Under the Empyrean Sky (The Heartland Trilogy)

by Wendig, Chuck

  But then, as though on cue, up on the stage walks Proctor Simone Agrasanto. Dark hair hanging in waves around her shoulders. The prim, sharp-angled suit in the Empyrean colors of ruby and gold. Emblazoned on her chest is the sigil of the Empyrean, a pegasus whose long, sharp wings hang back over the beast’s haunches.

  The way Proctor Agrasanto looks around at the boy candidates for Obligation is the way a Heartlander looks at a vagrant; it’s as though they all give off a smell they have long gotten used to.

  Other proctors might get up, give a speech like Barnes did. Maybe talk about the Empyrean’s “commitment to the Heartland and its people.” Not her. She just snaps her fingers and her attaché—a wiry, twitchy man not much older than the boys onstage (Cael wonders if those on the Empyrean flotillas must submit to Obligation)—hurries up and hands her a stack of paper certificates. The mic, clipped to the podium, is still on, so everyone hears when she says “Get the girls.”

  The attaché scurries off.

  Cael’s blood churns so loud he can hear it in his ears like a river and so fast he can feel the fluttering pulse in his neck. His mouth is dry. His hands are wet. His toes are curling in.

  The other boys must feel the same way. They all shift nervously from foot to foot. Or fidget with their hands. Or quickly wipe the wrinkles out of their loose, button-down shirts.

  Boyland, on the other hand, does nothing but stand stock-still, chest puffed out, chin thrust high, a smirk on his concrete drainage block of a head.

  As for Lane, he looks like he’s about to lose his lunch. He’s gone green as a corn husk. He stares ahead with big bug-eyes, as though he’s afraid of what he’s going to see but won’t dare look away.

  “You good?” Cael whispers.

  “Fine,” Lane hisses.

  The girls begin walking up on the stage one by one. They’re all in their Obligation Day dresses, with their hair worn in the braided crown as the Lady once did when wooing the Lord.

  First is Alia Polycn, a blond little slip of a girl. The proctor makes no ceremony of it. The audience goes dead quiet as Agrasanto hands the girl her paper. Alia’s eyes rove quickly over the assembled lot; and Cael finds that, even though Alia’s a nice enough girl and certainly pretty, he can’t help but hope not me, not me, not me.

  And it isn’t him. She drifts over to Wyatt Sanderson, a small smile on her face, and the gathered festival-goers all clap. He looks relieved. A few awws come from the crowd.

  Holding hands, the two leave the stage, ushered by the proctor’s attaché.

  Next up: Marissa Ruhlman. She’s paired with Daffyd Kelly. Neither of them looks particularly happy about it. She’s got a mouthful of dead teeth, the poor girl. He’s got one arm that looks like a withered tree limb. They go off together, the unhappy couple. Uncertain applause follows them.

  Then it’s Hetta Busser, niece to the tavern man. She gets her certificate and her eyes light up and then fall to Rajit, who gets a smile on his face so broad Cael wonders if it’ll cut his head in half. The two race to each other. They kiss. This is what they wanted.

  The crowd loves it. Above the din, Busser hoots and hollers.

  Francine Goggins. Her father is a factory worker. Her mother is Molly Goggins, the seamstress who employed Cael’s sister. She’s as plain as butter, this girl, a little broad in the hips and not a swipe of blush to her cheeks nor paint to her lips. With a trembling hand she takes her certificate (not seeing how Agrasanto scowls at her), and once more Cael wishes no, no, no. But then her eyes find his, and the voice inside gets louder: no! no! NO! But despite his wishes, here she comes.

  She reaches for Lane.

  Not me, Cael thinks. Not me.

  Her pleasure is manifest. Lane’s enough of a catch. No physical deformities. A good job. Lane, however, wears a mask of disdain and disgust. He sags like a tent with a broken pole. He doesn’t even bother giving Cael a look before she and he hop off the stage. Then a tiny question in Cael’s mind: Who did Lane want to be with?

  He doesn’t have time to think on it. Because:

  Here comes Gwendolyn Shawcatch.

  Cael’s pretty sure he’s not breathing.

  Please.

  Agrasanto hands her the certificate. Gwennie takes it. Turns it over.

