by T. Wyse
“Can’t stay.” He gasped. “Let me . . . ” he began, but both staffs met him, pushing him back from further intrusion.
“Weapons first, then we’ll get you a cot. Nothing’s getting sorted till the morning. Just leave your bag. Nobody will even look in it, we promise,” the boy assured, and the girl gave a firm nod from behind frantically burning eyes. Neither of their hands trembled, but their motions betrayed an unpracticed newness to these actions.
“Hurts to stand.” He gasped. “Just, let me . . . ” He tried to shove past the staffs, but they both shoved harder, each of them igniting the staffs with a matching look of despair on their faces.
“Enough,” a voice cut the silence and chilled Kechua with surprise, offering clarity of sight a moment as he focused on the man atop the stairwell.
“Professor Barret!” the two said with wide-eyed shock, but neither dared steal more than a glance backwards at the silhouette on the stairs.
“Extinguish your flames,” the man commanded, still a silhouette, a glowing blue orb dangling from his hand. The light warped in Kechua’s fading vision, like heat off noon asphalt, but it did not burn outside its little orb.
The two hesitated, then the man parted their staffs. With a sharp pair of gestures, he quieted the flame on each of them himself.
“Why were these fired? Why are you using them inside the school?” he asked, looking down at Kechua, a vague wobbling figure in blue.
“We had to open the doors for him. He arrived just now,” the girl replied. “There were . . . ”
The man raised a silencing finger. “Think before you speak. In fact, hold what you must say until tomorrow. You will write it. Write what you are sure of, not blurt out what you think happened.” The man nodded crisply, and the two parted quickly to the opposing walls of the space, their gazes firmly pointed out into the night.
The man stood before Kechua, who found his eyes adjusting to the blue veil between them as the man made minute and certain motions to correct imperfections in his appearance. He wore a dark vest and a lighter shirt, a tie once again straightened, and a pair of pants likely matching the vest.
“Well then, what is your urgent matter? Do you have a message?” the man asked with gurgled annoyance. He straightened one of his sleeves, evidently more interested in correcting his outward persona than speaking to the boy.
Kechua tore into the man’s habits like a starving dog into meat. He focused his sight onto the faint oasis of clarity in the maelstrom and found a slight amount of collection as his reward. The swaying lamp smudged the crevices of the man’s face into gibberish.
“I’m here for someone,” Kechua bit, keeping his spiritual jaws clamped against a new tide of biting rats rising to gnaw at his calves. “Someone strange, maybe, touched in some way,” he blurted but regretted his stumble.
The man straightened his second cuff, buttoning it up, then turned to Kechua. “This school is a place for unconventional thinking and open minds. There are a great many who would fit that description.” He looked up, meeting the boy’s eyes, his lantern casting a muffling glow between the two of them.
“I am James Barret,” the man said, breaking a moment of silence. Kechua’s eyes locked back on his stare, away from the silly guardians.
“K-Kechua,” the boy sputtered.
James looked at him, his eyes opening from a state of mild annoyance to one of a kind of knowing surprise. “Really?” His head moved sideways, sizing up the boy. The lantern was drawn closer to Kechua’s face. The blue light stung at his eyes and he swore he could hear the tiniest humming shriek as the object cut through the darkened air between them.
“Kechua, hm,” James repeated.
“Professor, is everything alright?” the girl asked with a trembling voice, bold enough to glance back at them with panicked wide eyes. She gripped her staff tight but made no motion to reignite it.
“Quite alright.” The man, “the professor” to them, turned and gave a nodding gesture that alleviated their discomfort.
“Well, Kechua, why don’t we speak in my office. I’m awake already, so I suppose I can spare the time. Perhaps we can talk freely there and figure out how I can help you.” He smiled.
The gnawing waves tossed Kechua’s legs and through his chest, but even as he winced, he caught a glimmer in the man’s eyes. Not quite malevolent, but a wide-eyed anticipation cast upon ragged black bags.
