by Pete Hautman
“I lived. When my wound closed, the man took me on a horse-drawn dray to the center of a large, stinking city named Spawl, where he sold me to a woman with red painted lips and bright-blue eyes.”
“Blue eyes!”
“Yes. Gammel serves a dark, ancient time, even before the Plague. I was roughly treated by the blue-eyed woman, whose name was Kanesha. For many moons, I worked in her house of abased women. Then, later, after I damaged one of the men who misused me, my eyelid was sewn shut and tattooed with the mark of the blue-eyed woman, and I was sent to work the fields. Years passed, more than I cared to count, before I managed to escape. I wandered the countryside, stealing food to survive, sleeping in trees. Eventually, I discovered a Gate — possibly the same one through which I had arrived. It was located high above the ground, near one of the roads leading into Spawl. I spent a hand of days building a platform of sticks and branches. The Gate sent out ghosts who observed my progress. On the day I reached the Gate, a multitude of ghosts appeared. I believe they came to witness my departure.
“I entered the Gate and found myself back here, on the frustum. The priests were astonished. Only a few heartbeats had gone by for them, but hands of years had passed for me. I was old enough to be my own mother. The priests had no choice but to proclaim me a Yar — a miracle Yar — and so you see me now. No other Pure Girl has returned from Gammel.”
Yar Song waited for Lah Lia to respond, but the questions were jammed in Lia’s throat. Song said, “I will answer the questions you should be asking. Is there any way to avoid being sent through Gammel? No. What lies on the other side of Dal? I do not know. Why have I not cut open my eyelid to see? Because there is no longer an eye beneath it. It was removed by Kanesha with a dessert spoon.”
Lia gasped at the distant echo of that pain.
Song smiled grimly. “And so, you see, all is explained.”
“Why . . . ?” Lia swallowed; her stomach roiled. “Why are you telling me this?”
“It is what we do. I, and all your other teachers. It is at the insistence of the Yars that Pure Girls are taught self-defense, languages, histories. The priests care nothing for what happens to you once you are thrown into the Gate. It is our task to prepare you as best we can for that which you must face alone.” Song lowered her head and rested her eyes on the running water and did not speak for a very long time. Finally, she said, “There is another thing you should know. The Cydonian Pyramid is old. Many Gates have come and gone. In my grandmother’s grandmother’s day, the Gates were a triad, and in ancient times, it is said, there was but a single Gate. Some believe that the Gates are inconstant — that they twist and turn like memories of dreams. You might be cast through Gammel and find yourself in paradise, or enter Aleph to find yourself in an inferno.” Song raised her chin and turned her head to look directly into Lia’s eyes. “Your time is near, Dear One. I fear we shall not speak again.”
THEY WERE WAITING FOR HER WHEN SHE RETURNED TO her rooms. A deacon stood outside her doorway. Sister Tah, her face blank, was inside. Standing beside her was a smiling, yellow-robed priest.
“I have joyous news, Dear One,” said the priest. “Your blood moon rises tonight.”
Lia’s heart began to pound. She had known it would come one day, but so soon!
“I am honored,” she replied in a shaky voice. “But I am not worthy.”
“You are worthy enough,” said the priest.
Lia backed away, but as she reached the doorway her arms were grasped from behind by a deacon whose breath smelled strongly of cinnamon. She tried to twist free, but the deacon’s grip tightened painfully. She let out a yelp.
The priest moved closer. “Do not be afraid,” he said, speaking to her as if she were a frightened animal.
Lia kicked out at him; her foot brushed the hem of his robe.
“She has much life in her,” the priest said, looking accusingly at Sister Tah.
Sister Tah shook her head helplessly. “She has not had her tea.”
The priest reached into his robes and produced a small bulb. Lia recognized it as a sleep-dust atomizer such as was used on the younger girls when they became hysterical. As he thrust it toward her, she brought her knee up sharply, hitting the priest’s hand and causing him to eject the bulb’s contents into the deacon’s face. She kicked back and heard the deacon’s kneecap pop as it met with her heel. As his hands fell away, she threw herself at the priest, but before she could reach him, there was a loud snap and all her muscles went slack; she hit the tile floor face-first.
