And as the day goes by, the dome gets closer and closer.
There are places, too, where people live in small families, or even a few families together in sturdy houses still standing. They remind me of our village back home, just a few houses built up between the bigger houses, surrounded by a river of garbage or cars or those big buses. Most people are nice enough to us when they see us, a few even curious and chat a bit.
I think how strange that me, Mann, a boy from nowhere, is standing knee-deep in the Olden Begones garbage, talking with Cranker to strangers about where we come from, who we are. I get used to it quick enough. People are pretty interesting and pleasanter than I would have thought even a few days ago.
Only a few turned us away with rocks or called out to be off.
We want nothing from them, so we just hop it and get out of there.
And once we hear a loud laugh too close and freeze, then hide behind a pile of bricks. I almost shout when I see a boy with a shaved head leading three other people through the rubble.
“It’s them, those thieves from the gate!” I whisper to Cranker, who frowns. His whole body is tense, and I know he’s itching to fire his slingshot. I put my hand on his shoulder and shake my head. The slingshot stays in his belt, but he picks up a stone. I hold my breath, but the gang of thieves don’t see us. They keep walking, and soon they’re gone the other way.
“It’s four against two,” I say to Cranker, who spits in their direction when they’re out of sight.
“They’s not so tough, no match for us, Mann,” he says, fierce.
“Come on, let’s put some space between us,” I answer, pulling Cranker to his feet. I don’t say it, but how’d he know? How did Cranker know we’d see them again? Just more Cranker wisdom, I guess.
We make our way toward the dome as best we can. It’s hard work, and by nightfall, the dome is closer, but we can’t walk over the rubble at night. It’s too dangerous. So we stop in the shadow of the mighty dome that goes up and up and up farther than anything I could imagine. Now we’re so close to it, it’s like a mighty mountain, a miracle of glass and Olden Begones magic.
We find a covered front porch of an old house still standing and lay out two sleeping rolls that Grannie put in our sacks. We eat a little hard bread and a bite of dried meat. Cranker’s been trying to shoot some FatRats, since we seen some, but these FatRats are smart and faster than the ones back home. He had no luck, so there’s no fresh meat to roast.
But we’re too excited to care much about food. We lie on the snug porch and look up at the giant dome nearby. It’s too big to see the top now, but just knowing it’s so close and so beautiful sends me to sleep with dreams of Olden Begones magic all night. Carts that go without horses, buses that carry one hundred people or more. I fall asleep wishing I asked Jonatan Briar what the tunnels underground were for in Subway, since I’m sure he would know.
The next morning we wake, and it’s fine and clear. We walk, and our adventure is coming to an end. Soon I’ll touch the dome I been dreaming about for days. But it won’t be that simple, I start to see. We go through rougher ground, and the closer we get to the dome, the more garbage and bigger piles of rubble we walk through. It’s slow going, dangerous and tiring.
When we finally get close, almost to the shining wall, there are piles of overturned buses piled on top of each other, and great metal machines I couldn’t say the point of, and slabs of the brick they make the roads out of with little pebbles in it. We get stuck in a huge pile of garbage, and Cranker almost twists his ankle. I pull him out, and we both sit and catch our breath. The sun is hot, and I stow my sweater in my sack then tie the sack back over my shoulder. We each take a sip of water from our FatRat skin.
“It don’t look like we can get too much closer,” Cranker finally says. We’re disappointed, but neither of us wants to admit it.
“I don’t want to go back yet, and we can’t anyway. We got two more days.” Cranker nods and wipes some sweat from the back of his neck.
“There has to be a way to get closer,” I say, hopeful. “We just need to get up higher and …” Cranker stops me. He puts his finger to his lips and draws out his slingshot. There’s a soft noise over a ridge of bricks not far off. He loads his slingshot with a chunk of the road stone, draws it back, holds it steady.
“The thieves again?” I whisper. My heart drums in my chest.
