Oculum

by Philippa Dowding

  We have to be wary and watch careful.

  Grannie put me and Cranker at the back for a reason. Cranker’s got his slingshot and a pocket of rocks ready. I got my knife, which I can throw if I have to, since I practiced enough with it now. And at the front of the slow cart, with all our goods, Littluns and a baby girl, Grannie has the Shiny Man’s gun with five bullets deep in her overalls pocket. She showed us before we pulled away from her house but put her finger to her lips in a shhh, be quiet, don’t tell way. The Littluns would only be curious and pester her for it.

  We aren’t traveling a dangerous road. There are a few other people around too, but you never know what you might come across, as Grannie says.

  We sit like that all day, covering league after league. Cranker falls asleep, and I know that other than Grannie, I’m the only one awake. I’m glad he’s asleep, though, because we got a shadow.

  The scrawny, one-eyed dog trots along the ditches and black grass of the mud track, following us all the way. Sometimes he criss-crosses the road, sometimes I don’t see him for a while, but he’s there all right. Once I see him dart past the back of the cart with a FatRat in his mouth, and once, when the cart stops and we lift all the Littluns down to make water in the ditch and to walk the goat and eat a little bread, I see him lying in the grass, his one good eye on me. As soon as he spies me, he wags the end of his tail. He’s getting better at letting just me see him and hiding from the others. That’s why he’s still alive, most like. Maybe he’s not so stupid.

  We travel in the cart for two days and nights, only stopping to rest and water the horses or to stretch our legs and eat. No one bothers us, though people do travel along this muddy track to get to and from the City. The Shiny Man would have come along here with his horse and wagon, stopping at farms and villages along the way. We don’t see him, or anyone like us, though, just the lone farmers and their goats and hens.

  On the third day, at dusk, Grannie drives the cart onto a bridge over a big river. The horse’s hooves strike brick, which is loud and different from the drumming on the dirt track.

  We all wake up and stare. There are torches lit and wagons overturned. There are people, probably thirty at least, more than I ever seen all at once, standing around. They’re all ages, men and women, some older than Grannie. There’s a group of boys and girls too, about the same age as me and Cranker, or maybe a little older, throwing rocks at a tree.

  Grannie pulls the horses up and we stop in the torchlight. The crowd of strangers at the gate turn to us in the twilight, and my skin starts to itch. All those eyes seem like questions, and we got a lot of answering to do.

  Above us, two pillars stand taller than trees. A huge shiny gate big as a house rests open, and a line of carts, horses, and people wait there. Towering buildings crowd all around us, but the windows are all gone, the doors too. The first stars shine through the split and fallen roofs.

  We heard of buildings, of course, but seeing them, that’s a different thing. I had no way to imagine how big or busted and strange they are. The sun sets over a world of falling buildings and rubble, and I can’t make sense of it.

  We’re at the mighty gates of the City. And I never seen anything so huge or terrifying. Nor ever dreamed of it, but I will now, until the end of my days.

  Miranda1

  The Black Rain has stopped, but I still feel a darkness around me.

  William1 and I do not speak again. I see him in Teaching Hall and at the Seed Park from far away, but he doesn’t approach me or seek me out. I miss him. But we must keep apart. I do not want to be banished, whatever that means. I don’t want him to be banished, either.

  Then a few days after Regulus gave us his dire warn-ing, we are both in Teaching Hall, helping the youngest children learn their letters. Either Regulus has decided not to separate us or he is testing us. We deliberately sit at opposite ends of the room and do not look at one another. The children are Annas and Andrews, the four-year-olds and the youngest of Oculum. They were the last children to be awoken, which is interesting. The nursery is now empty and all the Nursies taken apart, since they can be recycled into Mothers; they share many of the same parts.

  But William and I have often spoken of this. What will happen now there are no more infants to awaken? No more of the youngest to raise? All of us, all one thousand children of Oculum, are now awake. It feels final, like the end of something. But the end of what?

  The Teacher has finished reading from the WillBook. Today he has been reading the story of a girl with the same name as me, Miranda, and the enchanted island she lives upon. It is one of my favorite stories, but we never hear the ending, so I don’t know how it works out. The Teacher returns the WillBook to safekeeping beneath the thick glass cover. He has left it open, and one by one the children go up and look at it through the glass. They pick out letters if they can, a word if they are beginning to read. Jake47 must have been very determined to get his hand under there and touch it.

  I sit with Andrew34. He’s having a hard time with the letter “J.” He keeps drawing it backward, like a hook, and I patiently take his small hand and trace the correct shape with it and get him to do it again. Backward. I’ve seen four-year-olds do this before, of course, but he may need extra assistance. The Teacher is quite good and patient with children who have problems with letters and numbers. I may have to summon the Teacher’s help for Andrew34 in the coming weeks.

  I take a quick look at William1. He is showing his table of children a magic trick. He holds out a pebble then closes his palm over it, waves his other hand over it, and opens his palm again.

  The pebble is gone.

  It’s a simple trick, and I smile at the children’s wonder. William1 catches my eye, smiles, then goes back to the children and settles them to practice reading. The Sentry doesn’t notice our quick look.

