After a spell of bedrest in the chief’s house with meals prepared by Numero Uno on the griddle, Hera was ready to brave the outside. Days of sun had baked the road. There had been a brief thunderstorm in the night. Julian opened the door and let in a patch of light. Hera sat up in the bed. A rooster crowed in the distance.
“Are you ready?” asked Corrag.
“I think so,” said Hera.
“Don’t do it if you’re not ready,” said Corrag. She meant it. She wanted to protect Hera’s inviolate self, to keep her from service as long as possible. It had once been called innocence. But Hera was up and swinging her legs down to the ground.
“How does it feel?” asked Corrag.
“My leg is okay. My head feels like it’s about to explode.”
“It’s the sunlight. You’re not used to it.”
“Will I ever be able to play again, Mom?”
“Of course. You’ll get stronger so quickly you won’t even believe it. You’re young.”
“I don’t feel young. I feel old. I had a dream last night. An old man wanted to come in the house. Nobody wanted to deal with him. I had to let him in. He smelled. But I realized it was me.”
“It was you?”
“Well, not literally me, but my etheric twin. My soul double.”
“How do you know such a thing, Hera?”
“I just do. The light tells me things, Mom.”
“What light?”
“The light in my head. It just appears and tells me things.”
“Where does the light come from?”
“Inside the earth.”
She said it with such conviction that it was impossible to doubt her. They were at the open front door of the cottage. Julian and Ben sat on the steps. Julian was cleaning a fish and Ben was holding off the dogs by throwing them sticks and scaring them with sudden handclaps. Julian lifted the fish and the plate and motioned as if to make room on the stoop. Ben and Hera hugged. Hera could hardly open her eyes, but she wanted to walk to the river. Julian went in the house with the fish on the plate and put it in the old ceramic sink for Numero Uno to fry when she returned from the garden. Numero Uno was due back from the garden at any time. She had spent the day weeding and picking. It was the season for chayote, and she had promised to make a cilantro and flower soup with Corrag.
The four of them walked the trail to the river slowly for both Hera’s sake and Julian’s. Julian was asking questions. He loved to hear about life in the Repho. Obviously, he knew firsthand about the alliance between the Repho and the Azueto regime to thwart the construction of David’s city. But he didn't know why the Repho, so intent on destruction, didn't just send in the troops and decimate the relatively weak upstart.
“What do they fear?” he wondered. “Those people already have everything they need, no?"
Ben tried to explain that the Augment was premised on constant and ever increasing rates of information flow and that, even though David and his followers represented a major threat to the Repho’s rate of growth, their aim was always to co-opt resistance movements, not destroy them. The Repho feared the rising city and its information catchment, but coveted the energy that it entailed.
Julian didn’t know whether to trust what Ben was telling him or not. Despite their friendship, despite their benevolent presence in the village, (discounting the activities of Shelly and Uko, which were at worst an unhygienic nuisance and at best a welcome entertainment for some of the younger set), the old chief still couldn’t believe that anyone from north of the Rio Grande wasn’t at least in some way affected by the Augment so as to lose their humanity, their ability to deal frankly, eye to eye and toe to toe with simple folk. All he had ever had of his own was brains in his head and the old hawk eyes lifting toward the skies. That had been enough to avoid a pessimistic attitude. But now he wasn’t sure.
“So, wait. Any mental activity that processes outside their auspices is a threat?” asked the chief.
“Yes,” said Ben. “They want to have that flow themselves. They need to be able to channel it.”
“Well, why don’t they come after the Yavapais?”
“They will eventually. The theory is to have wild reserves. That’s why they allow us Creatives to live free in settled zones within the Republic. There are centers for free mental and creative ferment. But free mental activity inside a prison eventually is not free. As soon as you rise up from behind the bars you are useless to them,” said Ben.
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Yes, we got out before we got wiped out.”
“How did you know to do that?”
“Dreams. We still are capable of visions.”
“The Augment doesn’t dream?”
“No. Not dreams. They have no memories of dreams because there is no free mental activity.”
