The Whispers

by Daryl Banner

  The door opens. Mari is escorted out at once, still trapped in her daze, and is taken down the other hall, just as John was.

  The young man lifts his tablet. “Connor Easton.”

  Of course they’d leave me for last. He rises from his chair and, like some militant young man, darts straight into the office without a second’s hesitation. I experience one single bite of resentment toward him before the door shuts, leaving me all by myself with the two stoic guards.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to my hands, clasping them and channeling the dead spirit of my dad, the living spirit of my mom back home or wherever she is, all the souls I’ve disturbed in my fruitless adventure. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  The door opens one final time. East comes out of the room. His whole face is changed. Escorted away, he looks at me with a peculiar softness in his eyes before being taken around the corner. His changed demeanor startles me. I don’t know what to make of it.

  “Jennifer Steel.”

  With a stone in my throat, I rise from the bench, my weight supported by two annoyingly wobbly knees, and make my way to the door. The president’s office is a grandiose one, filled from one end to the other with antique furniture, mahogany bookcases, and the scent of summertime. The far wall is made of glass from floor to ceiling, much like my condo, and a desk that’s four times the span of one sits stretched before it. One fateful chair rests in front of the president’s desk.

  “Jennifer,” says President Vale, standing on the other side of the aforementioned long-as-hell desk. “Come.”

  I cross the office and put myself in the chair, which is outrageously comfortable. I’ve never met the president up close, but she is every bit as beautiful as I’ve heard. Her freckled skin is velvety and fair as cream. Her hair, wavy and ruby-red, drapes down to her shoulders, and her forty-something round face, plain and featureless, is warm and welcoming. President Vale wears a green pantsuit with a white scarf tied loosely around her neck, and two emeralds dangle from her ears.

  “President,” I say quietly, acknowledging her.

  “We have a lot to discuss.”

  I opt to keep my words to myself, not daring to speak until I know how much the others told her, until I know the punishment I’m to face, until I know how soon I can begin divulging all that I’ve seen, and justify my crimes.

  “You, Jennifer Steel, and your friends, John Mason and Marianne Gable, along with the involuntary and, as I’m made to understand it, unintended company of both Connor Easton and a woman by the name of Dana, last name unknown, did willfully steal a university hovercraft and travel overseas to the Blight with the purpose of proving the existence of the Mythological Undead of yore. Do I have the facts correct, Jennifer?”

  Her voice is so gentle that the words seem to carry no hint of accusation or admonishment. I can’t say there’s a single thing in her statement that I can contradict.

  “Yes, President,” I answer.

  “Please, call me Rosella.” She clasps her pale hands together, the nails painted ruby-red as her hair. “I will list a few more facts that I would like you to either confirm, or deny. Will you do that for me, Jennifer?”

  I nod. “Y-Yes, Rosella.”

  “Good.” She smiles amicably. “Is it true that you, in fact, did encounter the Mythological Undead?”

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  “Is it true that the previously mentioned woman by the name of Dana chose, of her own free will, to remain in the Blight?”

  I’m suspecting “Blight” is their scientific name for the Sunless Reach. Having been there and walked its scorched terrain, I will not contest that most fitting name. “I did not witness her voluntary decision to stay. I only heard of it through East. Uh, sorry.” I cough. “Through Connor.”

  “Very good. You’re doing well, Jennifer. Thank you for your cooperation.” President Vale offers me a smile, then tilts her head, her waves of red hair bouncing. “Finally, is it true that the university-issued device—upon which you took notes and gathered evidence of the Mythological Undead—was left behind in the Blight?”

  “I’ll pay for it,” I insist, my voice quavering.

  “Just answer the question,” she urges me politely.

  “Yes, Rosella,” I confirm. “True. Yes.”