  Someone touches my arm, and I turn to face a tiny child with a yellow armband and a silver “A12.” Anna12. She hands me a folded piece of heavy paper with my name on the outside, written in a childish hand.

  “Miranda1, I have made this for you.”

  “Thank you, Anna12,” I answer. She curtseys and hides a shy smile then scampers back to the other side of the room and sits beside William1. He seems not to have noticed. Children often give me drawings and stories in Teaching Hall, so it’s not unusual. I peek inside the folded paper and then quietly put the drawing into my satchel.

  There’s a letter inside the drawing. The letter is folded and plain, but I have no doubt what it is.

  A note from William1.

  I peek at the Sentry beside the door, which hasn’t paid much attention to me. It looks at me, but only because I am looking at it. This is something new, having a Sentry follow me. I have never been followed before, and it’s becoming tiresome. Regulus didn’t mention that he was going to have us followed.

  When Teaching Hall is over, I leave the room at the end of the line of fifty Annas. William lines up to leave the Hall at the back of the fifty Andrews. I walk past the Sentry with my head up. William is bent down to help Andrew21 tie his shoe. When he stands, he takes the child’s hand and walks out the door without a look in my direction.

  I get home, but Mother is not there. She must be at the market or perhaps tending to her squeaky wheels. I finally made an appointment for her with Toolman, which was earlier today. I go up to my bedroom and sit with my back against the door (for some reason this seems very important, to block the door), and with shaking hands I open Anna12’s drawing.

  It is a tree garden, a child’s rendition of the Seed Park. And there, at the very edge of the picture, behind clumsy, curling roses, is a tiny, perfectly drawn door. William must have added the door to the child’s picture. You almost wouldn’t see it unless you knew to look for a door in that spot.

  I start to breathe quickly and take out the folded letter.

  The child’s shaky handwri
ting traces William’s large, elegant letters. The letter simply says, “Dear Miranda1, I dream I will visit the Seed Park with you. Anna12.” I look back at the picture again and peer closely at the roses almost touching the door.

  There! A tiny word is hidden among the roses in William’s writing!

  It says, “Tonight.”

  I light a candle, since it is getting dark out. Even though the Black Rain has stopped, Regulus still has not opened Oculum, so there is no moon, no stars shining down. I take the lit candle and the child’s drawing and letter with me into the water closet and lock the door. Then I burn all evidence of the letter and the picture. The ash falls into the wash basin, and I mix it slowly with water from the jug, then I watch as it gurgles down the drain.

  I have never been sneaky. I have never given a thought to secret letters or meetings or doorways into the unknown. Up until a few days ago, my life was perfect. Quiet. Even dull. But something tells me, a little voice perhaps that I didn’t know I had, whispers that no one must read the letter or see the child’s drawing. There is something else that also whispers to me: you must go out tonight, sneak past Mother and the Sentry, and meet William1 at the door.

  I have no idea how I am going to achieve this.

  No one goes out after dark, unless it is a scheduled event. Sometimes, when the full moon passes over Oculum and it is good weather, Regulus will open our world and the children and their Mothers will all gather on the common to watch. Or sometimes, after a long season of games, all the children will assemble on the common to watch the final games and celebrate the winners. This is a festival and always takes place under the floodlit firmament after dark. Again, when a section of the Seed Park comes into fruit, and the Treekeepers have picked all the trees clean, we gather as a community after dark and light candles and walk to the Seed Park together. We sing songs, we rejoice, and it’s a celebration.

  But we never, ever, wander on the streets after dark unaccompanied unless we have a terrible emergency, such as illness or fire, or a Mother has broken down for good. If we are scheduled to visit with each other or go on an errand after dark, our Mother would always accompany us.

  I sit through my dinner, soup and dried cherries for dessert, without eating a bite. Mother rumbles around the kitchen and hums quietly, a habit of hers I’ve never really liked. No one else’s Mother hums, not as far as I can tell. Since the meeting with Regulus, she hasn’t said much to me. I can tell she is worried, and I think her silence may be because she doesn’t want to intrude or bother me.

  If I am in love, as she, William’s Mother, and Regulus believe, she may be hoping that I shall discuss it. She has always been very good at leaving me alone until I bring whatever is bothering me up on my own.

  I appreciate her tact, but she’ll be waiting a long time to hear from me about this.

  How would I discuss an utterly forbidden meeting at a secret door with someone I am supposed to love?

  I don’t eat much, I do some reading, I say goodnight as early as I can without seeming ill and causing alarm, and then I go to my bedroom. Shortly afterward, Mother comes and tucks me in.

  “Goodnight, Mother,” I say.

  “Goodnight, Miranda my darling,” she says. She gives me her usual cool, metallic hug. She whirrs around the bed and does some final blanket tucking, then she hesitates at the door. She turns and whispers in her cranky, mechanical voice, “I do not know what love is exactly, Miranda my darling, but I do not think it can be so very evil.”

  I’m shocked at this. Mother rarely shares thoughts with me; in fact, I have often wondered if she has thoughts of her own. A Mother is not a creature who is required to deliver much thought on anything, except how to keep her charge clean, fed, and safe. William believes they have no other purpose than to feed and clothe us, their children. But sometimes my Mother surprises me.