A black dog head appears above the rubble, spies us, then disappears. It sees me, though. Cranker puts down his slingshot and looks at me, then says, “I’m jiggered if that ain’t your one-eyed dog from back home, Mann!”
I’m just as shocked. He’s right. It’s the one-eyed dog — it has to be him. There aren’t that many dogs around, plus it’s the same eye missing, but he’s been scarce for a few days. I make Cranker stow his slingshot and promise not to shoot him, and he does, but I make him swear. Then I tell him that the dog’s been shadowing me all the way since home. He woke me, and that’s how I saved the mules the other day. Cranker seems impressed, so the dog is safe from his slingshot, at least for now.
Then we get up, and what else can we do?
We go over the rubble and follow the one-eyed dog.
Miranda1
Ihave spent the night and day quietly going about my business. Now that Regulus has told his lie, and the picture and announcement of William1’s death is on the signpost on the common, everyone who passes me says they are very sorry to hear the news. They are almost breathless when they tell me, and I realize that we have so little news to share in our lives. Nothing momentous.
Never a death.
It seems to me that everyone is saddened, of course, but they are something else, too. Curious. Maybe even slightly excited by this strange new event.
A few older children, and some of the other Mirandas, even cry about the loss of William1. A small number seem so heartbroken that I realize I should seem more upset than I am, for their sake. So for the second time in my life, I lie. I go right along with Regulus. I manage to summon tears, just a few, when children and Mothers ask me what happened. I am demure, and sad, and shake my head to convey that I am too deeply upset to discuss it. No one doubts my tears, and no one accuses me of wrongdoing, even if Regulus did say that William1 died because of a forbidden meeting with me at the walnut tree.
No one seems to care about that part of the story, so if Regulus was hoping that I would be chastised by the community, he was wrong. The truth is, people seem genuinely moved by my plight; my William1 is dead. Death is an exotic idea for people who have never seen it before.
And of course, it is all lies.
I am a superb actress. I had no idea, and realize that I should have acted in some of Teacher’s school plays over the years. I have a capacity for it that I never suspected.
But perhaps my talent is driven purely by terror at what I am about to do?
William1 has been gone for two days, and tonight is his death ceremony.
I will be ready.
This afternoon in Medicus Hall, a group of Mirandas and Williams, including William2 and I, are learning how to set bones again. It involves a great deal of linen bandages and wrapping of wooden human figures. I splint and wrap a broken forearm, a broken ankle, a broken wrist. William2 does the same.
When we leave Medicus Hall hours later, my satchel is bulging with rolls and rolls of used linen bandages, but no one thinks to question me about it. In fact, my new state of grief allows me all the freedom I need. No one wants to question me about anything.
I have to act quickly, and without fear.
I need another item. When William2 and I have our hour in the Seed Park, I find the nearest Treekeeper’s hut, which is very close to the walnut tree. I tell William2 that I want to be alone, and he doesn’t question me. I head toward the walnut tree, the place of William1’s untimely death, and no one stops me. I can only guess this
is because they assume I am in mourning, this sadness that happens after a death, and want to return to the scene of my dearest friend’s demise. I try to look like I’m grieving; I keep my head bowed, my eyes damp.
Even the Sentries leave me alone, and there are many of them, standing rigidly row upon row near the rose trellis. Near the door.
When no one is watching, I slip into the Treekeeper’s hut and find a rope ladder, the longest one they have. This is the ladder the twelve-year-olds use when they climb to the top of the mighty walnut in their annual coming-of-age rite. This ladder is thin as a whip, lightweight, strong. The one and only time I have used it, I almost fell to my death from the walnut, but I try not to think about this. I slip the ladder over my shoulder and under my cloak. It is no bulkier than my suspiciously bulging satchel. A pair of short-handled pruning shears hangs on the wall, and I grab them and stick them in my cloak pocket. A package of apple seeds sits beside them, and I put those in my other pocket. I had not intended to steal the shears or seeds, but they seem too useful to dismiss.