  “Very good.” The president, appearing oddly relieved, offers me a genial smile. “I welcome you, Jennifer, back to Skymark University. You are so, so very lucky to be here. Your life is important to us, and we will do whatever we can within our power to help you return to normalcy after your … unfortunate experience. We, here at the Skymark University, extend—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt, despite my own promise to myself to shut the hell up. “You’re not charging me with the crime of stealing the hovercraft?”

  President Vale smiles again, her lips pushing the cherries of her fast-reddening cheeks so high, her eyes vanish for a moment. “Jennifer, you have been through much in the past three and a half days. I think you are due for some time allotted to reacclimate.”

  “Reacclimate,” I mutter, unsatisfied. I almost want the charges, as mad as her calm demeanor is suddenly making me. “That’s it? And are we just going to gloss over the fact that I … that the four of us … just uncovered the greatest lie of our time?” I ask, jamming a finger down on the desk as if to drive my point home. “My Beautiful Dead exist. The subject of my studies. The stuff of legends, which you so politely refer to as Mythological Undead. Here’s some news for you and the rest of the world: there’s nothing mythological about them. They’re real. They’re on the other side of that ocean. And they bite.”

  The president nods, the smile on her face wavering but a bit, the way a flame wiggles at the attack of a sudden breeze. “I had wished to give you some days to recover before addressing the handling of your experience. If it is your wish to address that now, I will be more than willing, provided that—”

  “Handling?”

  President Vale pulls out her chair, gracefully lowers herself into it, then leans across the desk with her cherry lips pursed and her eyes, bright. “Skymark is not going to pursue any criminal charges. But … there is a condition.”

  “A condition,” I say flatly, waiting for it.

  She nods at a paper and pen that rest on the desk in front of me. I look down at them, confused.

  “You must sign a statement,” the president tells me, “that says you have been to the other side of the world, and found no sign of the Undead.”

  Her words are the crack of lightning that lights a night sky. I hold my breath, gaping, and wait for the rumble of thunder to reach me.

  “In this statement that rests before you,” she goes on, “you will claim that Dana the Diviner, a known fanatic of the spiritual and the metaphysical—as well as a mentally-unstable individual—kidnapped the four of you and took you with her to the Blight.”

  There it is. “What?!” I rasp, outraged. “We can’t—!”

  “You will deny seeing anything over there but decay, ruin, and nothing,” President Vale explains. “You will—”

  “I will not!” I say, rising at once. The chair falls back with a loud thump against the tiled floor, sending an echo through the room. “Why would you deny this?” I ask. “I’ve been to Hell and back, quite literally, with the sole purpose of proving the very thing you’re telling me to deny to the world! This is big news! This is something everyone should know! This is … This is groundbreaking!”

  The president, unfazed by my outburst, lifts her chin and studies my fury with sympathetic, doughy eyes. “Jennifer, if it wasn’t for your impetus and thirst for knowledge, none of your friends’ lives would have been put in danger. I think my offer is reasonable.”

  The blame game. The guilt game. I happen to be an expert at these things, and the president cannot outplay me. “And you’ll rob me—a student with impetus and thirst for knowledge—the opportunity to make the Histories and prove, once and for all, that the Beautiful Dead exist?
Can’t you think about what that sort of discovery would do for Skymark? For the whole school? The world will be at our feet! The sponsors … The media … Why are we shutting this up and acting like it didn’t happen??”

  “There are powers greater than I, Jennifer. I’m just a woman, like you, a woman who happens to run Skymark University. But there are powers greater, powers that run the city, powers that run the government, powers and powers and more powers above me. I’m but one voice in a sea of far more powerful voices, Jennifer, and my options are limited.”

  I stare at her, my resolve crumbling at the thought. Is she saying that the government knows about this too? Am I kidding myself with this grand dream of mine?