  Please, by the Lord and Lady’s grace, please.

  She looks to him. His heart leaps. She smiles. He takes a deep breath.

  And then she crosses the stage and stands before Boyland Barnes Jr.

  That smile, it was a sad smile. A consolation prize smile. An “at least we had what we had” smile.

  And it kills him. It slices a rift in his sail so the wind passes through. He feels like he did when Betty crashed just a day before: the world gone end over end, his lungs unable to find air to breathe, a loud ringing in his ears.

  He can’t look as they leave the stage. Hand in hand. The mayor with two fat fingers in his mouth, trilling like a factory whistle.

  Gwennie and Boyland.

  Obligated to be married in one year’s time.

  Cael’s so dazed, so dizzy, he doesn’t even realize what happens next. Before he knows it, a shape comes out of his peripheral vision and tackles him with a smothering hug. He feels the dry kisses of Wanda Mecklin on his cheek and her gangly arms around him. Wanda’s giggling and crying and stroking his hair, but all he can do is move her aside and look once more for Gwennie. He catches a glimpse of her ducking between townsfolk. He finds her by looking for Boyland. Her future husband.

  ALL WET

  IT’S NOT THAT Wanda isn’t attractive. To someone, she probably is. And Lord and Lady both know that she’s a damn nice girl.

  But Cael just can’t hack her. Something about her rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it’s the way that all her parts don’t seem to match: Her nose is a little too small, her ears a little too big, her hair a little too sandy. Long arms, long legs, chest as flat as a barn door. The teeth are white and small. And he can see her gums. Makes him think of an old nag chewing on a bundle of hay or an old man gumming a pebble.

  The fact that she’s nice doesn’t help, because she’s too nice. She doesn’t seem to have a single mean bone in her body. Wanda Mecklin’s entire existence is geared toward making other people like her, and in a thick dose of irony, that’s the one thing that keeps everybody from liking her. She doesn’t just want it. She needs it.

  And the way she talks: nonstop, an endless, rattling prattle as she trails after Cael drifting listlessly through the festival-goers. “So nervous for today, but I knew the Lord and Lady would look after me. Momma and Poppa always said the Lord and the Lady knew my heart and that Old Scratch wouldn’t win this day, no sir, and sure enough it was truer than true. Cael McAvoy! I am a lucky girl, a lucky girl indeed, Obligated to the captain of the Big Sky Scavengers—who, if you ask me, hasn’t a thing on Boyland’s Butchers, and I have full confidence you’ll one day be the top crew in town, not that you can stay a scavenger forever; eventually you’ll have to get a proper job of course—”

  On and on. Yammer jabber gibber. It just becomes noise to Cael. He pulls her along by her hand, not because he wants her with him but because she won’t let go. They move past the fixy counter and the two competing chicha beer stands. He moves through a cloud of steam and smoke coughed up by the fry-bread griddles. Hands clap him on the shoulders, and voices offer the two of them congratulations.

  Eventually it happens: Lane appears out of nowhere. Alone, with Francine Goggins nowhere to be found. Lane grabs Cael by the collar of his shirt.

  “Wanda,” Lane says, “if you’ll excuse us for just one hot second?”

  He drags Cael in an awkward waltz toward the game booths. Colorful wheels are ticking, balls are being thrown at old metal milk bottles, wooden shuck rats are tottering this way and that as Heartlanders take shots at them with oversized rubber band guns.

  “Don’t you even dare complain,” Cael says.

  “I have every right to complain.”

  “Francin
e is a very nice girl—a little homely, but I bet she cleans up nice—”

  “I don’t like—” Lane blurts, then pauses, takes a deep breath. “I don’t like her.”

  Cael growls. “Did you even see who Gwennie ended up with?”

  Lane blinks.

  “You didn’t, did you? She ended up with Boyland, Lane. Boyland.”

  “Jeezum Crow. Him?”

  “Him.”

  “Him?”

  “Him!”

  “See? This is what I’m talking about, Cael. The Empyrean, they lock us all down, man. Close up our schools. Make sure the only money we have is a currency they invented just for us. Force us to marry like it’s some kind of… enforced breeding program. You know what we need to do? Do you?”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “We need to join the raiders.”

  This again.

