by T. Wyse
"Please do that basket of corn." Lyssa motioned at the basket sitting on the table "Is she going to help?" She motioned at Collette.
Amelie glanced at the little girl, who had taken an out of the way position, seated with her back against the corners of a wall, nested between some sacks. "Doesn't look like it." Amelie shrugged. "At least she followed me here."
Shucking the corn was harder, much more painful than the mid-day preparation. Amelie was thankful that there wasn't much to be done, and managed to flit through it with relative skill.
"Only asked you cause you were the best at it." Craig said, smiling.
“Best who came back maybe,” Amelie shot, but was glad to even be afforded a tiny compliment. She fought the blisters with every burning twist and crack of the cob.
"So how goes the rumor mill?" Amelie asked, rending the skin of the last few cobs in front of her.
"Oh, nothing to say really." Craig lied, badly. Wendy looked away, an obvious guilt wracked her face.
"Glad to hear it's calming down, then." Amelie said. She passed the prepared cobs to Lyssa. She set into a patch of turnips, attacking them with all of her frustration. Everything would be fine, just give it time.
No, it wasn't looking like that was true.
"She isn't here." Wendy said. They had finished their routine, and now sat at the table, four lights missed a fifth.
"No, looks like she isn't." Amelie agreed. She supported her face with her palm, utterly exhausted.
"There's talk about another announcement tonight." Craig said, subdued. "I think it'll be about her name, it's the only thing...well other than the lights." He said, dismissively.
"What? The lights?" Amelie asked, her interest not enough to energize her head from its resting spot.
"You haven't noticed?" Wendy said, surprised. "They're dimmer than usual, something's up." She declared.
“They mentioned that, Eilis did. They said they were running lower…power I think.” Amelie tried to recall the terms, but failed miserably.
"Oh." Wendy cocked her head, her breath pensive. "You look tired," she said, after some silent deliberation.
"I am." With her concession, the exhaustion seemed to weigh even heavier. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked down, not wanting to look at the two tablemates.
"Well here's the cure for that." Craig said, his joviality like sandpaper against Amelie's brain. "Hot food." He motioned as four bowls were set in front of them.
Amelie came close to saying something snappish, but the aroma of the stew overcame her annoyance. She chomped down on it, and the result was much like lunch, it seemed drab when compared to her worries.
Not this time, she decided. She banished all thoughts weighing her down, she focused on the steam rising from the bowl, imagined herself soaring on the air there, flowing and moving, flying and diving. It seemed to work, with her imaginary flight she seemed to have flown away from the boulder on her shoulders.
Taking a renewed bite into the stew, she couldn't help but smile. The corn in the stew made all the difference in the world. The slurried stew seemed to have bits of yellowed candy floating in it. The way it crunched in her mouth made the other components of the mixture seem drab, it woke up her tongue, and she was grateful for the reprise.
"That's more like it." Craig smiled approvingly at her. She had even beat him to finishing the meal.
"What can I say, you are a wise one." Amelie grinned. The warmth of a meal enjoyed was food for her soul.
"And it's only going to get better from here!' Craig grinned broadly. "There's going to be bread, maybe even as soon as tomorrow!"
Well now, that would be even more towards her malnourished spirit. She hoped that wherever they were, Melissan and Eilis were enjoying the same meal. Maybe theirs would come later, she thought.
The stage erupted in white light, the sound of footsteps walking up a hidden wooden passage echoed through the suddenly silent room.
"I thought you said the lights were dimmer." Amelie jabbed. The stage lights were as glaring as before, the figure of Professor Barret was still a blackened silhouette against the whiteout.
"They are." Wendy said, looking up with a muted annoyance. "Oh well." She said, dismissing the doubt in her voice.
"As ever, things are going well, and getting better." The voice began. The cafeteria silenced completely with the oncoming of his words. "We've all enjoyed the addition of the corn to our dinners." There was a disconcerting hurriedness to his voice, a subtle urgency. "We have a good deal of wheat prepared to be ground, and expect that fresh bread will make its way to our tables, come the evening next." There was a startup of applause at that, but it was silenced by a quick motion from the silhouetted figure.