For several moments, Lah Lia was aware of nothing but confused, nonsensical voices and the thudding of her own heart. Something dug into her side — a foot? — and lifted; she was rolled over onto her back. Staring down at her was the amused face of the priest.
“Much life, indeed,” he said.
Lia’s head flopped to the side, and she saw Tah holding a stun baton.
“Tah?” she said, her voice sounding small and far away.
“It is your time,” said Sister Tah, her voice flat, her eyes like stones.
They took her to a room in the priests’ temple at the edge of the zocalo, where she was bathed and scented by a woman she did not know. Sister Tah remained present but would not look at her. The other woman dressed her in a plain, silvery shift, then brought her a meal of fruitcake and tea. Lia refused the food but took a sip of the tea. It was horrible. She pushed it away.
“Drink the tea,” Tah said.
“It’s bitter,” Lia said. She could already feel its effects on her tongue and lips. “I don’t want it.” Lia swept her hand across the table. The teacup shattered on the stone floor. Tah slapped her hard across the face.
Slapped her! Nothing could have shocked Lia more. She shrank into her chair, tears of anger and astonishment spilling down her cheeks.
Tah went to the door and called out. Moments later, the deacon she had kicked in the knee limped in, carrying a bladder with a long, curved spout.
“Restrain her,” he said.
Sister Tah wrapped her arms around Lia, pinning her to the chair. The deacon approached with the bladder. Lia kicked at him, but her kick was absorbed by the folds of his robe. He shifted to the side, grabbed her hair, yanked her head back savagely, and thrust the bladder spout between her lips. The tip of the spout raked the roof of her mouth, followed by a gush of bitter tea. Lia gagged and coughed.
“Swallow!” the deacon said, squeezing the bladder. Lia tried to close her throat. Bitter liquid overflowed from her mouth and spilled down the front of her shift. “Swallow!”
She swallowed — it was swallow or drown.
“More!”
She swallowed again, feeling a numbness radiate from her stomach out toward her limbs. The deacon stepped back and regarded her with a satisfied smile. Lia’s thoughts softened. The deacon’s face blurred and melted. She slipped away.
The next time Lia opened her eyes, she was lying on a pallet set into a small alcove in the same room. Although she had no clear recollection, her body remembered being probed and pinched. She had been examined thoroughly.
Lia sat up. Her limbs felt loose and weak, her thoughts stuttered and crawled, her tongue was fuzzy, and the roof of her mouth stung where the bladder spout had scraped it. How much time had passed? Hours, perhaps.
“Congratulations.” Sister Tah, standing beside the open doorway, spoke in an unemotional monotone. “You are a Pure Girl still.”
Lia ignored her. A meal of crackers and yellow bean curd had been laid out on the table, along with a water pitcher and a plate of candied fruit. She poured herself a glass of water, sniffed it cautiously, and touched it to her tongue. There was no bitterness. She drank.
“They will come soon,” said Tah, staring past Lia at the wall.
Lia did not reply.
“If you resist, they will drug you again.”
Lia remembered what Yar Song had told her: You must remain aware.
“You must behave as a Pure Girl shou
ld,” said Tah.
“I no longer wish to be a Pure Girl,” Lia heard herself say.
“You have had a lifetime of wishes granted.” Tah’s mouth formed a sour smile. “You have been coddled and pampered. Now you must do your part.”
Lia stared at Sister Tah, who had been her closest companion ever since she could remember. Had she been simply going through the motions all those years? Had her hugs and smiles and comforts been an act? Perhaps. The seasons that made up Lia’s short life were only a small portion of Tah’s time on this earth. Tah had raised other Pure Girls, only to watch them die upon the frustum. She would become Sister to yet another, and another.
As she was having these thoughts, Lia wondered if it was the drug that allowed her to think so dispassionately. Without it, she might be reduced to a blubbering mess. She thought of Yar Song, of her calmness as she told of having her eyeball scooped out with a dessert spoon. Song’s composure had helped her survive in the city known as Spawl. If Song could survive, then so could she.