  “Without signing this statement,” sweet President Vale continues, “the university will be forced to take action against you. John, Marianne, and yourself will be charged and convicted of your crimes—as you’ve just a moment ago confessed to them—and after a very quick trial, you’ll be imprisoned for the remainder of your lives. Not only for stealing the hovercraft,” she goes on, “but for the reckless endangerment of students’ lives, including the unwilling innocent, Connor Easton. The story we’ve spun about Dana will become a tale of you abducting her,” she adds, “and without her here, she could easily be presumed dead. We’re talking a potential murder charge, Jennifer. Once that’s in the hands of the court, neither I nor the university can protect you. They’ll deem you crazy. You’ll be sent to an asylum for adjustment therapy. Do you see how vulnerable you become without this statement?”

  I stare down at the paper, stricken by the realization of the dangerous corner I’m being painted into. Is she really protecting me, or is she protecting something else? Something … darker?

  “President—Rosella,” I say, correcting myself. “I had even considered, beforehand, coming to you directly to ask to overturn my professor’s order. He told me to omit the Undead from my dissertation. But, for years, I’ve—”

  “He was following orders,” says the president. “Same as I. This statement protects his best interests, too.”

  I shut my mouth, silenced utterly by her words.

  “Professor Praun was asked to hold an audience with you regarding your studies,” she explains calmly. “He is only doing what he’s been asked to do, Jennifer. There is a reason we keep those tomes in the Mythologies library. No one has ever taken the subject into such a light, trying to prove the stories as fact—until you.”

  “Praun … But, he … he was …” I’m at a total loss.

  “Jennifer.” The president reaches forward suddenly and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze and hanging on as she speaks. “I was just like you at your age. Oh, how I pushed and fought for my place in this world. I don’t want you to lose that fight in you, Jennifer. Don’t let this experience discourage you from your dreams.”

  “Why can’t they know?” I ask quietly, tears finding my eyes. “Why must it all … Why must it all go to waste?”

  “This is bigger than you and I. Even the crew that rescued you, they keep the secret too. It must be kept. An ocean separates us from them, and for a good reason.” She takes my hand into both of hers now, squeezing, the urgency of this matter being made clear through her pleading eyes. “My sweet Jennifer. I urge you to sign the statement. This is the only way to exonerate you of your crimes. Your mother will be so happy to see you again.”

  “My mother,” I say, hit at once by the notion that her fate rests on whether my signature is on that paper, too.

  “I didn’t even tell you the ways in which all of your friends will benefit from your signing this statement,” the president goes on, her eyes gleaming. “Connor Easton will return to his post as a delivery boy, should he want to. Your friend Marianne, she will be given as much time as she needs to recover before returning to her classes. And John Mason,” she adds lastly, a knowing shimmer in her eyes, “will be accepted as an official student here at Skymark University, starting next term.”

  That last sentence breaks my knees. I balance myself with my free hand on the desk. John will get what he wants. Marianne will have time to heal. Connor will not follow in the criminal footsteps of his brother. And I …

  And I …

  “And I get nothing,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be silly, Jennifer. You’ll be officially pardoned for your … misjudgment, we’ll call it. You’ll be treated as a survivor, Jennifer. A survivor of a very traumatic and grievous occurrence at the hands of a ‘divining’ lunatic. You will be able to return to your lessons without any interruption,” explains the president. “Your dissertation is in two days. I’ll even allow you another week of time to prepare, should you need it. You’ll only be asked to revise your section on the so-named Beautiful Dead to agree with the statement set here before you. Professor Praun will be exceptionally proud of you, Jennifer, and your peers will welcome you back as a survivor … a hero.”

  “And all of my wrongs,” I add, “will be blamed on Dana, an innocent individual.”

  “With all due respect to the Diviner, she is a world away, and will suffer no consequence. It is the right thing to do, Jennifer. You’re releasing all responsible parties with but a flick of a pen. Please.” The president squints at me with urgent emotion, her lips pursing as if she wished to kiss me. “Sign the statement.”

  I stare at the cruel paper, not really seeing it, not really seeing much of anything. Then, staring at the paper, the worst of it all stabs me right in the heart.

  “The others already signed their own statements,” I whisper, realizing the truth of it the moment the words touch my lips.