Something was very wrong. Amelie couldn't ignore it, couldn't dispel it. Craig and Wendy's faces looked troubled as well, but remained locked in attention.
"Now then, I believe we finally have a name for Melissan's final ward, do we not?' The head made a searching motion, then pointed at Amelie's table. "Stand up, Amelie." He ordered.
Dread poured into her soul, mixing with the soup, turning it sour. "Yes sir?' She summoned her courage, to stand before the judgment of the darkened room. She held her lantern, casting blue light across her face.
"Well, what is her name, then?" He said, impatience showing through the darkness.
"Oh, Collette sir." She replied.
"Excellent." He paused. "And has she plans to help those outside, working the crops?"
"I...No sir, I don't believe so. She hasn't spo—" Amelie was cut short.
"Well, I suppose that's her choice then." He said, dismissive. No, this was bad. Whispered snickers echoed throughout the room.
Amelie began to sit back down, fearing chastisement for standing too long.
"Oh no, please remain standing, Amelie." She stood back up with shocked abruptness. "I would like to talk with you, please come up." He ushered impatiently. The cafeteria seemed to erupt into a jeering, cackling chorus of whispers. "I have a few concerns." He added.
"What?! Wait don't—" Wendy began, whispering with hoarse shock.
"It's alright." Amelie said, trying to stabilize herself. "Look, watch Collette for me, alright? Just play chess with her or whatever. When she needs to sleep go to—"
"My dear, I can't wait all evening." The blackened figure growled.
"Just go, we've got it." Craig hissed desperately.
"NOW!" He boomed.
Amelie moved forwards, not daring to look back at her table. She couldn't bear to see any worry on their faces. She ignored the crowd, the seething carpet of jeering specters hovering lower than her head. She walked towards the spectre, fearlessly.
The figure seemed to rub its eyes, in frustrated impatience. There were shouting commands of her to hurry up, snickered biting remarks.
She passed the table of the greasejocks. Stealing a peek at it, she saw that it was nearly empty, its occupants betrayed only by their eyes of glowing green. Was Melissan there? Eilis? She tried to look while moving forward, but the faces she saw hissed, jeered, looked somehow inhuman. She didn't dare linger on the table.
She arrived at the stage but found herself unable to climb up on her own. The figure leaned down, seemingly offering his hand. Instead of a gentle, leading hand, she was wrested up to the level of the stage, immersed in the blinding white light.
"We have so much to talk about." The Professor growled, still gripping her captured hand. He grasped her shoulder, and lead her out towards the steps, hidden from the view of the darkness.
Amelie stole a final look, the condemned's last glance. She hoped to see friendly faces, straining to see to the ends of the darkened room. She saw nothing. The lights of the stage drowned out anything in the cafeteria. From this perspective the room was empty, utterly devoid of life and souls.
Amelie was alone, being lead on a path which she had no control.
16
The Tower of Books
The path wound
behind the stage, a short stairway of wood became a smooth hallway of the white. Like all of the hallways of the school this one was framed by a star field, yet the walls in this place were disturbingly and bizarrely warped. There seemed to be no logical pattern to it, but it gave the effect of some pool of water that had been flash frozen so quickly as to retain the remnants of movement. The star field followed the chaotic wobbling, and in fact the mosaic windows were warped here as well.
"Sir, what is it? Are you..." She asked, The Professor silenced her with a hissed warning. The oddness of the corridor multiplied her fear and confusion as he dragged her ever staggeringly forward.
The hallway continued, glimpses into the almost dead light of the world outside gave her a distorted and coloured view of the east side of the school. A great storm of black was approaching, barely discernable against the renewed stars of the night, but they were there.
"Here they come, yes." He chuckled to himself, not having to confirm the oncoming cloud of black. "Every evening, just in time."