“This way, please.” The man’s light bobbed up the steps.
“Sir, he’s armed,” the boy said.
“Yes, thank you, I see,” the professor replied without looking back. “I trust you will not raise them while you are visiting?”
“Won’t hurt anyone,” Kechua replied. “Not here to . . . ” And then another chorus of the electric shrieking washed over him as he ascended the stairs behind the man.
He followed the man through the inky pitch of a hallway, lit only by the bobbing lantern. The walls, floor, and even the quiet track lighting above stank of the industrial world, of those outposts the miners created, and yet those were something serving to ground him. A river of footsteps, akin to the college, sang like a tinny hummingbird against the grinding roar of the waterfall, allowing him a brief icy chill of clarity.
“There is a man with a staff. He might have come here today,” Kechua fought the words out as they walked.
“Mm?” James muttered without looking back.
“If he’s here, he’s dangerous. If he’s here, then he’s after that person,” Kechua continued, walking carefully in the man’s wake on the floor.
“A man with a staff, hm?” The man shrugged. “Not very descriptive.”
“Shaved head, huge man, muscular. The staff is . . . it’s not something you would forget. It’s carved and—” A flight of stairs appeared before them, and Kechua found himself staggering with a gasp, the nausea rising again. Through the doors, grey concrete stairs beckoned upwards.
“Are you able to continue?” the man bit with a droll tinge.
“Yes, yes, I can.” Kechua sucked in and out, the screaming and grinding electricity a manageable hum.
“I know all of our entries and exits. No man has come with a staff ever. Now, regarding a ‘muscular’ and ‘large’ man, did he have a beard? Was his name Osmond by any chance?” The professor ushered him towards the open doors.
“He called himself Rutger, but that’s just the name he gave.” Kechua followed the man into the stairs. “No beard.”
“Unlikely then.” The man fell silent with an eerie disinterest.
Kechua followed, his brain clawing desperately to prepare the correct words; the right phrasing to win him over, to let him speak to this student of his. In the end, he could only grasp the barest sentiment of it, of coming in peace, before they returned to the white clay and the screaming resumed in force.
They emerged into a near identical hallway, and yet the memory bit at him differently there. There was a sickly feeling to it, like licking rusty copper, and it resonated in his throat, causing it to spasm.
He followed the man’s smooth pace and fought his attention towards the man’s steps as the feeling only grew. The wisp led him sharply right and into a hallway of thick air. The smooth floor of concrete was replaced with thin ornamental carpeting. The walls, reminiscent of a school, were replaced by display cases akin to some claustrophobic museum.
He glanced at the things behind the glass, metallic shapes sitting broodingly in darkened aquariums. Clinging nausea tugged at his throat, rising into a dizzying sway of his head. He tried to shake it off, feeling at the etchings on his clubs, forcing his attention into the uncarved grain.
The hallway ended with another sharp turn and a pair of darkened wood doors. The light dimmed and he stumbled through as the man threw them open.
They emerged into a black abyss, with two forms of light fighting against it in the open space. First upon the line of battling the dark were a legion of the little blue lamps, each doing an equal part to illumi
nate the room. The little blue soldiers manned stations along bookshelves bordering the exterior wall and the interior oasis, giving the room a pair of pale halos and a moat of blackness between them.
Second, tiny white stars, doing little but drawing lines upon the floor, served as a guide towards and up the short flight of stairs into the rounded central nook of the room.
Another feeling crept up Kechua’s spine, but it only ground against his back and skull. No more nausea, no more slamming of dirt against his bones, but rather a needling shriek biting at his back, tickling his lungs like nibbling worms. The machine’s voice sang here above all others, drowning out all others; squashing the memory of all others. This feeling was singular, one long history; one solid universe below. It was so clear, loud, and passionate that it nearly silenced the churning gears of the whirlpool.
They followed the bridge of stars over the abyssal moat, and when they crossed into the walls of the office, the biting electricity of the clay’s touch muted. It ceased entirely as Kechua slumped down into one of the chairs before the desk. He squirmed out of the pack and slipped it onto the floor beside him.
