by Grayson Crew
“You don’t pick it up, you’ll get the box,” says our leader.
I try to move faster but my muscles won’t listen and I can’t stop scratching.
“Take him to the overseer,” says the leader. “He gets the box.”
The Box
The Box is nothing more than a thin closet set in the middle of the camp near the hanging man. I’m pushed in and they lock the door.
There’s not enough room to sit or stand and there’s a bucket between my feet. For the first few hours I keep it together. But then the claustrophobia builds.
The heat, sweat, and dampness in the air make it hard to get a full breath. I can’t move enough to scratch. My muscles ache and sharp pains start shooting down my back and through my legs.
With each hour that passes the pain intensifies until I find myself holding my breath because it hurts to breathe.
Eventually my feet turn cold and numb. I try to move them to keep the blood flowing, but I can’t tell if they are moving or not.
More hours pass. My eyelids are heavy, but I can’t fall asleep because of the pain.
Finally, after what seems more than a day the door opens and I fall out.
Another slave comes over and pulls me to the shore. He splashes water over me, wets my lips and brings me a ball of rice.
“You’re lucky,” he says, “The day's work is done, you don’t have to go straight back in the mine.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t ever say that here.”
Madness
After cleaning up, everyone piles into their shacks. I try lying on my sack, but it just makes the itching worse. So, I count the lapping of waves against the shore until, eventually, my eyes close, but not for long.
The hanging man is moaning, louder than before. For the first hour I try to ignore it, but he doesn’t stop. Now he’s sobbing. I can’t shut it out.
Maybe it’s dementia from being dehydrated, or perhaps I’ve just lost it, but I can’t leave him out there. I have to do something.
There’s no one on guard. There never is. I guess they’ve instilled enough fear that there’s no need for a watch.
I grab a knife from near the kettle, pull the bag off his face and start to cut through the ropes. His eyes are dark circles. There’s no iris, no color, just white around a black void.
“Shhh. . .” I whisper, “It’s okay.” His eyes flash from side to side, then straight back at me. His pupils quiver. “I’m so sorry,” I say as I look straight back at him.
I start to cut the last rope. Then comes a scream that’s more animal than human.
He bites my hand when I try to silence him, then starts wailing and fighting, breaking himself free. The camp wakes up. I run.
I race for the shoreline and slide into its depths. The salt stings the cracks and cuts on my back. When I need to breathe I only let my lips surface.
Under the water I can hear muffled shouting, but no more screaming. I swim farther into the cove until I’m blanketed in complete darkness. Then comes the sound of a motor.
The torches of the camp light up one after another. I turn and swim as hard and fast as I can toward the massive cavern wall, hoping to find the cave with the ledge.
Just below the surface I can feel a ledge. I swim under it. It’s too dark to see, so I feel along the roof until it opens up. A pocket of air.
Tipping the Balance
In the Cradle, they teach that we’re all born as a certain person, at a certain time, for a certain reason. We were meant for a purpose, just as a tool is meant for a certain use.
If we resist our purpose and try to step out of our status, we’re told that we’re defying nature and that the great balance of the world is tipped. Not enough to topple it of course, but enough to cause what they call chaos.
We’re blamed for our own state. Because of our ancestor’s mistakes, from way back before the governments fell, we live in chaos.
I’ve tipped the balance twice now.
Air
Hours must pass until the engine sounds die. I feel around the dark space that surrounds me. There’s an echo when I wade.
I inch along the wall, trying to remember where the entrance is. After a little way, I see something under the water, what looks like a pale green ball at first.
When I look closer I see it’s a tunnel. With a deep breath I swim into what’s not a tunnel at all, but actually a massive ledge.
On the other side of the ledge, I see light rippling along a sheet of clear water above me. Bursting through the surface, I gulp air like a fish just tossed back into the sea.
Color
The smell is sweet and crisp, clearing out the musky smell of the mine. My eyes take a minute to adjust.
Colors saturate my vision like an explosion of a hundred sunsets. Around me is a small pool reflecting colors of gold, rose and green, all swirling through low, misty morning air.
Scarlet vines tangle with ivy that blooms with golden flowers. The treetops reach as high as the light, beyond where I can see.
Red, white and green plants drape the ground around the pool. Water plants make a necklace along the edge of the water, with huge purple flowers blooming from their centers.
Wading to the shore, fish bump into my legs. My stomach rumbles and I remember how hungry I am.
Clambering onto the shore, I roll onto my back, but it stings too much so I just curl onto my side. There, right in front of me, is a purple and red piece of fruit.