A few of the crows, the ones that apparently lingered around the school, discovered them, and had rested on the ledges of the windows, their glaring red eyes piercing into Amelie as they passed.
The hallway seemed to remember itself and shaped back into stern angles. The star field turned left, sharply, and they were once again in front of the elevator. She looked back, but could not distinguish the door they had passed through to arrive here. It still looked as it did on the first day; a dead end wall.
She felt the vagueness of the winds, ending in the rounded uncommitted point towards the wall, and found there was simply no way they had passed through, not a single puff of breeze even dared hint at a hidden frame.
The elevator arrived with a ding and she was slurped into it before the trapped air sighed out fully, the doors closing behind them before even fully opening.
She caught her question in her throat, feeling the withheld fury within the raging burn of his white hot lungs. Whether through learned denial or truth she saw none of the sparking intrusion within his breath, but dared not move her eyes to meet his. If only she had some hint, some time to ruminate on what he wanted.
The jaw reached slowly outwards and she was spat out, half tripping on the groove in the floor only to be yanked back straight.
"I'll walk with you..." she begged, trailing off. His lungs glowed ever hot without the slightest indication that she had so much as peeped. The stairwell passed, and then they submerged into the aquarium of artifacts.
The whispers tickled her ears, dripping icy ink from her earlobes down her shoulders. The glow hummed and crackled with undeniable light, and still she marched forward, still shoved from behind. The whispers, closer than ever, tasted of some far off secret being told, indistinguishable and yet so tempting, so ripe. At the same time the sound rushed over her, drowning her, pouring into her ears and grating against bones of her face, louder and more piercing and aching than the denying ringing that plagued her so few days ago.
She tried to understand them, tried to make sense of the sound, but doing so only made it hurt more, made the grating feel close to tearing her jaw unhinged. Was there knowledge in this? Were the artifacts speaking?
The doors both flew open with an immaculately placed kick beside her, and she again tore through the gate, only this time the grip let go at the apex. She nearly took flight with that final push, falling to her knees and making a grinding rotating slide along the smooth white concrete floor. The room stood unchanging, though darkness now clamped its maw upon the scene.
“Sir, Professor, what do you w-“ He grabbed her arm again and hoisted her up, the slamming rumble of the double doors closing still echoing up the tower’s heights. He pulled her now, stiffly up the stairs and breaking into the rounded raised alcove, the clacking of his neatly polished dress shoes chasing away the rumble until they were the only sound.
The alcove opened up finally before her, an office of impressive dimensions given the shape and girth of its outer walls. Perhaps ten or more wooden file cabinets stood facing the centre of the alcove, their backs to the wall. A bulletin board followed the gentle curve of the bracing wall, its surface covered by a black and white cartographer’s map, which in turn bore a spotty scale coating of yellow sticking notes. A few chairs lay about the office, one in confrontation to the desk and the others waiting towards the wall. Foremost in the space however, and backed by an eccentrically cut leather chair that widened towards the top, stood a thickly cut rich and dark mahogany desk.
With one final forced thrust she whirled and fell neatly into the confrontational chair, the room’s strangeness crawling on her skin as a further unease replaced the panic.
It must have been neat at one time, there were signs of it. The many file cabinets, the tools on his desk, the makeup of the room all screamed that this was an organized individual. Yet now the room told a very different story. The file cabinets lay open, stacks of files on top of them, some spilling onto the floor. The bulletin board had a set of notes underneath the map, with strings neatly linked to pushpins, at least for the first layer. On top of the first layer of the board, a second set of notes, more chaotic, more irrespective of the borders had cropped up. A third set of notes sat on top of the second layer, in a state of utter chaos.
"A young man came to me yesterday." The Professor was seated at his desk. He looked down rather than at Amelie. She spied him through his parted stacks of chaotic and dog-eared documents arranged in pillars for his temple of encroaching mania. "Not just yesterday, no. He had come once before, saying such strange things...very strange things," he muttered. His hair dangled wildly, kissed more with sweat now than neatly slicked gel.
