The Flight from Kar (The Emperor's Library

by Frederick Kirchhoff

  “Where?”

  He ignored her hostility.

  “Up there, below the wall. Yellow flowers, and also very small blue and purple ones. I’d never noticed them before. They’re tiny but amazingly beautiful. Each has four petals, three light and one dark, and the center is white—a dot of white surrounded by blue and purple. I’ll show you if you’d like.”

  The woman grunted.

  “You see the way men fritter away their lives, Emmy? We thresh while this boy looks at flowers. Be-you-ti-ful flowers, he calls them.”

  “I’m not allowed to help with the harvest,” Jon replied. “I’d work if you’d let me.”

  “Boys aren’t permanent members of the community,” Emmy explained—as if the fact were new information. “You’re only a guest.”

  “Emmy, don’t waste your breath saying what he already knows. We want to find out about the man.” She glared at Jon. “The boys saw him on the mountain. You were up there yourself. Did you see anyone?”

  Jon put on a face of amazement.

  “A man? No, I’m sure there wasn’t a man. I’ve been here since right after lunch and I haven’t seen anyone. How close did the boys get to him?”

  “They saw him in the distance.”

  “By the White Wall. They said they saw him in the rocks by the White Wall,” Emmy added.

  “Then they must have seen me. I wasn’t far from the White Wall. We’re allowed to climb that high,” he reminded her. “And from below I could be mistaken for a man. I’m tall for my age.”

  “What’s your name?” Marge asked Jon.

  “Jon.”

  “Yes, Jon—I remember now, Maya’s son, the twin whose sister died at birth. Jon, you talk half too smart for your own good. I think you should repeat what you just told us to one of the Mothers. She’ll know whether you’re telling the truth. And she’ll want to know why you didn’t head straight for the village when the bell was set off.”

  The twin whose sister died at birth? No one had ever told him that. He knew his mother—a thin woman who used to nod at him when they passed, until he’d tried to start a conversation. He’d imagined she’d jump at the opportunity, but it didn’t work out that way. “Never speak to me again,” she’d said fiercely. He’d thought she was about to strike him across the face.

  If he’d been a girl it would have been lawful to speak to her, although even between mothers and daughters no special bond was expected. Girls were children of the community; all older women were their mothers. And each woman was expected to bear at least one daughter. Thus, having a boy twin live and his sister die must have been painful. But he’d heard nothing about the circumstances of his birth before today.

  First the stranger, then this other news, and now he had to face one of the Mothers. Everything was coming at once.

  ▲

  If the valley was a prison, the Mothers were the jailers. The oldest women were revered for their wisdom, but Jon suspected they could be little wiser than the girls they’d once been, and he’d spent enough time with girls to know that, like boys, few had much sense. For that reason the prospect of interrogation unnerved him. Stupid people were hard to predict. At the very least, he couldn’t risk contradicting himself. Unable to grasp the big picture, that was the kind of thing they picked up on.

  Jon expected someone he’d seen before, but the Mother they brought him to was unfamiliar. She was sitting in a doorway brightened by the late sunlight, mending a fabric. She’d pulled her white hair from her face, but a tress had fallen across her forehead. Focused on her work, she brushed it aside absentmindedly. It took a cough from Marge to catch her attention.

  Or had it? For the Mother showed no surprise at the sound. Had she simply been waiting for someone to speak?

  “Mother Lyla,” Marge said. “We’ve brought Jon to you because he was wandering up by the White Wall where the youngsters saw a man. He claims it must’ve been him, because he’d climbed there after the midday meal and he’d seen nobody else. If he’s telling the truth, part of his story makes sense. He’s tall, so he could be taken for a man; and he has dark hair, and the boys said the intruder had dark hair. But they see Jon every day, so why didn’t anyone recognize him?”

  “He was at a distance,” Emmy pointed out.

  Marge grunted.