“I get it. Nobody ever explained that to me. So the Augment is an illusion.”
“Exactly. A scheme of control based on the illusion of growth that comes with managing information flow. When the narrative starts to dry up, they need to invent ways of getting it going again. So they have wars and drama on a global scale.”
“They invent it,” said the chief, trying to clarify the point.
“You cannot do that without an enemy. Yesterday it was the Korazan resisters. Today it is the pirates of the Somali coast, or the city of David. Tomorrow it might be the Yavapais,” said Ben.
“If there’s anything left of us. So then, see if I understand you correctly. We have been allowed to flourish. But soon, any day now, we will have war,” said the chief.
“That sounds right,” said Ben.
"Our only choice is to resist," said the chief.
The river was high now after the rain, battering the rocks and sending spines of mist rising into the jungle on the far side. There was nobody swimming. Not since the day of the snake had any children of the Yavapais or the newcomers used the swimming holes or played on the tree branches that hung above the rapidly moving water.
Corrag and Hera approached the water, balancing on the rocks at the river’s edge. Hera stared into the currents and turned to her mother with a sudden fright.
“You won’t die, will you Mom?”
“Die? Everyone dies, Hera. What did you just see?”
Corrag breathed deeply, comforted by the fact that If she was going to be let in on the secret of the time and manner of her passing, at least the knowledge would come from her own daughter.
“I don’t know. It’s not anything I could see. It was never clear. But even though we die, the water never stops. It flows from the center of the earth. There’s a spring that connects to the galaxies.”
“Wow, an intergalactic portal. Are we near the entrance?”
“I can’t see that. I have to go with or without you.”
“Well, that’s okay. When are you going?”
“It’s not a specific time, Mom. It’s like it’s happening right now. It’s a constant thing. Did you know that you taste the spirits in the river of everyone who ever lived? Taste the water and you can hear their voices.”
Hera held up her cupped palms toward Corrag with cold water falling from them. She didn’t look like anyone in either her or Ben’s family. Corrag felt a sudden love bordering on reverence for Hera. She ducked her head and sipped the water from her daughter's cupped hands. It was a profound moment. Corrag smiled and pretended to savor the water’s taste.
“Yes, definitely the spirit world.”
“Water is so precious, Mom. Not just for life. It teaches the way of the universe. Everything flows. Everything is water. Life is just a small part of it. Someday we will be able to see so much farther into the mystery of it.”
“But, Hera. We can taste the mystery. We know by using our senses.”
“Yes, Mom. I know. The senses are important.”
Up on the bank, the chief broke off a sprig from a tree, examined the leaves and smelled them.
“The winter will be here soon.
It is very wet. The last of the rains are the strongest,” he said.
Fisher shifted his feet. He was uncomfortable with the old man. He let Ben take the lead. Unlike Fisher, Ben admired the chief's knowledge and connection to the natural world.
“The trees know to drop their leaves when it’s time?” asked Ben.
“Yes. The water is a sign to them. But also the daylight. Different trees have different times for it. Like men. We know when it’s our time.”
“To leave the planet,” said Fisher.
“I don’t think so,” said Julian. “That is a project that leads to destruction and treachery only. A better project is to stay and fight.”
“I see,” said Ben.
They looked at Corrag and Hera below by the water’s edge. The light was fading rapidly now, so they were hard to distinguish from the boulders they stood among.
“Civilization marches forward,” said Fisher. “It’s the culture. We’re like ants,” he added.
“Yeah, sometimes it’s a dead end,” said Ben.
“Ours is not to reason why, Ben,” said Fisher. “We’re just players scrambling in the twilight.”
“That’s very poetic,” said Ben.
“Don’t bullshit me,” said Fisher.
“No, I mean it. I like the sound of that. Players scrambling in the twilight. I wish I’d said it,” said Ben.
“You can say it. I’ll put it in the play. The last act,” said Fisher.
“Okay. Julian, will you be our honored guest?” said Ben.