Amelie looked at the things on his desk, he was looking at something. She moved upwards, trying to get a better view, to see what they were. They were newspaper clippings, tacked to black boards, laminated. She squinted, trying to make them out, and jumped as he gave a quick motion of his head, his gaze suddenly on her.
"SIT!" He commanded. Amelie fell backwards into the chair.
"That boy, do you know him?" He asked, his voice almost the same as the first day she had met him, yet trembling, frantic.
"I don't know, sir. What was his name?" She asked, her heart racing, was it Timothy perhaps? No, she thought, if he meant the boy from the yard, then it surely wasn't Timothy. The boy was much more tanned than Timothy had been.
"Why, he didn't give his name, didn't even have the courtesy." He mumbled, his words coming quickly. "Yet he had demands, many demands. He came the first time, demanding to see me, pushing through the night guards. He hurt one of them, badly, thankfully we have ways of dealing with such injuries here, yes we do." His mumbling was barely comprehensible, it took all her attention to follow his pace. "Did I turn him away? No, we don't turn people away. Would he like to stay the night, enjoy our hospitality? Oh no, he wouldn't."
Amelie sat there silent, the man before her rummaged through the clippings again.
"Such strange demands, for someone who doesn't know you, little girl." His voice was ripe with accusation. His gaze locked upon her eyes once more, his excited electricity was there, but it was darker now, angry.
"I don't know him sir, I swear." She whispered, horrified.
"Of course, of course." He made a dismissive gesture. "You simply cannot help those who won't understand, can't work through it, can't share what you know." He rambled on.
"I was so pleased you'd survived. So pleased." He muttered. "I've been a fan you see, been fascinated by you, and others like you for some time." He lifted one of the bristle boarded clippings. The headline boldly declared 'Miracle Girl Flies Like the Wind!'
Amelie's stomach churned.
"You pulled away from them, from the scientists, from the doctors." He said, an angry clarity coming to his words. He held up another headline, declaring that she and her family had decided to turn away from the media. "Think of what we could have learned!" He said in exasperatio
n to himself.
“Sir!” She protested, matching his angry gaze now. “You weren’t—“
“Shhht.” He shushed her with a quick motion.
"But then, it's your prerogative and your parents, to throw away your responsibility to science." He made a sarcastic gesture, dismissing the ghostly specters of 'duty'.
"Fine, fine. I had hoped to talk to you someday, hoped to learn about you myself. I'd hoped to wait until you were better, well adjusted, happy here." He declared, seemingly absent to the absurdity of his statement. "Then this boy comes, and you know what?" He rummaged, holding up another newspaper clipping, and another. "I recognized him as well!"
Amelie strained to see the clipping. It wasn't a bold front page headline, rather some kind of community piece. She made out "little drummer boy!" A name preceding it. The name was strange, starting with a ‘Ke’, but she couldn't make it out before the headline was thrust back on the table. He held up another pair of headlines, the boy had aged, they flashed before she could see the captions.
"Do you know what we teach here, at Machkachin? No? We don't teach people about engineering, or archeology, or artificing." He paused, leaving Amelie to wonder if it was a rhetorical question or not.
"We teach perception. We teach the ability to see what others miss, to do what hasn't been done, try what hasn't even been conceived." He held headlines, pages of indistinguishable stories. An old woman stood, smiling by a lake, Amelie caught the word miraculous in the headline before it disappeared. There were stories about others, pieces written, editorials, scientific journals. She saw herself in some, saw strangers in others.
"I've watched you, all of you. Children, men, women. You come with your talents, some of them so subtle as to seem like nothing, some so..." He paused a moment, "So brazen, so absurd." He sneered.
"Flying, parting water, hearing heartbeat and life where there is none, preposterous!" He declared. "And yet, we here...we know to watch for the preposterous, because therein lie the hidden truths of the world." His gaze narrowed, his face darkened. He reminded Amelie of some demonic wolf, her mind racing to what Collette had said.
