The Portal

by Richard Bowker

  If they were here.

  I lay awake that night in my cold attic room thinking about it some more. In the morning I was still thinking about it as I washed up outside, and then ate a hard biscuit and some thin porridge in the mess. I went over to Coolidge Palace with Professor Palmer, but I didn't say anything about going to the Fens camp; he would've gone nuts. It turned out he didn't even want me to visit Kevin anymore.

  "But I haven't had any problems at all going to the hospital," I pointed out.

  "Yes, but it keeps getting worse in the city," he responded. "I hear there was a riot at Dock Square yesterday."

  "I don't go anywhere near Dock Square. And Kevin is expecting me."

  He just shook his head. "I can't allow it, Larry," he said. "Things are just too dangerous, and you are too valuable to us. If Peter could take you, then wait and bring you back, that would be acceptable. But Lieutenant Carmody can't spare him any longer."

  This wasn't good. Especially since I didn't feel very valuable. On the palace grounds I mostly just hung around and got in the way. Professor Palmer was usually in meetings or supervising something. Once I saw President Gardner, along with Vice President Boatner and Lord Percival, but he barely nodded to me. The three of them looked pretty tired. I heard that the Portuguese and Canadian diplomats were meeting with them off and on, but no one had any idea how the negotiations were coming. For all any of us knew, the war could be over at any minute, with New England surrendering and all our efforts wasted.

  After lunch I decided that I couldn't stand it, so I just wandered away. The soldiers with the big plumed hats at the gate knew me, and they let me out without a problem.

  I was fine as I walked through the heart of the city, but I began to get nervous as I came to Cheapside. When Kevin and I had walked through it before, it had been nighttime, and we hadn't really seen just how run-down the place was, with its narrow dirt lanes and wretched shacks. No more hogs snuffling around in the alleys, though—they'd all been eaten long ago, I supposed. And no more music and laughter from inside the saloons. The only people I saw were hunched in doorways, and they stared at me suspiciously. I began to be conscious of my warm coat, which had looked pretty shabby when the lieutenant had first handed it to me. But I thought: these people don't have enough energy to attack me.

  At last I made it through Cheapside and reached the military buildings outside the camp. It felt strange to see them again, after so much had happened.

  Near the barracks I spotted Chester, the guy who was in the brig with us. He was digging a big hole in the ground with some other soldiers. "Graves," he said when he saw me. "Need lots of graves."

  I shuddered and hurried on.

  There seemed to be a lot more soldiers guarding the camp, and the fence looked higher and sturdier. I searched for a familiar face, and finally I spotted one. "Caleb!" I called out.

  He was standing in front of the barracks, talking to some other soldiers. His beard was scruffier than I remember and, like everyone, he looked thinner. He glanced over when I called his name and smiled. "Hello, mate!" he said. "What brings you back here? I hear you was involved in that secret business at the Palace."

  "I got the day off. I was wondering—can I get into the camp?"

  "Now why would you want to do that, mate?" he asked. "It's nasty in there. Everyone who's inside just wants to get out."

  "I'm looking for a friend."

  He shook his head. "Know where he's camped?"

  "Not really."

  "Then you'll not have much luck, I fear."

  "But I need to try," I said, starting to feel desperate.

  Caleb shrugged. "Suit yourself. Let's go find Sergeant Hornbeam. Easy enough to get in, I suppose. The trick is getting back out. Used to be folks could wander outside, as long as they came back before curfew. Those days are gone now. Too many people, not enough of anything else."

  He brought me inside the barracks to a little office next to Colonel Clarett's—the one where I had first met Lieutenant Carmody. Sergeant Hornbeam was sitting there writing on a sheet of paper.

  "Sergeant, look who's come back to visit!" Caleb said.

  The sergeant looked up at me. If I was expected him to be happy to see me, I was mistaken. He just seemed puzzled and maybe a little annoyed. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "He wants to go visiting in the camp," Caleb said.