I tear off the thick skin and sink my teeth into the white flesh, soft like a grape, only thicker and sweeter.
There’s another small pool of water nearby and it’s fresh, so I drink handful after handful, then pour it on my back to soothe the sting.
Sounds come from everywhere, buzzing creatures, singing birds, and something else in the distance, like a mix between a chirp and howl. But no engines, no shouting, no screaming. No people.
Then come the mosquitoes. Swatting them away, I crawl over to the pool and splash myself to keep them off. There, in the reflection, I see the tattoo for the first time;
A dark black line, like a moon, wraps from my forehead to my cheek. Another, thinner line cuts through its center like a blade.
Looking at the massive cliff face behind the pool, I remember how close I am to the camp. I have to move.
Upstream
After eating some more fruit lying on the ground, I follow a small stream that feeds the pools. Best to go upstream, away from the shore and away from the camp.
The stream winds up along smooth, flat and round stones that climb one onto the other. Moss makes a slick carpet, but it’s easier than trying to push through the foliage. My shadow has all but disappeared.
Some ways up, the stream widens until it’s deep enough to wade in the middle, which I do just to soothe my back.
The sounds have changed. It’s a bit quieter here; less bugs, fewer birds, but more rustling. Like there are critters under the brush.
I need to know where I am, maybe get to a viewpoint. Getting out of the water I try to climb up a tree, but my arms won’t pull me up. I'm too weak right now. I tumble down from the branch, and there, from the ground, I see through the foliage to something ahead.
Something like a bridge. It’s old, covered in moss and mushrooms.
Stepping across the bridge, a board falls out beneath me, enough to make me stumble, but I get across. There’s a path of dirt and stones, crumbled and split that goes alongside the stream.
I pass a patch of yellow bell-like flowers under a massive gnarled trunk with branches that block out the light. Roots as thick as trees tumble over stone as the path gives way to become a wide brook.
The trunks close over me until I’m in a tunnel of roots and vines. I smell something sweet. Something like honey, which I only had once, back in the Cradle--the Warden gave all wards a piece of honey toast as a graduation gift. But this is even sweeter, fresher.
In front of me, the tunnel opens.
Flower Girl
Shafts of light, three of them, beam misty light through arched windows far ahead. Around me, stone walls reach as high as trees.
Columns, balconies and statues climb the walls and walkways of a massive hall, converging onto a fractured roof.
Beside me, the stream cuts through the center of the hall--its trickling sound echoes from wall to wall.
I step forward and pass my hand along a chipping column. Ribbons of moss wrap along cracks and climb over engravings in the stone, something like letters or maybe pictures.
Rounding a boulder, I hear a splash, then in the beam from a window I see a young woman with a basket of flowers.
Her back is to me.
She's with a group of men in khaki uniforms that are sitting around a small fire. They’re chatting in low voices while drinking from small cups.
The flower girl turns my way. Red lips strike against green eyes.
Before I have time to hide, she sees me and stumbles back, petals from her basket spill over her skirt.
“Watch it.” says one of the men in a thick accent.
The girl presses her palms against her skirt, straightening it and brushing off the petals. “Of course, dad. Just a little slip.”
Her accent reminds me of one of the Brazilian girls from my Cradle. She doesn’t give me away.
“You’re as big a klutz as your mom was,” says one of them. The rest of the men chuckle.
This’s the first time I’ve heard someone really say mom or dad. Parenting is a rare privilege anymore, not a right.
I imagined that a parent would be warm, more like Hiro, but this one . . . he doesn’t sound very warm at all.
I crouch into the shadows of a crag until I’m as out of their sight as I can be. There’s some discussion, but the voices are too mumbled together from the echoes for me to really understand. Then, eventually, it’s quiet.
I slowly round the corner to see if they’ve moved. The fire is nearly out, and the people are gone. Still, I wait.
A few minutes pass, then, from an arched doorway overgrown with ivy and white buds, the flower girl returns. She’s alone.
She moves quickly, skipping on stones to cross the stream, straight to me. I crouch back into the shadows. As she rounds the boulder, I see her bright red lips and her colorful dress. She whispers something, but I don’t hear it the first time.
“Hello,” she whispers again. “I want to help you. Please come out, I don’t have much time.”
She still hasn’t seen me, and if I don’t move she probably won’t. But my gut says she’s telling the truth, so I step out just enough to fall into the light.
She comes closer, until I can see her eyes. Green, like clean water over sand. The sound of fish splashing their way upstream settles around us.
“I have to be quick or my father will send someone to come back for me.” Her voice is raspy yet clear. “You’re the boy that escaped last night aren’t you?”