After the Seed Park, I walk back to my house. I look oddly misshapen, but again no one questions me. No one would dare. The Sentry follows me closely, so I pre-tend to be weeping. I stop in front of William1’s house, which now has a small cluster of flowers and pictures laid on the walk and at the base of the stairs. Children and their Mothers have been dropping off small messages and items at his house all day.
Grief is odd. We have learned about it in Teaching Hall but never felt it. This reaching out with pictures and messages is strange and new, and I don’t quite understand it, but I pretend to. I walk up the steps of William1’s house and try to look majestic and weepy. Children and Mothers move out of my way and whisper, “Sorry, dear Miranda1,” as I walk past. Then I step into William1’s house, a place I have never been allowed unaccompanied before. The Sentry tries to follow me, but I stop.
“I … I need a few moments alone in his house, please.” The Sentry is puzzled but also slightly alarmed at my tears, and so it allows me into the house alone.
It is dark in William1’s house, and it already feels abandoned.
I scan the mess. If she were alive, the Mother of William1 would not allow it. I think of her for a moment, slumped over in chains, take a deep breath, then move deeper into the empty room. There are some of William1’s papers, an unfinished plate of fruit, and there it is! I see William’s hand-drawn Map of Oculum spread out on the table. The map is detailed, clever, with a close-up of the Oculum Arm. I rush, snatch it up, and turn it over. There is William1’s handwriting, tiny and exact, as he said. I scan quickly and see a poem, then a tiny note, in the bottom right-hand corner, addressed to me.
M1 Learn the poem by heart.The Mothers will help us. The Sentries will not. W1
I read this frustratingly short note several times. Then I read the poem:
We have left you,The thousand chosen,Kept you all safe here, at the fall.There is a door,And you must find it,There is a door, within the wall.Be the brave ones,Then pass beyond it,The Mothers shall rise, at the call.
I puzzle over William’s letter and the poem. They don’t tell me much that I don’t already know. I would never expect a Sentry to do anything but detain and annoy me, so the fact that they will not help us is no surprise. And the poem tells me very little other than that the Mothers shall rise. But what does that mean? Simply that my Mother would rise every morning to wake, feed, and dress me? The poem does say that we must be brave and go through the door, though, which is interesting.
But even this is small comfort, and I’m about to curse William1 for being so vague when the door opens and the Sentry says, “Hurry, Miranda1,” in its dull voice. I quickly roll up the map and hide it in my long cloak pocket.
“I will take exactly the amount of time that I require,” I snap, and the Sentry’s head disappears. The front door shuts.
William1 was working on this map for as long as I can remember. He was a very good artist. No, he is a very good artist, and he is alive and well, and I have to go and find him. I’m appalled that the mystery of death has already seduced me into using the past tense when thinking of him.
William1 is alive, and he will be looking for me, wherever he is. I turn to the stairs and walk up into his empty bedroom. William’s pants and shirts are all over the floor, and his shoes. His bed is unmade. I quickly sort through the closet. There is one set of pants that are shorter than the others, and I try them on under my frock and cloak. They fit well, if a bit loose, so I take one of his leather belts and strap them so they fit snugly. Then I take two of his smaller shirts, shirts from last year that his Mother had not yet sent to the younger children. I wear both shirts under my frock and cloak. I realize I look extremely bloated under my cloak, but I will have to hope that no one inspects me too closely.
I shall just have to weep and wail if they do to alarm them.
I leave William’s house, looking downcast and weepy, and again no one questions me or stops me. I sweep through the crowd of children and Mothers and head along the streets to my house. The Sentry is close behind me, but it stops at the bottom stair and turns to face the street when we arrive. I shut the door behind me and hurry up to my room.
Mother comes from her closet when she hears me and taps quietly at my door. I ask her not to come in, and she timidly asks if she can get me food.