  "By yourself? Is Lieutenant Carmody with you?"

  "No, uh, just me. But I've got a pass from him."

  I dug it out and gave it to him. He studied it. "Odd," he muttered, then handed the pass back to me. "Hold onto it," he said. "But take my advice and don't go into the camp."

  "I'll be careful," I promised.

  He shook his head. "We only go in there to cart out the dead now. But suit yourself. Show the pass to get back out. If there's a problem, tell the guards to find me."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  He waved me away, and Caleb escorted me out of the barracks.

  "So," Caleb said as we walked over to the camp gates, "what does headquarters have up its sleeve? Flying airships, that's what Fred heard. Hundreds of feet above Coolidge Palace."

  "I can't really talk about it, Caleb."

  "Could you just tell me if there's something, mate? Folks is getting mighty nervous, I don't mind telling you. There's also rumors that the president's going to surrender by week's end. So are we fighting, or are we giving up? It'd be good to know what's what."

  "I don't know about surrendering," I said. "But I know they're working on some things at Coolidge Palace, and I'm pretty sure they're going to help."

  "As long as they're still trying, that's a good sign. Here you go, mate."

  We had reached the main gates. There were several soldiers standing guard. A crowd of people on the other side of the fence was yelling at one of them, demanding to be let out. The guards just ignored them.

  "This here is Larry from headquarters, Sergeant," Caleb said to the soldier in charge. "He's to be let in and out of the camp, though why he wants to go in there is beyond me."

  "He'll learn soon enough," the sergeant replied with a shrug. "Take a couple of men and go to the side gate. Fix bayonets, in case you have to clear a path."

  "Right." Caleb found a couple of his friends, and we went along the fence till we reached another gate, also heavily guarded, but with only a few people on the other side. Caleb and the guards put their bayonets on, then unlocked the gate and pretty much shoved me inside, while pushing back the people who lunged forward, trying to get out.

  "Thanks, Caleb!" I shouted as I made my way through the people.

  "Fare you well, mate!" he said. "And be careful!"

  And there I was, back inside the camp.

  Chapter 17

  "Help me, help me, I'm dying!"

  An old man was kneeling on the ground by the gate. He grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go.

  The other people ignored him. His eyes were watery; he didn't have any teeth. His whole body was shaking.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "There's nothing—"

  "I have no one," he said. "I can't make it to the food line. Please help, else I'll die."

  "I'm sorry," I repeated. "I don't... I can't... " I pulled away from him; he wasn't strong enough to stop me.

  Maybe this was a big mistake, I thought.

  My next thought was: It really stinks in here.

  I moved away from the gate and looked around. I thought the place had been crowded before, but now there were people everywhere, jammed together for as far as I could see alongside the narrow dirt paths. All the animals were gone, too, except for some sad-looking horses and donkeys. I remembered the cows and goats and oxen tied to the wagons that people were driving into the city the day Kevin and I arrived. Eaten by now, I figured, or dead of starvation.

  I started walking. That first night, things had been kind of mellow in the camp: people singing, kids playing, old men smoking pipes in front of fires... Now all the m
ellowness was gone. People were mostly just sitting down, on the ground or in their wagons, wrapped in blankets, staring at nothing with dead eyes. A lot of the men were holding rifles in their laps. With soldiers afraid to enter the camp, I guess I understood why. There were lots of people walking along the paths, too; some of them looked pretty scary, like they'd kill you if they thought you had a loaf of bread on you. I really didn't feel like asking anyone if they knew a Barnes family from Glanbury. Just looking at people made me nervous.

  So I walked. And I thought: How am I going to find anyone in this huge, crowded place? What if I don't recognize my family? What if my father has a beard, or Cassie has a different hairstyle, or they're all so bundled up that I walk right past them?

  I wandered around for a long time until I started to get tired. I stopped at an intersection of two paths and tried to decide what to do. Should I just give up? I couldn't stay here forever. I still had a long walk back through Cheapside to headquarters.