Lia ate a cracker and a slice of candied pear — not because she was hungry but because whatever was to come, she would need her strength.
All of it.
When the priests came for her, Lah Lia was lying on the pallet with her eyes closed. She heard Sister Tah say to them, “She pretends to sleep, but she is awake.”
Lia opened her eyes. A bearded priest — the one known as Master Gheen — was standing over her. The other priests stood near the doorway. One of them held the spouted bladder.
“Are you ready, Dear One?” Master Gheen asked.
Lia sat up. Master Gheen took a step back. He looked at Sister Tah and raised his eyebrows.
“You will want to keep an eye on her,” said Tah. “She questions her duty.”
“Is that true?” Master Gheen said to Lia.
“I know what I must do.” Lia looked at the priest with the bladder. “I will not trouble you.”
Master Gheen regarded her thoughtfully. He came to a decision.
“Come, then.” He turned his back and walked out of the room. Lia stood up. The effects of the drug were fading, though she still felt as if she were moving through a dream. With one priest on either side of her, she followed Master Gheen through the doorway and down a hall to a long, descending staircase, its limestone steps rounded by generations of footsteps. They continued down into the earth, then along a long damp passageway illuminated by flickering sconces. The air smelled of mold and hot wax. Lia guessed that they were deep beneath the plaza. She imagined the multitude of feet pressing down on the stone above her head.
The passageway ended at the foot of a spiral staircase made of black iron. Here they paused, and Master Gheen once again faced her.
“What is your name again?” he asked.
“Lah Lia.”
“Of course.” He produced a sickly smile. “You are a lovely child. As was your mother.”
Lia’s jaw tightened as she suppressed the urge to kick him.
He said, “Perhaps you would like something to help you relax? A sip of tea?”
Lia shook her head. “I need no tea.”
“Just a sip?” He looked at the priest with the bladder, who took a step toward her.
Lia’s mouth was still sore from her last encounter with the bladder.
“I will take a sip,” she said. The priest handed her the bladder. She put it her mouth and pretended to sip, but as she did so, the priest reached out and squeezed the bladder. Lia jerked it away, coughing. Some of the bitter tea went down her throat.
Master Gheen nodded, satisfied. “Let us ascend,” he said.
THE IRON STEPS WENT UP FOREVER, FOLLOWING THE close walls of a cylindrical shaft, as the drugged tea in Lia’s belly spread through her body. Her hair was crawling; her limbs belonged to someone else. She followed Master Gheen up the winding staircase, the other priests following close behind. Feet struck iron with the regularity of a funeral dirge. Time stretched and flexed.
They reached the top of the staircase. Master Gheen worked a lever on the wall of the shaft. Above them, the ceiling slid aside with a labored, grating rumble. They lifted her up the last few steps and emerged onto the frustum. A yellow moon hung high in the sky, the shadow of the earth nibbling at its margin. The crowded zocalo spread out on every side. A sea of upturned faces pitched and wavered; torches flickered; the opening to the stairway juddered shut.
Above each facet of the pyramid there hovered a swirling disk of gray. Lia tried to figure out which Gate was which, but her drug-addled mind failed her. Not that it mattered — the priests would choose for her.
With a priest on each arm, Lah Lia was paraded around the perimeter of the frustum. Showing her to the crowd. You must remain aware. Aware? Her limbs were numb, her thoughts muddled. She felt herself being lifted and placed upon the altar, an impossibly large block of pure black obsidian. She tried to remember what Yar Song had told her to do. Twist to the side? She tried to sit up, but one of the priests pushed her back down with the butt end of his stun baton. She stared up at the moon, at the shadow biting into it. As the priests babbled their ritual phrases, the pale yellow of the moon deepened, then turned slowly to rust, as the shadow of the earth advanced across its surface. The blood moon.