  “Yes, he was at a distance. But Jon’s not wearing green, and the boys said the man was wearing green.”

  “Light can make colors different,” Emmy ventured. “Especially far away. Distance does tricks with your eyes.”

  At first, Jon thought Emmy was trying to help him; then he realized she simply prided herself on accuracy. She didn’t care about him in the least. Yet how had he known that? he wondered.

  “I’d like to know what he was doing on the Boundary Mountain,” Marge said. “So high and all that. None of the other boys ever go that far, where the ground gets steep and it’s hard to keep your balance. Lots of places to hide there, too.”

  “He said he was looking at flowers,” Emmy reminded her.

  Marge shook her head. No boys cared about flowers.

  “He told us that and a lot of other stuff, Mother Lyla. He’s the kind with a ready answer, but not the sort you’d trust.”

  “Then you were wise to bring him,” Lyla said, studying her needlework, as if nothing were more important. “Although he’s too old to be called a boy,” she added. “Jon, pull that stool over and sit where I can see you. I’d like to hear your account of what you were doing at the White Wall.”

  Almost casually, she glanced back at the two women.

  “Marge, you and Emmy may go now.”

  “We’ll stay ‘round the corner—in case he gets dangerous,” Marge said. “Just call and we’ll come running.”

  “Thank you, but the precaution’s unnecessary. I can handle any danger this young man poses.”

  The flicker of a smile crossed her face. Marge scowled at Jon, then strode off, Emmy scampering to keep up.

  “I think I told you to sit down,” Lyla reminded him.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, pulling up the stool.

  But she waited for Marge and Emmy to be well away before turning to him. Jon could identify no physical resemblance, but her smile reminded him of John’s.

  “So you were exploring the mountain?” she asked, still in the casual way she’d used with Marge and Emmy. Jon’s first thought was that she was laying a trap, but somehow he knew she was on his side. It was as if he had a clue to her feelings.

  “Yes. I go there a lot,” he replied, trying to sound as noncommittal as Lyla.

  “The view is beautiful, the higher you climb. You don’t realize the full extent of the southern peaks until you see them from the Boundary Mountain. Funny, the way it takes height to see height.”

  How much like John she talked—as if words meant more than one thing at the same time.

  “I saw the peaks, but, like Emmy told you, I climbed to look at the flowers.”

  She seemed amused.

  “Ah, yes. Those yellow flowers that bloom before the rains come—thousands of stars nestling in the crevices. And you must have seen the even smaller blue and purple flowers scattered among them. It’s hard to imagine anything growing among rocks, but they manage it, and to me the late summer flowers are more beautiful than the rush of blooms in spring. I used to explore the Boundary Mountain myself before I assumed my adult duties—important duties, as you can see—mending linen and interrogating an occasional miscreant. I climbed up to see the fall flowers, but not often, since I didn’t want to appear frivolous. Isn’t that absurd? I’ve sometimes wished I’d been a man, so I could be as frivolous as I desired without anyone raising her eyebrow.

  “And that was all you went to see—flowers?” she asked.

  Posing the question, she moved toward him, her face filled with kindness. He’d never imagined a Mother could share feelings with a boy, yet surely that was what she was doing. Jon felt an urge to reveal everything. She was the on
e person who’d understand him—but he felt John’s greenstone next to his chest.

  “Sometimes I like to be alone,” he ventured.

  “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? I suspect you don’t spend much time with other boys.”

  It wasn’t an accusation, yet Jon felt a need to defend himself.

  “I have a friend.”

  “A friend?—that’s good. What’s his name?”

  “Alf.”

  “Does he climb the mountain, too?”

  “Sometimes, although not so high as I went today. Alf isn’t good at climbing. He slips on the rocks.”

  “So you and Alf like to explore the Boundary Mountain together. Is that all you do?”

  What was she was getting at? Jon had never imagined his friendship with Alf important, yet Lyla seemed to think it was.

