Splinter Salem Part One

by Wayne Hill

  Alone for the first time in a long while, he embraces the isolation and, between his sailing duties, his still tonic-delicate mind ponders the heavens: endless planets that rotate around in elliptical orbits, innumerable stars, and worlds to visit and explore. Will I ever see another planet or another moon, another sun? There’s so much to do and life is so short. Unless you’re Talon, that is. If I could live as long as Talon, I wouldn’t stay on one planet my entire life.

  Thinking of his long-lived friend, his mind turns back to Idra’s cave and the wounded cadet recuperating there. Should I have left her? He wonders. Even though he knows the injured cadet is in the safest place she can be — as safe as one can be on this Barrenite-riddled isle — he cannot shake a feeling of concern for her. No, this feeling is stronger than concern. Love? No. Pity? He remembers her as he had found her: her pale face, spattered with blood, mutilated bodies and gore and shit surrounding her. Maybe I pity her, but mostly I’m sorry. Sorry she was so helpless, sorry for her pain, sorry I couldn’t save the others. All I can offer you is protection, of sorts, and a doorway to revenge. You can step through it if you wish, the choice is yours. We always have a choice. Don’t we?

  The sea was obligingly calm throughout his voyage and Tommy sailed almost in a daze, only roused from his thoughts by the sight of a precipitous cliff growing on the horizon. As he draws nearer, the regular zigzag of stairs, like a small tattoo on the cliff surface, just starts to become visible. The cliff slowly fills his whole vision and the small stairs become mid-sized and then vast. A small jetty of indeterminate age, with missing boards and seaweed- and barnacle-encrusted piles, also appears.

  Tommy cannot help but think about his future in the Lanes. Will this be the place I meet my contemporaries? A place where like-minded folk tussle with philosophical and scientific issues: the micro and the macro, infinity and nothingness?

  He smiles a broad, mildly insane, smile — a smile to rival Talon’s unusual grin. Maybe not as scary; maybe more so. It is a grin filled with both sorrow and hope, in a young but heavily scarred face, framed with long feral hair, which whips around in the sea breeze. With cold blue eyes he studies the steps.

  The ancient steps of the western cliff face stretch far into the sky. The upper stretches of the stairs are shrouded in clouds. After almost twelve hours of sailing, it looks daunting to Tommy. Despite his strong urge to being amongst people, he has a stronger urge for sleep. As well as the long sail, his head still ached somewhat from Idra’s Tonic. He knew he would benefit from sleep before attempting to scale the vertiginous Forever Stairs. Knotting Slash onto the least rotten wooden cleats on the jetty, as Thankwell had taught him, he takes down and stores Slash’s sails. Uncertain as to how long the catamaran will stay here, he secures the boat as thoroughly as he can. Standing back, admiring his handywork, Tommy thinks the only way Slash will be lost now is if a storm rips the dilapidated jetty from the stairs. Making his way over the slippery, slime-coated jetty, and the massive concrete base of the stairs, he starts to ascend. After maybe half an hour of climbing, he reaches a large mezzanine platform where the stairs change direction. He makes a tent with his joining tools and pitches it as near to the cliff face as he can. Don’t want to roll off the platform in my sleep.

  Tommy finds some driftwood further up the staircase, Perfect, he thinks. He builds a fire in front the tent, just the way Talon had shown him. At least, if I do roll out of my tent, the fire will wake me up before I roll off the edge. Burns are no fun, but they’re better than falling to your death.

  As he warms himself by his fire, he takes a few gulps of Idra’s Tonic. He stares into the flames and, caught in a trance by the bewitching dancing plasma, he thinks of Talon’s story, he thinks about his mother and father, he thinks about quantum theory and the entanglement of particles. His mind flits from subject to subject like the dancing lights in his campfire. He thinks about the place where Talon is from, about portals, about the nameless injured cadet, he also thinks, rather graphically and gruesomely — Damn my vivid imagination! — about Thankwell biting someone in half.

  Managing to drag himself away from his tired and wandering thoughts, he cooks one of Thankwell’s whiting over the fire. Sipping some of Idra’s Tonic, as the fish sizzles, he feels that the tonic is having a milder effect on him this time. It warms him, taking the pain from behind his eyes and wiping the sadness of his journey from his mind — banishing thoughts of blood and bodies and death.