A bright green flash erupted from one of the Gates, producing a startled shout from the nearest priest. Lah Lia looked in time to see a man fly out of the Gate and land face-first on the frustum. The man was oddly dressed in garments of faded indigo. He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked straight at her with eyes of blue. Lia had never seen a grown man with blue eyes. Male throwbacks were culled or given to the Boggsians as infants, never to be seen again.
“Who are you, and why have you blasphemed this holy place?” Master Gheen demanded of him.
The man, clearly confused and frightened, responded in some strange dialect and rose to his feet. Master Gheen looked past him to one of the other priests, who attempted to grab the man. The stranger dodged him and backed away around the edge of the frustum. The other priest came around from the opposite side and jammed his baton into the man’s back. The man’s arms flew out to the sides, and he fell, quivering, to the frustum. The priest applied the baton again, and again, until the man lay as if dead.
While the priests’ attention was on the intruder, Lia had climbed to her feet. The drugged tea slowed her, but her muscles did as she asked. Not that there was much she could do with them. There was no way off the pyramid other than to climb down the sides into the crowd, and this crowd had come to see her sacrificed. The priests were grouped around the fallen man. Lia looked at each of the shimmering Gates, trying to figure out which was which.
She was staring at the Gate the man had come through when it flashed green and expelled a small gray furry creature. It landed on its feet. A kitten! The tiny cat crouched and hissed.
The Gate flashed again. A boy tumbled out and landed on his hands and knees, facing away from her. He sat back, looking out over the zocalo, then stood up and turned around. He had blue eyes, like the man. Another throwback!
The kitten jumped from the frustum to the altar, then from the altar into Lia’s arms. Reflexively, she caught the small cat and hugged it to her chest.
“Mrrp?” the kitten said.
The boy’s attention turned to the priests and to the blue-clad man. He ran toward them, shouting something. Master Gheen pulled a baton from within his robes. Lia knew she would never have another chance. The boy dodged Master Gheen’s baton thrust, grabbed one of the torchères, and pulled it from its base. The priests were coming at him from every side; the boy swung the torchère, hitting one of the priests and knocking him over the edge. The priest tumbled, screaming, down the side of the pyramid. Master Gheen struck the torch pole with his baton, snapping it in half.
Yar Song’s words came to Lia once again: If you wish to live, you must take every opportunity, no matter how slim, to alter your fate.
The boy was swinging the broken pole
wildly, trying to drive back the priests.
With the cat in her arms, Lia jumped down from the altar and ran to the nearest Gate. Which one was it? Aleph? Bitte? Heid? One of the Death Gates? She had no idea.
The kitten, staring at the swirling surface of the Gate, let out a yowl. Master Gheen looked over and shouted at her to get back on the altar. Lia looked from the priest to the Gate. Wherever it led, it had to be better than this.
Clutching the cat, she jumped.
During the middle years of the Digital Age, Jonathon Boggs, an Amish teen from Harmony, Minnesota, turned sixteen and entered his rumspringa, the traditional “running around” period of Amish youth. Boggs bought himself a portable digital music player, a pair of designer jeans, and a bus ticket to New York City.
While wandering the streets of the great city, the young man found himself in the Crown Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn, where he became fascinated by the many Hasidic Jews who lived there. Their outward appearance and extreme religiosity reminded him of his own people.
Boggs was taken in by the Zeligs, a family of liberal Chabad-Lubavitch Hasids who were exploring the many variations of Judaism, including the practice of tikkun olam — reaching out to others to make the world a better place — and the mystical, number-rich discipline of Kabbalah.
With the financial help of the Zeligs, Boggs attended the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he studied quantum information science (QIS). His master’s thesis was a treatise on the congruencies between Kabbalah and QIS.
He was denied a degree. Undaunted, Jonathon Boggs founded the Boggsian Institute, an unaccredited college devoted to the study of quantum-kabbalistic science.
— E3
DR. ARNAY SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR. “LET ME SEE IF I have this right. You say you’re from the twenty-first century, and this girl from the future shows up out of some sort of magic hole in the air, and —”
“It’s not magic,” Tucker said. “The diskos are a kind of technology. They were built by the Boggsians.”