Stacks of papers painted in blue light trembled at him from all around, leaving not a single flat surface unblemished by their cold touch. James set his lamp upon the desk and brought three more down from the ledge around the office. They formed a neat row of blue lights between the two of them.
“I’m glad you’ll sit at least.” James chuckled, slumping low into his own chair, betraying some of his own exhaustion through the guise of perfect neatness.
Kechua lifted his legs up, and to his delirious delight, the electricity stopped gnawing at him, leaving only the grip of the rattling shrieking machine upon him.
“Now then, we are free of prying ears.” James ruffled a few papers, searching for order perhaps. “Who is it you are looking for?”
“Please, this man is dangerous,” he said without needing to gasp, unsure of how to phrase his other question.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure. I’ll let the others know to watch for him. Now, who is it you are looking for?” The man doubled his pointed interest.
“I’m not sure,” he said with clear breaths.
“You really . . . aren’t sure?” The man narrowed his eyes, turning his head slightly. “Is it a relative of yours? A friend of yours? Someone related to this dangerous man?”
“Someone, similar.” Kechua thought. “Someone who may seem insane but sees something that others cannot.”
“So, you came here in the dead of night and don’t even know who it is you’re here for? Just that they’re in danger?” He chuckled.
Kechua scowled but was shamefully silent. “I think you’d know who I’m looking for. In fact, I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.” He narrowed his eyes. “I wonder if they’re not here because they want to be. I wonder if they’re a prisoner, maybe being used . . . ”
“We have over one hundred here currently. The vast majority are students, children younger than you.” James spoke into his sleeve while he rummaged through his stacked papers. “If you could give me a description of some kind, where they were from . . . ”
“I can’t,” Kechua answered, frustrated.
“I don’t quite know what you expect me to do then.” James smiled. “You, however, I know you.” He produced a newspaper clipping, unreadable in the light between Kechua and itself. “I’ve been looking into these things, studying them, watching them. I never thought this was all that important; never thought it was all that significant, and yet here you are boy. Here you are.”
“Fine.” Kechua couldn’t suppress a growl. “If you know all about these things . . . ”
“Oh I do.” James gave a knowing—and somehow sinister—grin.
Kechua’s words poured out free and foolish. “Then we can talk openly. I have bested my challenge, I have walked in the wastes, I have seen the others like myself and the one here, and I have seen . . . ” He stumbled on the thought. “I have seen terrible fates.”
James shifted in his chair, a raised eyebrow, and a scowl the only response. He raised from his comfortable slump and picked at his loosened cuffs.
“Child or not, they need to be free. Let me speak to them at least.” He leaned forward, gripping the desk, then retracted as one of his legs slothfully grazed the floor.
“Not a trader or messenger, but a kidnapper then?” James chuckled with mired condescension. “Are you sure it’s a man with a staff I need to be worried about, not a young man with a pair of clubs? They seem ‘carved ornately’ as well.”
“I just want to talk. I just want to make sure they’re safe. I need them to know what I know, to hear what I have to say.” Kechua’s foot grazed the floor again, and a particularly sharp wave of screams in chorus ran a filleting jab up his leg and into his side. He squirmed in the chair and threw himself back onto it. “This place is wrong, poison, can’t you feel it? If you can’t feel it, then know that they must feel it. They have to!” The grinding metal lapped up one of his ribs, sparking a pointing bite at his heart.
“Fine.” The man cupped his hands together. “You can meet this person, and we’ll make sure everyone knows about this ‘Rutger.’”
Kechua looked at the man, stunned and pleased.
“On two conditions.”
Kechua’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach.
“The first is that you wait until the morning. You may sleep on one of the couches in the commons room, or perhaps . . . ”
“What’s the second?” Kechua snarled, realizing this would be the weightier of the two.