  I realized that I had a lump in my throat. Now that I was here, now that I'd taken the risk and gotten myself in trouble with Professor Palmer and Lieutenant Carmody, I really didn't want this to be a waste of time. I really wanted to find my family, or Kevin's family, or someone. Mostly I wanted my original idea to come true—I wanted to help my mother.

  Then I saw a fight break out. "You filthy picker!" someone shouted. And two kids my age were dragging another kid down to the ground, where they started punching and kicking him.

  I started to turn away. Not my problem, like the old man by the gate. But no one else was breaking up the fight, and it looked like the kid on the ground was going to get killed.

  Something made me go over there. "Hey!" I shouted, and I dragged one of the kids away from the fight. He was short but tough-looking. He glared at me. "What's your problem, mate?" he demanded.

  Meanwhile the kid they were beating up managed to scramble to his feet. He looked at me for a second, and then started to run away. The other kid took off after him. The tough-looking kid broke away from my grasp and punched me in the stomach. I gasped for breath and my legs buckled; he really knew how to punch. But he didn't stay to punch me again; instead, he turned and ran after the other kids.

  When I managed to catch my breath I started running after all of them. Because the kid they had been beating up was Stinky Glover. Not as fat as in our world, but I'd recognize that face anywhere.

  I couldn't find them, though. They were lost in the maze of paths. I kept going until I was sure it was useless, and then I stopped to catch my breath again.

  A picker. That was slang in this world for a thief. It figured that Stinky would be a picker.

  I had lost him, and that was bad. But still, I was excited. If Stinky was here, then Kevin was right. Why couldn't my family or his family be here too? I just had to keep looking.

  But where? Just wandering around wasn't working. There had to be a better way.

  In the distance I saw people lined up. For food? The privies? I went over to the line. Everyone had a bucket. They were waiting for water, I realized.

  The line moved fairly quickly. I walked alongside, trying to glance at the people in it. As usual, they looked back at me suspiciously. Who was I? Was I going to cut in front of them? I didn't recognize anyone. At the front of the line was a little stream that went through a corner of the camp. People were filling their buckets from the stream. There were plenty of soldiers there to keep the line orderly. I recognized one of them—he had been loading the sacks of grain that wicked hot first day. He nodded to me. "What're you doing here, mate?" he asked.

  "Just looking for someone."

  "Most everyone passes by here sooner or later. No lack of water at least. And it's not giving everyone the flux the way it did back in September. Still not the cleanest stream in the world, y'understand."

  Mr. Harper had mentioned the flux. I figured it was something like diarrhea. "What happens when the stream freezes?" I asked.

  "Ah. None of us'll be here by that time, I trust. If we are, there'll be worse things to worry about than the flux."

  He fell silent, and I studied the people in line. Even though it only took a few seconds to fill your buckets, the line stretched out a long ways. If it was this bad getting water, I wondered what it was like getting food—if there still was any food. People probably spent a lot of their day just standing in line.

  I stuck my hands in my armpits to keep them warm. Sometimes I'd walk up and down the line. Sometimes I sat on a tree stump nearby. Occasionally there was a fight when someone tried to cut into the line, and the soldiers would move quickly to break it up. But for the most part people just shuffled along in silence waiting their turn. A lot of them looked too tired to fight, or to care about anything.

  At some point I noticed a distant booming. Artillery, I decided. Had the final battle started? The booming quickly became constant. An old woman standing in line started to weep.

  It was getting late. I wasn't going to make it back to headquarters before curfew. I had my pass, but that wasn't going to do much good if some policeman decided to shoot me. And how much trouble was I was going to be in if I did make it back? I was afraid to leave, though. If I left, would I ever be able to return?

