by Connor Mccoy
Arthur had to laugh. There were no alcohol laws in effect anymore, and he didn't know where the spirits had been hiding, but the assortment of bottles and cans was astonishing. He wondered if it was a Sunday. It had been so long since the actual day of the week had been of interest to him.
But Sunday would make sense of the number of people taking the day off. If they had enough food and a fresh water supply, then taking the day for reflection and relaxation was a luxury they could afford. He approached a family sitting on an old quilt in the sunshine.
"Is this Sunday?" he asked after introductions were over.
The mother looked slightly shocked. "No," she said, "it's Wednesday."
"Then why so many in the park today?" He asked.
"The sun is shining," she said, "and it's warm. What other reason do we need?"
"None," he said. "I'm just wasn’t expecting it. Do you think I could barter a beer from you?"
The woman looked at her partner who scowled at her.
She turned back to Arthur, "Sorry." She shrugged, and he turned away.
The sun on his back was warm, so he divested himself of his jacket. He tried to barter for alcohol twice more and gave it up as a lost cause. He would look for something else to bring Chantal. He walked toward the river, scanning groups of people as he passed.
He was beginning to think he should go home and find something among his possessions when he spotted the artists. There was a group of them lined up along the Riverwalk, some standing at easels, some sitting with sketchpads. All of them faced the water or the bank on the far side, Arthur supposed.
He walked along behind them, zigzagging to get a look at the work taking shape on the various media. While the artists drawing seemed to be using conventional materials, most of the painters were working with scavenged materials, boards and house paints, old signs, and plant pigments. But on the far end was a woman working on a proper easel with stretched canvas and real artists’ acrylic paint.
Arthur stood and watched her paint in broad strokes across the canvas until she noticed him and put her brush down, turning to him with a smile.
"Don't stop painting," he said. "I'm enjoying watching you."
She turned back to her canvas but didn't pick up her brush. "You are from Koupe, aren't you?" she asked, the tension palpable in her voice.
"Yes," he replied, "but I'm only here because I'm searching for something. I'm not looking for someone."
"What are you searching for?" Her shoulders relaxed, and she picked up her brush.
"I'm not sure," he said, "maybe you could help me decide."
"Perhaps," she said, "but you'll have to tell me more about it."
He sat in the grass where he could watch her paint while they talked. "I've been tasked with bringing an object that symbolizes my loyalty to the Tribinal," he said. "I think it should be something that symbolizes hope. What do you think?"
"I think it doesn't matter what I think," she said, adding a thick arc of blue across the upper half of the canvas. "It matters what you think. What's important to you. What's significant?"
"Hope, trust, and service," rolled off his tongue before he thought twice. But why not? They were important to him. "I just don't know what symbolizes those things. I mean, you can't drag hope in by the back of the neck."
"Can you visualize hope?" she asked and waved to the opposite bank. "What would hope look like out there?"
He thought for a moment. "It would be dusk, and lights would be illuminating the path. There would be a band playing on that jetty, and lots of people on the path and the pier. Families sitting in the grass listening while their children danced in the twilight." He petered out. What in the world was he talking about?
The woman began making changes to her canvas, darkening the sky and river. Her fingers moved swiftly, quick motions that transformed the scene from daylight to twilight in very little time at all. She began adding figures to the far bank.
"If you don't mind me asking," Arthur said, "where do you get canvas, brushes, and paint? They all look brand new," he waved his hand to encompass the other artists. "Everyone else has scavenged materials."
She smiled and huffed out a laugh. "I used to own an art supply store," she said. "When the lights went out I gathered everything I could and hid it away. My shop was on a little out of the way street, so it took the looters a couple of days to get there. By that time, I had cleared the store." She grinned and continued painting.
Arthur's scene developed as he watched, the band coming to life on the wharf, spots of light and then the glow from streetlights. Tears sprang to his eyes as the paint created spots of illumination on the scene and he turned his head to wipe them away. He missed light. The dark depressed him, candles and battery lamps didn't chase the shadows from the corners.
And his eyes hurt from reading by dim light. His days were taken up with the duties of the court, his all-important reading was delegated to the night, and he couldn't focus for long. He longed for electricity, for bright light and music on demand. Food from a microwave or his pressure cooker.
He thought for a moment, realizing that he probably could find a non-electric pot like his mom used to have, but would a fire make it work? He didn't know. He took a couple of breaths and pushed the depression away. If he let it take him, he'd never make it back to the light.
The artist signed the painting with the dry end of the paintbrush, scratching the paint away to reveal a red underlayer contrasting with the dark water. She had a sense of the dramatic, he realized.
She handed it to him, saying "be careful. It's still wet."
"What do you want for this?" he asked.
"Ah," she said. "Yes. What I want is your word. If I, or a loved one, should ever run afoul of the Koupe Tribinal, I want you to remember what I have given you today, and to help me." She looked at him shrewdly. "It seems I have given you more than you bargained for, have I not?"