  Then Tommy has an epiphany. His subconscious mind, always working problems in the background, visualises a unified form and brings it to the foreground. It is a familiar pattern — the one he used to create the joining tools and the EPC. His new theories on quantum physics all form patterns, like the patterns of numbers, like patterns of fractals. The pattern is a radiant mandala of thought stretching out across the universe, connecting all the stars — a mycelium network with fungal spores — a dark matter pattern of similar structure filling the universe with stars and planets sprouting on it like fruiting bodies. The pattern is like interconnected coral reefs, neural networks in the mind, like the lines on the back of a person’s hand — crisscrossing back and forth — and, at the nodes, hairs grow, or planets or corals or stars. He sees the pattern of life, of reality. It is clear and supremely calming.

  Anything is possible now, thinks Tommy. He climbs inside his tent and, to the random pops of his fire and the metronomic sound of lapping waves, slides into a deep sleep.

  Not knowing for how long he slept, all notion of time lost, Tommy starts to climb the steps in darkness and, as he reaches the top step of the Forever Stairs, the sun is just rising. Catching his breath, Tommy looks at the perfect morning sky: lavenders layered with peach, pastel green flecks, and the hidden fire of the sun raising sharper hues, heavenly highlights.

  Turning from the dazzling vista, he saw the large, fortified wall of the Lanes not far from him. It was huge — almost as high as the Forever Stairs. It must be one hundred an’ fifty feet if it’s a yard! thinks Tommy. Oh, well — another job for my grappling hook.

  Upon scaling the fortified wall with little difficulty, Tommy’s thoughts briefly turn to what Talon had told him about the Barrenites not attacking near the sea. If scaling this wall was no problem for me, those monsters would fly up it! And yet, because it is close to the sea, they refuse to do so. Strange. I wonder how far exactly from the sea they feel safe? And how would they know? Further, what is it about the sea that scares them, anyway? Are they afraid of curious squid? Belligerent crabs? A mildly irate herring? It’s stupid. Real underground monsters fearing some mythical sea god. It’s more than stupid — it’s preposterous!

  Plopping himself gracelessly down, his legs swinging over on the Lane-side edge of the wall, Tommy is fascinated by what stretches out before him.

  He can see the wall upon which he is sitting tracing an elongated oval shape, which disappears into the far distance. In the shadow of the wall, clinging to it, almost a mile thick, is a band of multi-coloured, eclectic dwellings. In front of the houses, colourful plots of crops reach inwards towards the centre of the Lanes, each plot demarcated by makeshift boundaries of metal, driftwood, plastics and wire. The entire view, from this vantage-point, has a dizzying effect on Tommy. And, focusing on the small shapes of people that he can see wandering in and around these plots of land he thinks, I’m no longer alone. This is a new beginning for me, just like the one I dreamt of when I was trapped in the Facility. I can live with these industrious people, find like-minded individuals and finally start living my real life.

  Tommy’s eyes darted from one curious house to the next, soaking up the strange sights and sounds. Sounds rise and fall like the sea. He hears distant singing, drum beats over shouting voices and the distant whisper of the sea. Something sweet smelling comes to him on the air, something sugary, and he hungrily scans below for the source. Unable to determine where the lovely smell comes from, he looks out over the particoloured shacks, the occasional chimney jut
ting out like a pipe from an old man’s mouth. Here and there little plumes of smoke drift as people cook their food. His stomach rumbles and he wonders what delights these strange folks are cooking? What delicate cuisines? From somewhere, Tommy picks out the faint sound of snoring, thankfully nothing like Thankwell’s racket. The noises of the Lanes make a strange symphony, one which his engineering mind compares to the unoiled cogs of a mighty machine, creaking in unison.

  Looking into the distance now, over this bustling community, as the morning haze lifts, he can just make out a single building at the centre of the farming land. Most of the noise seems to be coming from that direction.

  Tommy decides that heading to that building is as good a goal as anything. Looking at the wall below, there is no obvious pathway down, so he decides to walk along the top of the wall for a distance to see if anything turns up.