  “Yes, Ma’am. That’s all,” he said. “We look at things and talk about them. Alf is interested in birds.”

  “Ah. Two young men after my own heart. But this man the children saw—you’re sure you didn’t see him? Or say anything to him?”

  She was trying to trick him, Jon thought. But not in a bad way. He was certain of that. Goodwill was flowing from her. He could almost taste it. Still, he’d be loyal to John, even though he now wanted to be loyal to Lyla as well, although he couldn’t have explained why.

  “I didn’t see anybody, so I must have been the one the boys saw. They probably caught a glimpse of me among the rocks. Emmy was right about colors. In the shadows, gray can look like anything.”

  “That’s very likely. If the women find someone, it will prove you wrong, of course. But if they don’t, then I’d say you’ve offered the best explanation. After all, how could a man get here?”

  She looked at him steadily.

  “He’d have to come from Bent Lake, and he’d have been seen at the gate,” Jon said.

  “Of course he would—unless there were another way. But there isn’t another way, is there?”

  He knew exactly what she wanted him to say.

  “There is no other way.”

  “At least none that you and I know anything about.”

  She knew there was another way, and she knew he knew it, too. But they were agreeing to keep it a secret.

  Lyla leaned forward again.

  “Jon, when you climb high up like that, do you ever think of going further?”

  This was a hard one.

  “Well, I think about having to leave the valley. It’s my last year, so I wonder if the Bearded Men live on the other side of the Boundary Mountain.”

  “I can answer that question. The Bearded Men come from east of the Great River, and the land directly north of the Boundary Mountain is on our side. It’s absurd we allow boys to learn so little geography. But few girls learn it either. These days, no one cares about what happens outside this valley. They’re convinced that the rest of the world is a folktale, although I can assure you it’s nothing of the sort.”

  She was about to say something more, but paused and returned to his earlier question.

  “As for the land on the far side of the Boundary Mountain, the Bearded Men avoid it, so if you wanted to stay clear of them that would be the place to go. But dangers lie everywhere. Even here. The women think we’re safe tucked away in the mountains, but we’re not so safe as they suppose.”

  “Have you been farther than Bent Lake?” Jon asked.

  While men were forbidden to enter the valley, women were allowed to leave, and in the past parties had traveled north to exchange woolens for metal. Recently, however, merchants had begun coming to Bent Lake, which allowed the women to trade in the next valley. But some of the older women had made the trek to Bridgetown or further, and they told their stories to the girls, who retold them to boys like Jon.

  “Yes, I’ve seen a little of the planet beyond this small fold in the earth. But I’ve taken too much of your time. There was no need to bring you here. You could have been enjoying the flowers instead of listening to an old woman’s ramblings.

  “However, before you go, I want to say one thing.”

  She opened the fingers of her right hand and looked down at them as she spoke.

  “If you ever, of your free will, make a promise, keep it—even if you have to break a rule you’d otherwise follow.”

  She closed her hand into a loose fist and looked back at Jon.

  “Never forget that human beings are more important than the rules they invent. We decree laws and then pretend they came from some higher power. It makes no sense, but we congratulate ourselves for doing it—all because we are such weak creatures. Do you understand me?”

  He felt her drilling into his mind. She must have known about the stranger, and she must have known about the promise Jon had made. Why else would she be saying this? But he was still certain that she meant him no harm.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Lyla turned back to her work.

  “Did you weave that cloth?” Jon asked, rising from his chair.

  “I did—a long time ago.”

  “It must have once been very beautiful.”

  “It’s still beautiful, only in a different way.”

  She dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and Jon ran out into the autumn twilight. The search party had returned; he could hear their quiet talk. If they’d found John, their voices would have been different, so his lie had helped him escape, and that thought brought another rush of euphoria. Not only had he deceived the women; he’d done so in complicity with one of the Mothers. It was like discovering a new way to be alive.