  “The raiders. The violent criminals who rob and pillage Heartland towns.”

  “Yes. The raiders are heroes. They’re not striking at the Heartland. They’re striking at the Empyrean. We can run away. Tonight. While the festival’s on and the proctor’s mind is elsewhere. Shit, look over there—Pally Varrin is doing the damn apple-dunk.”

  “We’re not running away; we’ve got responsibilities here.…” Cael’s words drift off as his eyes search out the apple-dunk. Sure enough, there’s Pally Varrin. Sitting on a platform with a small, round, wooden bull’s-eye to his left and a tank of rusty, dirty water beneath him. Nobody’s lining up because nobody wants to piss off one of the Babysitters. Little good can come of that.

  Cael steps in line. The booth barker is R.J. Biddle, a literal half man who’s just an upper torso in a red-and-white striped shirt. He tilts back his black cowpoke hat and waves Cael closer.

  “Cael McAvoy, as I live and breathe,” R.J. says with a surprisingly booming voice for a body missing its legs and lower torso since birth. “You going to be the first?”

  Pally sees Cael. He squints and scowls. Shakes his head. The message is clear: Don’t you dare, boy; don’t you dare.

  But Cael is having the worst day of his life. He damn well dares, all right.

  He fishes around in his pocket for the one ace note he’s got floating around. He thought he might spend it on a churro, but this is better.

  Biddle plops three rotten apples into a bowl. They’re from the remaining few apple trees up in the black orchard, trees long twisted into an arthritic curl. The fruit off those trees turn worm-eaten and misshapen long before the apples hit the ground.

  “There you go, son. Three apples.”

  Cael nods. “I’ll only need one.”

  He knows the drill. The target doesn’t move on a breeze; Cael will have to hit it hard. Last year Busser did the apple-dunk, and he reached out and swatted the apples away as if it were a game of handball. Nobody dunked him.

  The apple is cold and squishy in Cael’s hand. Even if it’s mushy, though, it has a hard core. A worm crawls out and inches up his finger; he flicks the critter to the dust.

  Pally continues giving him that look—teeth clenched so tight Cael wonders if they might crack and shatter to dust.

  “Cael,” Lane says, “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

  “You want to get back at the Empyrean.”

  “Cael, c’mon. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Grow a pair, Lane. Because this shit is happening.”

  Cael winds up and lets fly.

  Pally leans out and tries to swat away the apple, just like Busser did. But the apple flies hard and fast—and Pally’s clumsy swipe catches naught but pollen-dusted air.

  The apple thwacks against the bull’s-eye in a spray of rotten sauce.

  Pally’s plank seat disappears from beneath him, and he plunges into the filthy water. His head immediately resurfaces, his mouth gasping for air.

  “You’re dead, McAv—” But he speaks too soon and catches a mouthful of foul water. He gags and splashes. “Ghlurghglag.”

  Worth it, Cael thinks. If only for the temporary lift in spirits.

  Night falls and the pollen falls with it. It blows in streamers and trails, whispering across the ground like wind-swept snakes. The festival is lit with colored bulbs that hum and snap, and the Heartlanders are drunk; a lot of them are catcalling and yipping like dogs and dancing to fiddle music up and down the street. Now that the Obligation is over, a lot of them are buzzing about the coming Heartland Lottery, which will be announced in a handful of hours when the town clock strikes the midnight bell.

  And it’s then that Wanda whispers in his ear, “You wanna go under the water tower?”

  An Obligation Day tradition. The newly betrothed couples, all of them hornier than a Capote water ox with two dicks instead of one, go beneath the water tower to the east of town in order to get to know each other better.

  Cael doesn’t want to. But he’s mad at Gwennie. And he’s a little bit drunk from drinking with Lane. So before he even knows what he’s saying, he agrees. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  And he waves on Lane and Francine, too.

  “No,” Lane says, “I dunno about that.…”

  But Francine smiles sweetly and pulls him along, and Lane goes with it.

  They leave Main Street and all the light and noise and descend into the ring of darkness around town, corn pollen whispering against the hard earth.

  And soon a massive shadow darker than the gloaming appears. The water tower rises before them, shifting shapes and silhouettes hiding within the cradle of its wooden legs. Every time the wind stirs, the tower groans and stutters, eliciting an excited gasp from those beneath it as though it could come tumbling down at any moment.