I don’t say anything.
“I know because a warning was sent out to the settlement. You can’t go back to camp or they’ll kill you.”
I nod.
“There’s a movement at the settlement to end the suffering at the camps. It’s underground and there’s only a few of us involved so I don’t have much to give. But I can tell you where to go. It’s a long trip, but there’s a house, to the north. Only a few of us know of it. The family there, they don’t know about us, but they will give you refuge—we know that much. Take the north exit out of this cathedral,” she points to what looks like nothing more than a crack in the wall where the stream trickles through. “Follow the stream until you come to a pink forest, then, look for a path. It’s not big, but if you look hard enough, you’ll recognize it.”
She looks behind us, back to the doorway she came through. In her movement, I see the flash of a golden tattoo behind her ear. It’s small, but looks familiar:
A bird—a dove—with spread wings within a circle. It’s the same as the emblem I saw on Hiro’s watchband. She starts talking faster.
“Follow the path until it reconnects with the stream. Follow that until it opens to a lake. The house will be on the other side of the lake. You don’t have much time, so move fast. It will take more than a day. Don’t rest anywhere unless you see these flowers,” she points to the flowers in her basket. “They should keep you safe.”
“From what?” I say, surprised by the hoarseness of my voice.
“The Whispers. I don’t have time to explain. Get to the house, and get there fast. They’ll explain everything to you once you’re safe.”
“You know them?”
“ . . . No. And they don’t know me. But I know they’ll help. It’s enough.” She points to a kettle sitting by the dying fire. “Before you go you must do something. It will protect you. Take these petals and put them in the kettle, let them sit for a few minutes, then, drink the water. Make sure it’s hot. That should keep you safe from the Whispers for a little while. Also, eat this so you’ll have some strength,” she places a small sack in front of me. “I have to go. Leave, and do so quickly.”
“What’s your name?” I ask as she turns.
“Ana.”
“West,” I say. “Thank you.”
She smiles.
Then she’s gone, running across the stream, stopping to stir the fire before going out the archway she entered through.
Armor
I go to the fire where there’s still a white blanket spread out. A stone tray with a jade cup and kettle lay on it.
Taking the cup to the stream, I use it to scoop water into the kettle then lay it on a grill spread over the fire. Soon, steam rises out.
I drop the petals Ana left into the water. It’s sweet when I drink it, like nothing I’ve had at the facility. I gulp it down, then, pour another cup and another until the kettle’s empty.
The food she left is bundled into a napkin tied with a green ribbon. Inside is a loaf of bread with some tomatoes and cheese.
I wish I had time to actually taste it, because this is my first real cheese and my first real tomatoes. But she said to hurry, so I hurry and finish the food then head for the exit and into the forest.
Something is
Watching Me
Climbing upstream, I have to crawl because the incline is so steep. By the time I reach the top, my skin feels clammy. Even though I’m sweating, I feel so cold.
When the ground begins to level, I see the stream widening again, winding between walls of thick underbrush.
I hear escalating hoots and howls from the canopy above. Monkeys with faces like masks leap from limb to limb, following me.
The sunlight is golden and fading as it glides between the trees. Ahead of me, the green foliage gives way to a spread of dark pink leaves and moss.
Even the light turns pink.
Looking for any sign of a trail I continue upstream. The monkeys stop following. I hear their howls fading along with the sunlight. There’s no sign of a trail and I feel cold and nauseous. I need to rest.
To my left, I see packed ground that looks like it might’ve been walked on before. It might not be a path, but it’s the closest thing to one I’ve seen all day, so I turn and follow it deep through the pink forest. Evening gives way to twilight.
Something is howling again.
In the facility, they sometimes played movies of the old days. I remember one of them about an old red house. A man was running through the woods, late at night, trying to get away from a murderer. As he ran, there were shrieks and howls coming from the trees. The same sounds I hear now.
Next comes the rain. It pours down onto the pink leaves and drips over me as I tread down the overgrown path. I have to keep stopping to sit because I’m getting dizzy.
My head is throbbing, my forehead is cold and my back aches. It’s like there are pins inside my spine, pricking every one of my nerves.
Night comes and the rain stops. Through a break in the foliag
e I see a yellow moon and scattered stars.
In the glow of the deepening moonlight I come to the end of the pink forest. Ahead, the leaves glow blue and silver.
To the side and just off the path is something like a house--small, completely choked by vines, with a collapsed roof.
Crouching beneath the vines and through the doorway, thorns drag along my skin. I feel the ground beneath me soften, like I’m on thick padding.