“Information, simply. I need to hear your story, everything you’ve seen, everything you know. I can taste the insight and experience you’re hiding, even now, and I want to share in it.” James nodded. “Everything, beginning to end. Even explain to me what it is that seems to pain you so. This isn’t just exhaustion. This is something else.”
“Let me speak to them first, and then . . . ”
“And I need a sample of your blood.”
Kechua stood slowly, his rage burning hot enough that it managed to fight the needling pain to a crawl.
“I see the stains on your pack. You’ve been cut, you’ve seen wounds, haven’t you? Not a scar on you, I’d bet. I have samples enough so far, and I’ve created a salve, a wondrous thing that lets others share in that healing gift. With more research, with your help and donated blood, we could make it all the more . . . ”
“No.” Kechua sneered down. “You’ve drawn blood from them then. Were these samples given willingly? I’d like to know myself.”
“Come now, this is hardly reasonable.” James rose to meet him, leaning on his desk.
“Show me this person. Only then will I consider any offer,” Kechua growled, a humming harmony accompanied the bite at his back.
“I suppose we’re done here. Will you be going directly back into the dark then?” James shrugged. “You are still welcome to stay, of course.”
Kechua stood there in silence, rage welling inside him. The grinding shriek of the place gnawed at his arms, poked into his eyes, and grated against his skull.
“I will give you one thing for free, words that should be shared even amongst enemies.” Kechua stood to his full height. “This world is temporary; this blankness a sleeping stump waiting to be carved. Everything you know, everyone you know still lives and waits somewhere.”
“You sound like the children.” James shriveled back into his chair. “Talk of the forest and seeing everyone, and just knowing they’re alive.” He sighed, his hands cupped together pensively. “I understand the sentiment. I feel it myself to a degree, yet my forest is empty, it seems. I do wonder why this suggestion creeps into the dreams as it does. You could stay and help us discover it. Would it be so terrible to simply keep talking?” he offered, almost pleading.
Kechua spoke clearly as he said, “Talk is good, but I’m here for a reason. You must free the Bl . . . the one here.” He man
aged to catch the word.
“Or you will do what?” The man rolled his fingers upon the desk.
“Then . . . I . . . ” Kechua clacked his teeth and felt Wolf’s lapping breath upon his neck. He fought the feeling, wrestled it away, stabbed at it, and managed to stifle it.
“I don’t know,” he said again with clarity. “But I will be back tomorrow.”
“Will you be coming in the night again?” James cut Kechua off with droll venom.
“I will.” Kechua nodded. “I will carve my way through the night itself with my own hands. You will, in the meantime, speak to the one imprisoned here. If you have not done that at least, you will see what I do. You will tell them I was here, or you will see what I do.”
“Oh, and what will you do?”
“I will come charging through, out of the night, and I will turn this stain over and find them myself. I will smash every wall and every door and every pane of your stupid glass if I have to.” Kechua brought the pack back to his shoulders and returned down the path of starlight.
“I can say that if nothing else, I would be delighted for you to try your hand at smashing the coloured glass and carving at the clay. Maybe give it a go on your way out?” James offered with a mock hope, following behind the boy. “To your left, if you would.” James gave muttering chase to Kechua, waving him down the hallway of glass and relics.
“Th-this way please.” The boy from the front doors met him in the hall, his staff not by his side.
Kechua stood a moment, looking above. Angled glass reflected the blue lamplight, and a skylight looked into the blank space above.
“Please,” the boy repeated and held the door to the stairs.
“Again, we don’t want to set you out into the darkness,” the boy rambled on, sounding as if he were reciting a script. “You can stay I think, really.”
Kechua gathered his breath and conscience and passed through the doors, onto the ground floor. He broke into a hastened pace, but not an outright run, just fast enough that his footfalls struck hard against the biting barbs of the white clay.
“Wait, please!” the girl exclaimed as Kechua got to the landing again. She tossed the boy his staff, and they took their sides. “Please, just . . . ” Her hand graced his arm again.