  Francine leads Lane away. Wanda’s hands find Cael’s chest, and she holds her palms flat against him. “I don’t know what to do,” she says.

  “I don’t know either,” he lies.

  “Maybe we should talk. We could just stand here. For a while. And talk. We don’t really know each other. I’d like to know you better. Wouldn’t you like to know me better?”

  There it is again, that sense of desperation coming off her. The fact is, he doesn’t want to know her better. So instead, he just leans in and kisses her. He feels her teeth clack hard against his. Their noses smash together. Her tongue finds his, and it’s like a dog licking a mess off the floor: wet and inelegant. Cael thinks, Ugh, get off of me; but he doesn’t move and neither does she, and there they stand for a while, groping each other inexpertly while Cael tilts an ear and listens to the others do the same.

  He’s listening for something. Someone.

  For one of Gwennie’s telltale moans. Or sometimes she squeaks. Like a little mouse.

  It isn’t long before footsteps approach and he hears the murmur of familiar voices. A new pair of shapes emerge—one smaller shape arm in arm with a much larger-bodied blockhead.

  Cael pulls away from Wanda.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asks, following after him. But he’s not listening. Not to her.

  “You,” he says, stepping in front of the shape that resolves into Boyland Barnes Jr.

  “Yo, McAvoy,” Barnes says. With a snort, he adds, “Wanda Mecklin, huh? Here at the water tower? You lucky dog.”

  “Sonofabitch—” Cael says, and he steps forward with the full intent to tear that bastard’s head clean off his neck and shove it back up his ass. But Gwennie steps between them and catches the full force of Cael. She’s strong. Always was. “Gwen, move!”

  “Don’t be an ass,” she says.

  “He sank our boat!”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  Boyland plays dumb. “I didn’t—What? What’s he accusing me of? I’d never.”

  “Go to hell, Barnes! May Old Scratch steal your liar’s tongue.” Cael tries to spit on him but misses.

  Gwennie grabs Cael and hauls him away from the water tower. She lowers her voice. “This is over. It has to be. You can’t do this.”

  “Boyl
and,” he says, the name like slug’s ichor dripping from his lips. “Boyland?”

  “Like I picked him?”

  “And yet here you are with him. Under the water tower.”

  “And here you are with Wanda Mecklin. I could say the same thing about her.” She mimics Cael’s blustery incredulity. “Wanda? Waaaanda?”

  “I was here looking for you!”

  “Did you think your tongue would find me down her throat?”

  “I was hoping you weren’t here. And yet you are. With him.”

  Her voice drops to a hissing whisper. “You think I like this? He’s a skunk ape, Cael. But he’s my husband. Or will be. I figure the best thing I can do is keep my head down and take the ride.”

  “You’ve changed,” he says. “You never would have gone along with it before. You always did what you wanted. Those days are over.”

  “Maybe they are.” She hesitates. “Maybe they have to be.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.” The words suddenly come out of him, a bubbling, bilious concoction that he wishes he could swallow, but it’s too late: “You’re no longer first mate of the crew. You’re out.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Go with him. I can’t have a person on my boat married to the enemy.”

  “You’re an asshole,” she says.

  “At least I’m not a slut.” It quiets her like a slap—but, really, it’s worse. Those words plunge deep like a knife. Did he even mean them? He stammers, “Gwennie, wait.”

  But she pulls away from him and storms back to Boyland.

  “C’mon,” Gwennie says, pulling Boyland underneath the water tower. On the way she pauses by Wanda and says, “Congratulations, Wanda. Good luck with that one.”

  And then their shapes merge with the shadows.

  Wanda comes up, asks him, “What was that all about?”

  But Cael doesn’t even open his mouth, because he’s afraid of what will come out.

  THE HOWLING POLLEN

  MIDNIGHT IS WHEN they’ll announce the Lottery. An hour before, the street starts growing tighter with people, gathering in the hopes that they’ll be the winner. The pollen drift picks up and the winds start to howl, and all around are those allergic to the storm—blowing their noses into paisley handkerchiefs or rubbing their swollen red eyes. But they gather just the same because, above all else, they want to win.