  The president nods. “All we need is yours. Then your lives will continue as they did before. Your fate’s in your own hands, Jennifer Steel.” She offers me a smile, and a gentle nod. “All you need to do is sign.”

  With a signature, I will make the Dead truly die. With one little “flick of a pen”, I will thrust the Beautiful Dead into Mythologies, into fiction, into the silly fluff of nightmares and children’s storybooks.

  The truth will have to live and die in my heart, my beating, raging heart … where it always was, and where it always belonged, I suppose.

  With a quivering sigh and a million regrets in my fingertips, I pick up the pen and stare once more at the statement. Winter. I feel the twirl of mist around me, the memory of the six rushing forth. Winter, don’t. Please. I see Truce. I see the Mayor. I see Corpsey, all these faces I’m about to sign out of existence. You did this to yourself. I see his bald, one-eyed sister begging for me to recognize her, crying for me, reaching. The only one left to blame is …

  I bring the pen to the paper.

  Two Living days later finds me standing by the glass wall of my condominium, watching as the sunrise paints the world in gold. It’s the day of my dissertation. I ache all over. Everything’s so far away and numb and lively. Ugh.

  “Ready to go?”

  I turn to John, my totally legal and allowed-to-be-here roommate. He’s dressed in a form-fitting button shirt and jeans, his hair styled handsomely and his eyes sparkling with excitement. He didn’t do anything about that stubble on his face, but I’ll let it slide; you can’t take all the rugged out of John.

  “Not really,” I confess.

  He comes across the room, his boots knocking heavily on the floor. “Still raw about the denying-the-Dead bit?”

  “No.” I hug my dissertation to my chest, its contents bound into a metal-jacketed book with steel wiring along the spine. I insisted on steel. I demanded it at the printers, ignoring the looks my odd request earned me. “It’s Mari.”

  He glances at the closed door to her room. She hasn’t come out of there since we came back home. What a lovely so-called “recovery period” she’s having in there. The therapist that visits has yet to get Mari to utter one damn word. Oh, how damn helpful everyone is.

  “She’s going to need time,” mutters John, but I hear the uncertainty in his voice, too. Just like I heard it in the therapis
t’s. Just like I saw it in the pretty, hollow eyes of President Vale. Just like I saw it in my mother’s eyes when she visited me earlier this week. Yes, we had a good cry. No, I didn’t miss my dad’s funeral. They’ve rescheduled on account of my being gone, as well as my dad’s wishes to be cremated. No, I don’t wish to describe the meeting with my grief-stricken mother in any form; my heart is plenty heavy enough for the time being, thank you.

  “So many unanswered questions,” he murmurs, lost in thoughts of his own, I suppose.

  “And we’ll never have them answered, John. We all signed the agreement.” As if I have to remind him. “Might as well forget that any of it ever happened.”

  “She’ll never forget,” he mutters. “Who knows if she’ll even honor the statement? If she even knew what she was signing? The moment she starts speaking again, she’ll spill the secret to the world and doom us all.”

  “No.” I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “The old Marianne will come back. She just …”

  “… needs her time?” offers John with a smirk.

  I pull John towards me for a hug that I desperately need and enjoy the feel of his firm body against mine, but it does less to calm my nerves than I’d hoped. Our hearts beat heavily between us, two drums in a band. Well, right now it’s more like a heavy metal band.

  “What about … the other people who were there?” I whisper over his shoulder, worried.

  “The less-than-friendly alive ones in After’s Hold? I don’t know, Jen. We may never know.”

  “They got over there somehow.”

  “I don’t know.” He kisses the top of my head, running his hand up and down my back. “We have to let it go.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe we need time, too.”

  I pull away and bring my mouth to John’s. I’ll never get tired of how our lips feel when they touch, and what silly things it does to my pulse. “Can I meet you outside?”

  “Of course,” he agrees, then gives me one dashing smile before leaving the condo.