He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, embarrassed that she had noticed how affected he was by the painting. "What is your name?" he asked, "so I'll know it's you who's asking for me."
"Oh, you will know," she said. "I'll make sure of it." She handed him the painting. "Hold it like this." She showed him how to grip the top of the stretcher from the back holding the top edge of the frame.
Arthur took the painting and, being careful to hold it so the wet paint wouldn’t smear onto his clothing, headed back to the court, confident that he had the right gift for Chantal.
Mia was feeling anything but confident. When she’d backed Melvin, claiming his name as her own, she’d felt there was safety in numbers. If they banded together, they could save Melvin without danger. She clearly was wrong.
Sitting cross-legged on the sawdust, still overwhelmed by the smell of blood and vomit, she wondered just how long she had to live. Not long, most likely.
Sally was lying with her head in Glen’s lap, Glen was talking quietly with Melvin, and Christian had moved to the far wall and was sitting with his back against it, his eyes closed. She wished he would come back so she could lay her head in his lap. Intellectually, she knew she was not responsible for the fix they were in, but at some level, her feeling was that if she hadn’t offered her family’s city apartment, then they wouldn’t be about to lose their lives.
That they would most likely be in some other form of trouble anyway, and that the entire fiasco rested on Glen’s shoulders also popped into the forefront of her mind, but she pushed that thought away. He only was trying to do what he considered morally correct.
She rose and went over to Christian, putting her hand on his arm. “Are you alright?” she asked. “I mean, as alright as you can be in this situation.”
“I’m trying to figure a way out of this,” he said. “It would be better if I could brainstorm with Glen, but that clearly isn’t going to happen. The ‘enforcers’ would probably just bang us on the back of the head. Unconscious prisoners being quiescent prisoners.”
“They aren’t ban
ging us on the head, though,” Mia whispered. “We could brainstorm.”
“Glen has a better grasp of logistics than I do,” Christian said. “He sees the flaws in my plans.”
She rubbed the aching spot between her eyes. “You could tell me, and I could tell Glen. If I didn’t rush back and forth between you, we might get away with it.” She wanted to beg him. She needed to be doing something, anything other than just waiting for the ball to drop, hunger roiling in her stomach.
“Here’s the thing,” Christian said. “There are too many of them. We can’t get past all of them unless we either can draw them away or incapacitate them. I need ideas. Obviously knocking them all over the head with a rock isn’t going to work.”
She nodded and then sat for as long as she could bear to before she got up and went to sit with her back to Glen. She fussed around, pretending to make herself comfortable until she was just about able to talk right into his ear if she turned her head to the right. She reached for Sally’s hand in an attempt to look like she was seeking comfort rather than relaying a message.
“Christian wants to take action,” she said out of the side of her mouth, “but doesn’t know what to do. Have you thought of any ideas?”
“We all could just run in different directions,” Melvin hissed from Glen’s other side. “Some of us would get free that way.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mia hissed back. “I’m not abandoning anyone.”
“I don’t see how we all can get away,” Melvin whispered. “It would be a miracle if one or two of us got free.”
“I want to hear what Glen has to say,” she said. “Do you have any ideas, Glen?”
“Two possibilities come to mind.” He was speaking so quietly she barely could hear him. “One is during sentencing, and the other is moments before the sentence is carried out.”
His pause lasted so long she thought perhaps he had finished speaking, she shifted her weight, preparing to take her hand back from Sally and go talk to Christian, but his hand grasped her wrist. She shot her eyes his way, and he used an eyebrow and a glance at the door to indicate someone was listening.
She settled back down and waited. It was a few minutes before the shadow at the door moved on. The enforcers still eating at the back of the room did not appear to be paying the slightest bit of attention to their prisoners.
Glen’s voice reached her ears again. “When the judges are passing sentence, all eyes will be on the woman. When the sentence is carried out, all eyes will be on the enforcer executing, which I’m afraid is most likely what it will be, the execution. During those two times, it might be possible to take the others unaware. See what Christian thinks.”
Mia got up and moved back to the wall where Christian now had settled himself. He was seated, eyes closed, back against the wall and she joined him there. Her instinct was to lay her head on his shoulder and go to sleep, but she resisted, instead telling him what Glen had said and waiting for his reply.
Christian was quiet for several minutes, and Mia’s mind had traveled far from the room. She was slipping into sleep when Christian nudged her. “I think the execution of the sentence is the best time, but it doesn’t leave any room for errors. Ask Glen what he thinks.”
She looked up, caught Glen’s eye and drew a finger across her throat. He nodded. “He agrees,” she said, and seeing the look that passed between the two men, laid her head in Christian’s lap and slipped into sleep.
Chapter Three
When Arthur entered Chantal’s chambers the change in him was immediately apparent. The dejected man had disappeared and in his place was a person so buoyed by life he practically floated into the room. His fingers were stained with paint from a canvas he carried carefully by the edges. His face radiated confidence and joy.