“Sure. When is the occasion?” asked Julian.
“At the premiere,” said Fisher.
“Oh, by the way,” said Julian. “I spoke with Carmel. The truckdriver. It’s all arranged. Whenever you say it. And David’s people know also.”
Fisher lifted his head, and his eyes clouded. Ben’s thoughts were on Corrag and Hera at the riverbank and how fleetingly the day had led to this moment, the fork in the road. They were coming back up the trail and Hera's eyes met his in the dark shadows of the trees. They both smiled.
Carmel had an old lithium-powered truck he kept charged under a tattered nanofiber tarp next to his house. A herd of bony, bouncing goats played in the backyard behind a wire fence. His two young children stared out from the single front window as they loaded their belongings in the truck. Shelly and Uko and the twins were saying their goodbyes. Carmel helped Corrag get the bags in the back, and then Hera ran over to the twins and hugged them. Everyone was smiling and joking and promising to keep in touch. Carmel was talking to Harper and Ben about the business he was thinking of starting making tiles. They were in high demand in the city of David, in the construction of new houses. He had been playing around with pallet designs with some scrap wood next to the truck bay. Usually, he made runs into the city in the truck to sell their medicinals, goat cheeses and the Altos de Xumai artisanal products in carved wood, but the other Yavapais villages higher in the mountains had been successfully marketing tiles. Carmel thought he could set up a small kiln running off the lithium batteries, if he could find some investors. Ben and Harper were interested and said they would look into it once they were set up in the city. They all piled in the back of the truck with their bags and boxes, the theatrical gear in three ancient duffel bags, and the essential odds and ends they were willing to carry.
Corrag and Hera sat in the front with Carmel. Julian came walking up the hill as Carmel started the truck. He had something from Numero Uno, going away presents: a bottle of pulque and some jam cakes. Corrag took them from him and waved a kiss on the troupe’s behalf, since they were all in the back. Julian’s wrinkled, old face was not capable of smiling. He looked startled instead as he watched the truck roll out from under the tarp and hit the bumpy road up the hill and out of Altos.
The journey was monotonous. The road rose away from the river canyon and followed a line of brown, treeless hills down into the valley. The outskirts of the city had huge implications. Corrag hoped it would be chaotic and heady. She could see the tower intermittently, as the road widened and they went careening into sudden, concrete gullies. The turret-lined roundabouts came more and more frequently. Carmel explained that these were safety features. He slowed respectfully and safely at the checkpoints but was never stopped, thanks to the secret security clearance codes on his plates. The soldiers smoked cigarettes and looked up with bored expressions. He lifted off the accelerator and coasted. Then, once past the turrets, he poured on the unfailing torque of the old electric motor. It had eight hundred thousand miles on it, and he expected to reach a million, he said. Then he would ask David for a loan to buy a new truck.
Pedestrians in simple, well-washed fabrics with old-fashioned buttons walked along the streets and shouted at friends and acquaintances. Vendors sold food items at the intersection of two avenues. Some of them had birds in cages. The cages were homemade, fantastic arrangements of wire and bits of polished driftwood. The birds were slips of color and blurring movement of their wings. Corrag pointed them out to Hera while she awoke.
Inside the city, Carmel wound his way along back streets of dusty warehouses to the south of the tower. It seemed impossibly ambitious and frail in its single-minded, looming height. It disappeared when they went down into the bowels of the old parking garage. The truck pulled up to the yellow-painted curb. Men and women in some kind of municipal uniforms lounged on benches under the artificial lights. Some of them looked up when Carmel pulled on the safety brake and jumped down from the truck.
“We’re here,” said Corrag.
“Where are we?” asked Hera.
“David’s Tower. The Saint,” said Corrag, feeling the words in her mind. By saying them she made them real. She wished they weren’t. The arriving imperiled their fragile sense of collective fate. This tribe of ragtag individuals was all they had. She felt suddenly afraid that they could lose it all here in this new place.