  I was getting hungry. And thirsty, watching all that water go by. I must've stopped paying attention for a while. I know I was feeling sorry for myself, even with these people all around me who were a lot worse off than I was, even with Kevin lying bored to death in the hospital. So I didn't see her until she had already gone to the river and filled her buckets.

  Long black hair, shining blue eyes—I knew it was her, even wearing a long skirt and a shapeless jacket. Even looking exhausted and worried.

  My first response was the same one I felt in English class, in the cafeteria, in the world neither of us inhabited now. I couldn't say anything to her. I was just too shy. She had already gone past me when I got over it. Things had changed. This was important.

  "Nora!" I called out.

  She just kept walking.

  I went after her. "Nora?" I repeated when I had caught up to her.

  There was no recognition, just puzzlement and suspicion, in those blue eyes. "My name's not Nora," she said, and my heart sank.

  Chapter 18

  I tried one last time. "You're not Nora Lally?"

  She looked puzzled. "I'm Sarah Lally," she said, "Not Nora."

  "From Glanbury?" I asked.

  "Yes." She put her buckets down. "Your accent—are you from these parts? Do I know you?"

  Same person, different first name. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. It made sense, right? They had old-fashioned names here. They wouldn't necessarily be called the same thing as in our world.

  I didn't know how to answer her question. It's me, Larry, I wanted to say. From English class? I gave that oral report on Mark Twain last year, and you laughed a couple of times—remember? "No, I guess you don't know me," I managed to say.

  "But how do you know my surname?"

  For all the time I'd spent thinking about meeting someone in the camp, I hadn't really come up with the right answer for that sort of question. Should I tell her the truth? If not, what story could I possibly come up with? I decided to do what Kevin and I had done with the Harpers—just ignore the hard questions. So instead I just asked my own. "I wonder, Sarah—do you know the Barnes family?"

  A wagon came lumbering down the path, and we had to get out of the way. My heart was pounding as I waited for her response. "Of course I know the Barnes family," she said. "They have the farm over next to the Johnson's. Do you know them, too?"

  "Yeah, I—I'm related. Are they here by any chance, in the camp? I've been looking for them."

  Sarah nodded. "Mostly all of us are here, sad to say."

  Finally. I thought I was going to explode from excitement. "Do you know where they are? Could you—would you take me to them? I'd be really grateful."

  "Surely." She stared at me. "You do look like
a Barnes, I believe. What's your name?"

  "Larry. Larry, uh, Palmer."

  "Larry." She smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Larry." She held out her hand, and I shook it. It was the first time I'd ever touched Nora—I mean, Sarah. Her hands were rough and chafed. This was way different from going to school at The Gross.

  "Can I help you with those buckets?" I asked.

  She looked down at them and sighed. "That would be very kind of you," she said. "I tire so much more easily nowadays. We can drop them off with my family, and then I'll take you to the Barneses."

  I picked up one of the buckets, and we started walking. "What part of the camp does your family live in?" Sarah asked.

  "I'm not staying in the camp. We live in the city."

  She looked at me. "I don't understand," she said. "Then why are you here?"

  "I wanted to find them—the Barneses. We've never met."

  "But I thought you were related."

  This was already getting complicated. "It's a long story," I said, hoping that Sarah didn't ask to hear it.

  Luckily she didn't. Instead she started asking me about how things were going in the city. Did we have enough to eat? Was there a lot of robbery and looting? What news had I heard about the war? The distant booming seemed louder now. Were we fighting the enemy at last?

  I told her what I knew, which was a lot more than she did. But I couldn't exactly make her feel optimistic about the war.

  "I know we're not supposed to say this, but I think it would be better if we surrendered, don't you?" she said. "My father has joined the army—all the men have gone. It would be wonderful if he didn't have to fight. At least we'd be safe, and we could leave this wretched camp and go back home."

  "Sure, if the Portuguese let people go home," I said.

  "You think they'd take our farm?"

  "I don't know. If we surrender, what's to stop them from taking everything?"

  "Oh my," she murmured. "That's very true."