  “Thank you, Mother dear,” I say. She gives her wobbly smile, then she closes my door, and I hear the door to her closet shut. I know she will close herself down for the night and only awaken before 7:00 a.m. if I call her.

  As soon as I am sure she has shut down completely, I reach under my bed and pull out the clothes I have assembled there: my long, black frock, my black leg-gings, black shoes, and long black hooded cloak. I dress as quietly as I can in the dark. Then I pull the cork seal from a water jug and hold it over the lit candle. I draw the charred cork across my hands, across my face. I hope I am invisible to the Sentries and to anyone else, but I have never done this before, so I have no idea if I am or not.

  I slip downstairs, pull up my hood, and slide out into the night.

  Mannfred

  We been waiting so long to get through the City gate that the sun sets. The moon shines down and stars glow through busted windows in the buildings all around us. I can’t see the buildings in the darkness now too well, but the view I got at sundown was enough to set me trembling.

  There’s a wide track made of bricks, or something close to bricks, Grannie calls a road. We sit under the wagon. Nancy and Nellie are loose in their harness, standing and sleepy. The Littluns are stuck close to me and Cranker, dozing. Grannie waits to talk to the people at the gate, but she has to be patient. Other carts, other people, wait too, like us.

  There are men and women with clubs and knives that guard the gate. They carry torches and seem in charge. The tallest man among them, a big, powerful man in every way, does all the talking, or most of it. Seems everyone who goes into the City got to talk to him first.

  But it’s a slow business, and Grannie waits her turn.

  Grannie didn’t say anything about these giant gates or about what the City looks like in the dark with all those towering, busted-up buildings. Or about these guards. Maybe she didn’t tell us because we’d be scared. But I’m scared anyway, telling or not.

  There are other carts and wagons. One cart has just one man, and he goes through the gates quick. Seems that carts with families like us must wait. Everyone carries sacks, cloth, food, animals, some even have shiny with them. My head spins from all the watching.

  Cranker and me been watching a gang of thieves, too. They’re four of them, older girls and boys, Cranker’s age or older maybe, but none as big as me. They steal from a cart when no one is looking, a sack of carrots here, a hammer there. They reach in and grab as the cart goes by then run to stow whatever they took behind a big tree.

  No one seems to notice but me and Cranker.

  At last the tall man and his crew come to our cart with torches in hand and tell us all to stand up. It’s our turn. Grannie puts Lisle into my arms, and I throw the blue sling over my shoulder and hold her like Grannie does, under my arm and against my chest.

  The Littluns all stand silent and close around me and Cranker, half asleep in the torchlight. I pull a few thumbs out of sleepy mouths. First time I ever seen them all silent at the same time. They all take a hand or grab a piece of my shirt, and they even hold Cranker’s hands, and he lets them. We’re all quiet and terrified.

  The tall man talks to Grannie. I never seen her look so serious. Far as I can hear, her answers are “Yes sir,” and “No sir,” mostly. The rest of the tall man’s crew comes and look through our belongings. They shine torches on Nancy and Nellie, who shy away, and then they take all our bundles out of the cart and paw through them. They find Grannie’s shiny and take the new pair of scissors, some of the blue flannel cloth she used for our shirts. They take the goat and one of the hens. Then they come over and look close at me, Cranker, and the Littluns.

  A guard shines a torch in my face and peers at Lisle in the sling.

  “Whose baby is that?” she demands. She’s fearsome, tough as nails and stringy as one of Grannie’s old hens, even though she’s so tiny and I’m so tall, she has to tilt her head right back to see me. The group of thieves stand at the edge of the torchlight, and I catch a grin off one of them. The leader. His head is sh
aved, and now he’s closer I see he’s missing front teeth. The thieves remind me of skinny wolves, waiting for something to happen.

  “She’s my little sister,” I say, shaking. Grannie has told me to say this: if anyone stops us on the road, we’re to say that Cranker and me are brothers and Lisle our sister. The Littluns are our brothers and cousins, though we’re all so different, all colors and sizes, I can’t see anyone believing it.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lisle.”

  “How old is she?” The guard looks at me then sticks her finger in Lisle’s mouth. Lisle opens her eyes to whine, but I stuff the soother back in her mouth, and she settles.

  “She was born harvest last, so she’s just over five months, that’s why she’s got no teeth yet,” I say. Grannie has told me to say this, too.

  “And who’s the woman you’re with? Your ma?”

  “No ma’am, she’s my grandma,” I say. The guard holds the torch close to my face, looks me in the eye, then does the same with Cranker and each Littlun in turn, like she’s looking for something. Then she goes back to the tall man talking to Grannie, and says, “They’s no relation. Not one of them looks like the other.”

  Grannie keeps talking to the man, serious and low, and the guard walks away with the torch. I take a breath, then turn to say something to Cranker, and … where’s Cranker? I dart to the corner of the cart, and Lisle complains. The Littluns follow me in a cloud.

  There’s Cranker, his slingshot hard against the shaved head of the thief leader with the missing teeth. The thief is still, but he’s got Grannie’s last hen under his arm.