Ben and Harper unloaded the bags to the porters. The porters pushed Corrag aside wordlessly. Fisher disappeared with Carmel inside the building. The porters loaded everything on three trolleys, negotiating abruptly in terms of who would push the trolleys.
“Wait,” said Ben, literally holding the porters back. “We’ll wait here for Fisher, right?” he said.
“No, no. We know where you go,” said one of the porters. They pushed ahead with the trolleys. Ben, Harper, Corrag and Hera followed the porters through the slow moving, creaking metal warehouse doors of the loading area into cargo elevators that rose at the same pace. The pneumatics and belts responded sluggishly. Then the elevator stopped, gave a slight shimmy and the doors opened.
It looked like the lobby of a hotel in some ancient visualscape, at the low point of the tourist trade. The porters pushed ahead with the trolleys to a dusty desk. They could hear voices in the back room. Below, through the dirty glass walls, they could see the brilliant, concrete morass of the city, all shimmering movement and shoddiness. From above it looked seething, about to come to some final bursting point. To Corrag there was always a patterning inherent in landscapes. She pointed it out to Hera.
“There’s David’s city. We made it. Remember this,” she said, as Hera touched the glass.
“Why don’t they have clean windows, Mom?”
She was used to the Dallas Hilton where she’d grown up with the nano glass always spotlessly self-cleaning there.
“Not likely, dear. Just a little murky. It has an old-fashioned charm,” said Corrag, insistently upbeat.
The voices in the back room were silenced by their entry. The porters had disappeared down a hall, leaving them hanging around in a funk. Finally, a little man appeared behind the counter. He wore old-fashioned bifocal glasses and seemed oddly absent-minded. Ether that or he pretended there was nothing unusual in the sight of their little group decamped in the solidly beige and Formica-coated staging area.
“Can I help?” He finally turned to them and assumed his professional manner.
“Yes, we were expected,
” said Fisher, unsuccessfully hiding his impatience.
“By who?”
“David,” said Fisher.
“David, I’m sure, expects everything. We need a more specific data point than that. But you are who?”
“The In Voz Clamante Theater Troupe.”
“The In Voz," repeated the little man dubiously. "Do you mean you are a theater group in the fullest sense? Of the Roman tradition?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Oh yes, I see a note here. You are to be processed and housed with us. You’ve come to the right place. The Hostel de Gandhi. Men!” The little man shouted and clapped and three workers of uncertain gender in the uniforms of Sindicato de Los Ambulatorios de la Ciudad de David, the pedestrian-powered welfare agency, appeared. They were to be measured and integrated into the database. It was quaint by Repho standards, although they were asked to sign screen-based temporary citizenry contracts giving up their rights to seek indemnification in case of invasions, natural disasters or misplacement of selected information due to faulty settings. Ben grumbled something about bureaucracy and human rights. But Fisher poked him with his finger. They all signed, even Hera. They were very particular in that the children should enjoy equal rights and responsibilities in the tower, said one of the city workers administering the paperwork to them. As part of the vetting, Fisher had to explain who they were. He repeated that they had been invited by David to perform in one of their premiere productions. It would undoubtedly be in a private setting for David and his friends.
“And who would that be?” the workers asked each other.
“And what is the name of your play?” one of them asked directly, looking from one to another of the group.
“The Last American Man,” said Ben.
“By Tyuvoldt,” said Fisher.
“Oh, yes. Tyuvoldt,” said another one of the workers.
Fisher nodded. Corrag noticed how tired he looked.
Three days later they were setting up on an impromptu stage on the twenty-third floor of the tower, in a genuine auditorium with a sunken stage and rows of seats behind the floodlights. David appeared in a sudden hush and shook hands with all of them. He was tall and bearded. He hadn’t lost the Big Apple accent after so many years of living there in the city he’d created in his own image. He seemed anything but omnipotent. His grin and swift confidence, hand shaking like an old-time, big city politician, betrayed informality and lack of programming. He was old and gracious in the way of people from the past, thought Corrag.
The Saints of David (The Jonah Trilogy Book 3) Page 22