  Tommy walks almost three miles along the considerable wall’s circumference, until the straight-line distance to the building in the centre seems the shortest. As he walks, he also notices a strip of houses that stretches from the wall to the centre of the lanes, a peninsula of shacks, like a solitary spoke of a wheel.

  Looking around below him, Tommy spots a small cabin, next to the wall, and, using his grappling hook, descends into the seemingly disused hut. Standing behind the small hut he notices a strong smell emanating from it. Just great! I’m standing behind a shithouse! Lovely. So much for fresh sea air. He chuckles to himself and a quick look around makes it clear that the only way out of where he is, aside from climbing, is to go through someone’s house.

  His joining tools and the EPC goes into Tommy’s bag before he decides to clamber through a beaded curtain and into someone’s bedroom or living room. He peeks through the beaded curtain wall and is relieved to see that no one is home. There are the glowing embers of a fire in a brass fireplace, a wooden floor, and, to the right, is a small bed, with framed pictures over it. The shack is about one hundred and sixty square feet and most of this area is covered in a red, shag-pile rug, which has clearly seen better days. Above the fire is a large mirror set in an ornate, gold frame. That looks like it belongs in a Space Museum, Tommy thinks. To the left of the mirror, on the floor, is a solid looking cast-iron safe, with a large golden wheel in its centre. The weight of the safe had warped the floorboards beneath it and it occupies an obvious indentation.

  Tommy takes a few deep breaths and then bolts for the door at the other side of the shack. He pauses briefly at the doorway and then, out into the Lanes he goes.

  The Lanes are named for the tunnel-like passageways which messily wind between the small, closely packed houses. The networks of criss-crossing pathways are formed naturally by the footfalls of generations of prisoners that had survived the Barrens and made it to this oasis of hope.

  Tommy winds his way through alien sights and an assortment of smells, which range from spiced heaven to aged latrine stench, and tries to keep in a straight line towards his destination — well, as straight as he can manage in the twisting, narrow lanes of the Lanes. The kaleidoscopic, random arrangements of colours are shocking to his senses after sixteen years in the sterile environment of the Drumcroon facility.

  Tommy can hardly keep his eyes focused on where he is going as one intriguing scene upon another unfolds before him. However, he does find the absence of people somewhat disturbing.

  Tommy follows his ears, the music getting louder and louder. Drums and singing, laughing, guitars, and the sound of a solitary flute rise from what he could only presume to be the nucleus of this visually exciting labyrinthine system. Emerging from yet another narrow street, distracted by an unusual structure, he finds himself tumbling face-first into the dirt. He wipes the earth from his eyes and sees, outstretched in front of him, a long green glove. His eyes flick upwards to see a frowning young woman with striking red hair, before she roughly grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him off a prostrate figure in the mud.

  “Clumsy wee shite! You’re on my mother!” she says.

  Mumbling his apologies, Tommy looks around to see staggering, dirt-covered people, some wallowing, like clothed pigs, in the mud. Are they all drunk? There are several fights taking place that, at first, Tommy mistakes for people hugging.

  Tommy helps the young redhead get her bedraggled, disoriented mother to her feet.

  “I’m Marie-Ann O’Shea; and you must be new. Come on, let me get you a drink, I’m running the risk of sobriety myself, if you catch my drift!”

  “I’m Tommy Sa— Shit!” Marie-Ann bolts off holding Tommy’s hand, almost dislocating his shoulder. “Come on then, Tommy Shit,” she says. Tommy, dragging behind her, is unable to see her smile. She pulls him through the crowds and towards the building at the centre of this strange theatre of drunken fools. Now and again, drunks paw at Tommy’s now dirty face and laugh. One drunk pinches Marie-Ann O’Shea’s arse. She stops suddenly. Tommy crashes into her from behind, winding himself slightly as her shoulder jabs into his solar plexus. She stares at the prurient drunk who is now leering at her. She kicks him smartly in the shin and, as he hops around holding his leg and cursing, she pushes him over.

  “You filthy little wasp!” Marie-Ann shouts over her shoulder, dragging Tommy back into her wake. She looks back to Tommy occasionally, smiling as she pushes through the crowd, and Tommy returns her smile. She’s a force of nature, thinks Tommy, as she smashes into one drunk after another, knocking them over into the well-trodden earth, laughing as they shout and slur undignified blasphemies after her. Tommy watches the developing trail of destruction she leaves behind her with amusement.

