said looking between Zen and the mess.
London rolled her eyes. “It’s just a bunch of scrap, old man.”
Elias turned a very earnest face to her. “Aren’t we all?”
It was a ridiculous question, but he spoke it with such conviction that she felt ashamed for pointing out the obvious. She bit her lip and said no more.
“A scrap Oracle is as good as any in these times,” he concluded.
The Beekeeper’s eyes fumbled over the arrangement of items until they settled on a little bone lying diagonally near Zen. Here, the old man’s eyes stopped and he nodded with understanding. “It’s a long road for you, with a bitter end, no less.”
Zen looked from the bone to the man before him. “What are you talking about?”
“Death is shadowing you, but in the end the choice will be yours.” Elias gave Zen a wicked smile.
Zen leaned back in his chair. “The bone tell you that?”
“Among other things…” Elias drawled as his eyes moved to a couple of screws pointed in opposing directions. “You’re at odds with love,” he said fingering a nearby key.
Zen’s face flushed around his smoky eyes and he tried not to look at London. “Coulda told you that myself,” he muttered.
“And you’re keeping secrets because of it.” Elias suddenly looked hard at London and she shifted on her feet, though her ears perked up considerably.
The Beekeeper picked up a bent and sullied playing card with one corner completely torn off. “But you’re dealing in half truths, boy,” he said now, turning back to Zen with a stern expression. “Beware the holes in your deck.”
All of this was spoken with utmost sincerity and seriousness, as though they should know exactly what he was going on about, but even though London had to admit that Elias had a certain discomfiting presence, and some of what he said was on target, a good bit of it sounded like utter nonsense. Zen was keeping secrets, she knew that. But what was all this about a deck of cards? The Beekeeper’s readings might be accurate, but they weren’t very helpful since he gave parts of them in riddles.
Zen stood up suddenly. “Gibberish,” he said, his face darkening. “Your turn,” he mumbled as he stepped past Kim.
Elias looked angry but didn’t comment. He just kept muttering “half truths” under his breath as he scooped his oracle of scrap back into its thermos. Kim took Zen’s seat and tried for a friendly smile, though it came off as more of a grimace because he was clearly fighting his own conclusions about Elias’s sanity or lack thereof.
London bent to pick up a broken watch face and the marble that had cleared the table and fallen to the floor when Elias let loose the last time. She handed them to the old man who plucked them from her palm with wrinkling fingers, blew on them a few times as if to erase her cooties, and dropped them into his shaker.
He glared at Kim a while, then began his careful shaking rhythm like before, until the whites of his eyes flickered behind his half-closed lids like an old movie reel. This time, when he let the scrap fly with a jerk of his body, they were ready for it. No one screamed but London still managed to startle a bit. She let Elias hang like an old dishcloth in his chair until consciousness returned of its own volition. All at once, he sat forward and began working his fingers over and around the assortment of goodies spread before Kim.