“Yes, Mother dear. Please get me half a dozen of last year’s apples and peaches. And a bowl of dried cherries from last year’s harvest. I am quite famished. And a sealed jug of water.” Mother wheels away to the kitchen to gather this food for me, an unusually large amount, but she doesn’t question me. I do have a good appetite, but I’ve never eaten half a dozen apples in one sitting before. Or peaches. I can only hope she puts it down to grief, although everything I have read about it says that the opposite happens. The bereaved tends not to eat. Perhaps Mother does not know this.
I remove the bandages from the satchel, the rope ladder, William’s clothes, the pruning shears, the small bag of apple seeds. I unroll the bandages one by one, and I realize why I took the shears. Slowly, carefully, I begin to cut the linen bandages in half. I need a long, long, long rope for what I am going to do. Impossibly long.
When Mother comes with my food, I ask her to leave it at the door, and she doesn’t question me. I hear her wheels gently roll into her closet. There is just a tiny sound; already she is squeaking after her visit to Toolman. She is getting old and worn out, I think sadly. But I need her to squeak. I need to know where she is.
I work feverishly, since I have only a few hours to prepare. At seven o’clock tonight I must join the others on the common to mourn the death of my dear, departed friend.
Mannfred
The dog slips away over the rubble, and we follow. He keeps just out of range of Cranker’s slingshot, and every once in a while we don’t see him and I worry that we lost him. But right about then he turns up over the top of an overturned bus or a huge busted chunk of road and looks at me, then we head his way again until he disappears.
I don’t know where he’s taking us, but it’s clear we got to follow.
After about an hour, we’re within a slingshot of the dome. Up close, it’s like a giant pearl stuck in the busted City. We know the top is open, because we seen it open two nights ago, and we haven’t heard it close yet, but this close we can’t see it. It’s too far above us, straight up.
The dome shoots into the sky, a beautiful, magic pearl.
The dog is nowhere in sight, but he brought us to a place where the rubble is thinner, and there’s a kind of pathway where you can walk safer and down. Cranker and me head down into this pile, when he stops me.
He points.
The dog is lying at the feet of a figure. There’s a man in the rubble. Or really, a man MADE of rubble. Someone made a man out of garbage, a pretty good likeness too. He has a head, a torso, arms
, and legs. He’s tall, over our heads, and he wears a crown of letters from the black boxes. As soon as the dog sees that we found the man made of Olden Begones garbage, he takes off at a run. He slinks over a distant pile of garbage, then another farther away, smaller and smaller, but don’t look back. I can’t help thinking he brought us where he wanted.
To this crowned figure of garbage.
“Dog’s weird,” Cranker says. Then he tries to read the crown.
“W … Will …” he starts.
“William1, it says.” I hurry him along. I’m better at letters than Cranker. He looks at me with wonder.
“What the heck’s William1?” In all the piles of garbage and rubble and destruction we seen in the City, it’s all been random. Broken signposts, busted half-words on buses or big boards with words and faded letters on them for stuff we don’t understand. Like giant ladies with long curls and something called “hair color.” Or stuff for teeth, called “toothpaste.” Or men and women with huge faces talking about something called “insurance.” These images are broke, half there and buried deep, faded so much that we only spy a face or word down in the garbage piles below us. We walk over them and under them, and at first we read them, but after a while they’re so common that we stop. It’s just more Olden Begones junk.
But this figure is a thing made here, the first sign of a living human hand in the waste. Someone made him and crowned him William1.
It’s strange.
Who made it? And why?
We look at each other, but Cranker is braver than me. Or sometimes I wonder if he’s just got less imagination. Anyway, he smiles, since there’s an adventure here, he can tell. Then he heads down into the well of garbage ahead of me. I hear him shout, and I run to catch up.
There’s the dome, right there. We walk up and we both touch it and grin at each other. It’s warm from the sunlight, and we lean against it and laugh. We bang against it, we peer into it, but we can’t see inside.
Oculum Page 9