  Arriving at the three-tiered Weeping Willow pub, Tommy laughs a full, uncontrollable laugh at the woman’s antics. Marie-Ann had hoofed another drunk out of her path. This man had landed face-first into a plump woman’s breasts. His pale, porcine face had time to contort into a surprised, happy look before the well-endowed woman smashed a bottle over his bald head.

  Kicking through the saloon doors, Marie-Ann looks towards a man at the end of the bar who is cleaning a silver flute while puffing on an orange-coloured, pineapple-shaped pipe. Marie-Ann’s father stops his polishing, removes his pipe and a smile starts to form. But, upon spying the boy she was with, the smile dies on his lips and he returns to polishing and pipe-chugging with a frown firmly fixed on his face.

  Tommy stares around the bar through eyes still stinging a little from the mud. The pub was reminiscent of images of Old Earth — an ancient New Orleans blues bar from sometime in the distant past. It was well known that appropriate architecture and interior design can have a calming effect. Tommy remembered this from some old scientific papers he had read, perhaps when he was eight. This building, he remembered, had been a lasting present from the Guardians to the prisoners. It was to give some level of comfort to ease their troubled existence.

  Until now, The Weeping Willow had been folklore to Tommy. He had overheard prisoners talking about it during their processing at Drumcroon. Tommy had pieced together passing comments and, over the years, had formed a history of what the prisoners called The Last Pub on Earth.

  The Weeping Willow was ostensibly built as a meeting place, like a town hall, a safe place where prisoners could talk through their issues in a calming atmosphere. It was a stately building, but years and years of renovations had rendered it disjointed. Repairs were made with whatever materials the prisoners could salvage, and styles became mixed and confused. Originally it had one floor but, at some point, two other rickety, wooden levels were added. These additional floors originally accommodated the more vulnerable prisoners — the infirm and the ill — or were used by honeymooning couples. The building was, both then and now, the hub of the prisoner’s social and political structure.

  It seemed to Tommy to be merely a bustling pub, like in the stories of pre-Dagon Earth, serving fermented goods at a blistering pace. A place of warmth and good cheer, comradery and community. What Tommy did not know, at this point, was that a deadly viru
s was at work in the Lanes.

  It had come, like many viruses do, from nowhere. It was quickly transmitted, there was no cure, and it was certain death, often in less than two weeks (although those two weeks were a painful eternity to the afflicted.) Many of the population who showed symptoms, and had seen the disease in its final stages, opted for suicide rather than go through that living nightmare. The virus effecting the very old and very young first, mothers killed their offspring, children killed their parents, and death pacts were commonplace. The virus decimated the Lanes, and the settlement might have perished had the prisoners not discovered something. It was first noticed, some years before the arrival of the young Tommy Salem that, although there was no cure for the virus, alcoholics rarely died from it. They might catch it, but their deaths were from suicide or alcohol-linked morbidities. The virus did not kill them. It was hypothesized that the virus was minutely sensitive to the small levels of alcohol circulating in a drunk person’s blood. This alcohol did not totally kill the virus — a drunk deprived of booze inevitably died from it — but it stopped the progression of the disease, and its horrific symptoms. Alcohol, although not a cure, was a life support machine — a stasis pod which kept people from the painful later stages.

  Understandably this gave the prisoners a taste for alcohol, mostly in copious quantities. Alcohol had become not just an occasional escape from reality but a necessary and daily source of survival.

  It was the Dionysus virus which had changed the use of the Guardians’ building. The Weeping Willow pub was now a drunken congregation of prisoners wanting to get as wasted as possible to survive. The Guardians would have abominated what had happened to their hall, had they known about it, but contact between the Lanes and the Guardians had become increasingly sporadic.

  In years gone by, the Guardians would move supplies into the Lanes via a large supply tunnel. Since the emergence of the deadly Dionysus virus, to minimise contact, the Guardians simply air-dropped the supplies. For safety reasons — their safety! — the Guardians collapsed the main supply tunnel. As the fishing boats, donated by the Guardians for the prisoners to fish the seas, were, over time, dismantled and used to create, or strengthen, buildings, the Lanes became less self-sufficient, increasingly more dependent on the Guardian air drops.