  So late in the day, Jon couldn’t go back up the mountain, but he could take the long way to the boys’ cabins, following the lakeshore past the standing stone they called the old woman. People said it had been erected by the first of the Mothers, but it resembled nothing else in the valley and served no identifiable purpose.

  Examining the stone, you could trace what might have been inscriptions, although the weathered shapes could easily have been natural. Yet now something about the monolith reminded Jon of the broken arrowhead John had given him. Making sure he was unobserved, Jon pulled it from his shirt and held it against the stone. The material was dissimilar, but one of the carvings on the greenstone resembled a larger form on the rock—a curved S that was smaller at the bottom than the top. He saw no reason to imagine a connection. Yet, as he touched the stone with the arrowhead, Jon felt a tingling that disappeared when he removed the arrowhead. Probably nothing, he thought, but if he spoke to Lyla again, he’d ask her about the standing stone. If any of the women knew its history, she’d be the one.

  Chapter Two

  The months of rain were ending. Today, the sun rose clear above the mountains and the lake glittered in its light. Jon knew it was too early to expect a brilliant day, for clouds were already writhing down the West Mountain. Still, this sunlit hour meant that in a few weeks the valley would be bathed in light.

  Jon looked forward to the change, but he also dreaded it, for once the roads were dry the Bearded Men would take the boys who’d come of age. The day before the solstice, the able-bodied would march to the next valley, and soon the riders would appear, circling before they dropped from their horses and made a gallant bow—their recognition that, for once in the year, the women would allow themselves three days of abandon.

  However, even in the orgy that ensued, the women made sure no boys escaped. Why they bothered puzzled Jon. The oldest would soon join the Bearded Men and all would leave eventually, so why prevent a few from running away? Whatever the reason, the precautions confirmed Jon’s certainty that he should flee before Midsummer arrived. But how?

  Aside from John’s claim, the only way from the Valley of Women was the road that followed the north shore of Bent Lake. Somewhere beyond the cluster of shacks called Bent Lake Village the lake narrowed to a river and forced its way north through the Boundary Mountain. Here the road threaded cliffs and skirted cataracts but eventually returned to level gr
ound and became the highway to the Imperial City. But the women were vague when they spoke about the world beyond the two valleys. All he knew was what he’d told John: the river flowed past Kar and entered the sea at Tarnak.

  “Look at the sun, Jon. You know what that means.”

  Alf had followed Jon from the cabin. With his red hair and milky complexion, he resembled no one else in the valley. But you saw many types here—light and dark, tall and short—for the women who’d settled the place had come from all corners of the Empire.

  “Yes, I know that summer is on its way,” Jon said.

  “How long before they come for us?”

  “Two months, minus a few days. But I didn’t have to tell you that. You knew the answer yourself—better than I did, I bet.”

  But, having a more important question in mind, Alf ignored Jon’s last remark.

  “Do you want to go—seriously, I mean? Just for once, give me a straight answer.”

  “You think I’m not giving you a straight answer because you expect everything to be black-and-white,” Jon said. “But nothing’s that simple. I want to go because I want to leave this hole, but I don’t want to go because I despise the Bearded Men. Yet it’s less the men than the other boys who worry me.”

  “What do you mean?” Alf asked.

  “They’re waiting their chance to get even.”

  “With whom?”

  “With me, with you, with anybody who isn’t an idiot. Can’t you see the look in their eyes. Sometimes it makes me want to puke.”

  “I haven’t seen you puke anytime lately.”

  “I didn’t say it made me puke; I said it made me want to puke. Please note the difference.”

  “Okay, okay. But what do you mean by the look in their eyes?”

  “It’s hard to describe.”

  “It must be like something,” Alf said.

  “Let’s say it’s the look of what they’d do if no one stood in their way.”

  “They’re pretty stupid.”

  “Yes, like animals. But an animal in a trap will bite when you’re freeing it.”

  “Do you feel that way, too—that this valley is a trap?”