“What did you bring me, Arthur?” she asked. “A painting?” She kept the skepticism from her voice in an attempt to stay neutral. But when he turned the painting for her to see, she understood. It was a picture of the city brought back to life. It was dusk, and the river reflected lights. There were families, people walking, skating, and dancing as a band played music on a dock. It was a painting of joy and hope and celebration, and this was what the Tribinal meant to Arthur. He saw the Court as the means for bringing the city back to life.
Her breath caught for a moment. Of course Arthur would bring something that represented the positive. A visual reminder of his hope for the city, for the people of the city. That he had such hope seemed remarkable to her. He believed they could bring life back to the city. Normalcy to the people who lived here.
She felt the power that lived in that desire.
He propped the painting against the wall and turned to her. “Has Xander returned with his gift yet?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, he hasn’t returned, and to tell you the truth, I’m hoping he doesn’t bring me back the severed head of some poor soul. He has his uses, but he hasn’t realized that brutality isn’t always the answer. This picture, though, it’s pretty powerful, that image of the city reborn. Where did you get this?”
As Arthur told her the story of his sojourn to the park, Chantal watched his face. He was a passionate man. A man of principles and morals.
When he paused, she asked him “What did you pay for this painting?”
“A favor,” he said. “If ever the artist or her family is in trouble with the Court.”
“That’s a powerful favor,” she said. “Are you sure the painting is worth it?”
“I have no doubt,” he said.
And she could see in his eyes it was true. There was no doubt that he valued the painting very highly. It was indeed a gift worthy of his loyalty to the Court.
“Leave it there where I can see it,” she said. “I’ll have it framed and hung when it’s dry. It’s a fine symbol of what we can achieve here. I will take inspiration from it.”
She meant to dismiss him, but there was a commotion in the hallway. Xander burst into the room, dragging a girl with a woman clutching her arm. The woman was hoarse, and Chantal assumed she’d been begging Xander to let the girl go. She suppressed a sigh and was thankful he had brought her a living being and not a body part.
“What have you brought me, Xander?” she asked.
“A token of my loyalty,” he said, pulling the girl forward. “A child for you to train as your companion. A leader such as yourself should not be alone so much of the time. This girl can wait on you when there is no one else to help you. She has a lovely singing voice and can entertain you. And when you tire of her, we can sacrifice her to the good of the city.”
The woman grasping the child’s arm turned white, and Chantal was afraid she might faint. Her grip on the child was leaving bruises, and the girl looked scared and confused.
“Thank you, Xander, you and Arthur may go now.” She waved them from the room, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind them that she turned to the woman.
“Is this your daughter?” she asked.
The woman nodded and blinked tears from her eyes.
“What is her name?”
“Aurelia,” said the woman and the child.
“Aurelia,” Chantal asked, “how old are you?”
“Twelve, my lady,” the child whispered.
“My name is Chantal. You do not need to address me as “my lady.” We neither live in Europe nor in the Dark Ages. My goodness, child, stop shaking. I will not harm you. And you, mother, what is your name?”
“Anna, my –” she shut her mouth on the lady. At least she was paying attention.
“Anna,” Chantal said, with as much warmth as she could muster, “I have no use for a child. Children need to be educated and cared for, and I don’t have time for that. If Aurelia wishes to come to me when she is sixteen, then she may. I do not hold slaves. If she comes, she will be paid, but the decision is entirely up to her. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded but did not relax or release her grip on Aurelia’s arm.
&nb
sp; “I will tell the man who brought you here that I sent Aurelia home to be educated before she comes to me. I do this because his pride will be wounded if he thinks I am rejecting his gift. He may come and check on you, or he may not. But if he does, tell him that you are teaching her manners and comportment, which I would expect any woman to teach her children. Manners and comportment are more and more important as civilization deteriorates.”
The woman had loosened her grip and was holding the girl's hand now.
“Teach her how to get along in the world, and educate her to the best of your ability and then come to see me in four years’ time.” She walked to the door and opened it. A girl stood at the end of the hallway and Chantal beckoned her.
“Take this woman and her daughter to the kitchens,” she said as the girl approached. “Make sure they are fed and then send them home with a week’s worth of food. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded.
Chantal looked at the woman. She looked confused and frightened. “Do you understand, Anna?” she asked of the mother. She thought for a moment the woman would shake her head no, but she gave a tentative nod.
“Good, go with this girl, and then take your daughter home.” She stood back to let them pass, but the mother grabbed her hand and kissed it.
“Thank you, Justice,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
Chantal removed her hand from the woman’s grasp and ushered her out. Why were people so exhausting? She did not need adulation from the people of this town. She was a judge, not a king.
She strode to the judges’ room where Xander and Arthur were sitting, not speaking to each other. Chantal guessed that they’d argued over who had brought the most appropriate gift. These two never would agree, and if they did, they would lose their usefulness to her. They needed to balance out each other.
“Arthur,” she said. “Go warn the enforcers that we will return to court in thirty minutes.”
He nodded, rose, and left the room.
She sat down across from Xander, watching him closely.
