by Erme Lander
“Are you okay?”
I’m back to feeling inadequate. I did a first aid course in university and was profoundly bad at it. I’d passed of course, it’s difficult not to. I put my hand on his shoulder, where the grey man had, and feel a thrill run through me. I shudder and wipe my hand off, the dust from his shoulder leaving a smear on my jeans. I take a deep breath and try to roll him over by pulling on his arm. He’s lighter than I’d thought he’d be. The arm underneath my hand feels delicate as though made of paper like a wasps nest.
I trip over backwards as his face finally turns my way. It’s desiccated just like the man last night. The skin is stretched over his cheekbones, his mouth wide open, lips peeled back. This man was living a few minutes ago, talking and laughing with his friends. How can he be like this now? This is more like one of those people they find in glaciers. He looks like he’s been dead for years. The body rocks and falls backwards as I let go. The weight of the body lands on his neck, twisting it and it tears with a papery sound. Dust sifts out.
My eyes fix in guilty fascination. I can see inside his throat, it’s hollow and dry. No living tissue left… the structure of the wind pipe... I find myself scrabbling backwards, trying to gain my feet. I whimper and hear myself start babbling, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
I nearly shriek as a hand clamps over my shoulder. Grey man! My knees turn to jelly and I drop my jumper as it pulls me upright.
“Which do you belong to?” The voice is resigned, the accent is the same as Talia’s. I can’t reply, my brain is still filled with images of the dead man behind me and the grey figure’s strange assault. There’s nothing grey about the man standing in front of me. He’s my height but stockier. A sleeveless jerkin show arms easily wider than mine – doesn’t anyone feel the cold here? I try to turn and point to the man behind and find I can’t, his grip’s too tight.
He repeats his question and I gape, not understanding. Part of me notices the square filling with people again. They are giving me and the dead man a wide berth. The man holding me sighs and without visible effort, pulls me towards a building. Still in shock, I go without a struggle.
We walk through a small door set into thick double doors and into hell. The noise is incredible in the confined space, the floor is shaking. The building is dimly lit by electric lights, swinging in loops from wires, it’s the first proper technology I’ve seen so far. I can’t see the back of the room for the large machinery, tree trunk limbs heaving up and down in a medieval punching and long shadows turning. Violence is in every move. People scurry past as I’m dragged through open mouthed, carrying things and shouting over the noise. Mostly the shouts are to gain attention and then sign language is used to make themselves clear. Smaller figures dart under the machines, I wince as the children slide with inches to spare between the moving parts, one slip and they’ll be crushed.
My gaze is drawn to the ceiling and I see material flapping on rollers high up. I trip, and my captor grunts with irritation, lifting me to my feet. I trot up the stairs after him the best I can, his hand still gripping my arm. He briefly knocks at a door and enters. The door slams behind us, shutting out part of the noise. The vibrations shout through my feet.
Dazed from the noise, I see a man behind a scruffy desk, little more than a set of planks nailed together. Different coloured counters are piled on the desk in front of him. He’s shifting them around on a piece of paper and calling out numbers.
“Igren. Found him outside. He’s not part of a team.” My captor interrupts the man with the matter of fact statement, no deference in his voice. I pull my shirt into place and try to look presentable, despite the hand holding my arm.
The man behind the desk looks up in irritation, one finger on a counter to be moved. “Name?”
“Daniel Jones.” I feel the urge to explain. “I’m not from round here. There’s a dead man outside your...” Words fail me. Factory? Mill? What was the correct word for what was going on downstairs? I hadn’t been able to work it out from my brief exposure, I stop at his bored glance.
“You need to prove you’re not attached elsewhere, otherwise you will be indentured here. You will find us good masters. You will be fed and watered and have a place to stay so long as you work.”
Work? Panic fills me at the thought. I can’t work here. It’s like the history lessons I’d had at school, people crushed in a moment, injured for life. I had to get home. “Please, you don’t understand. I don’t belong here, I need to...” How could I explain?
Igren continues as though he’d heard it all before. “We are reasonable people not slavers. You will have a day to tell us who you belong to. A name will suffice.” He pauses, waiting.
“I was with Talia, but...” Again, I have no chance.
“Talia?” Igren snaps his fingers and a skinny figure appears from the corner. Ink stains his fingers and the cuffs of his shirt. He asks the man, “Has another clique started? I haven’t heard of that one.” The new man, some form of scribe I presume, shakes his head.
My heart sinks as I realise Talia must be outside of this system. My voice is a whisper, “She lives on her own.” I know no one here. I am no one.
He snorts. “An outsider. Listen boy, unless you can come up with another name within a day then you will be with us. You will get three meals a day. Good meals and a bed. Safety.” His voice is cajoling. A man persuading me that working in the hell downstairs is better than being on the streets. I think of the cold dusty city, Talia’s thin face as she eats rat and the figure of the grey man and begin to wonder.
Igren nods to my captor. He turns me and drags me back through the din. We walk down stone steps, a damp saltiness making the air heavy and I’m dumped in a cell. He pats me on the shoulder and tells me to think carefully. I stare at the blank wall, hearing the door shut and locked behind me. Vague thoughts flicker without connecting. I’m stuck here, I need to find a way out, someone higher than this Igren or Talia to help me.
Slowly other senses intrude and I pull myself out of my shock. I can smell salt and feel a warmth rising from somewhere, it’s strange in the cool air. The wall is solid rock and the thump and grind from the machinery still vibrates, although it is muted here. Everything is damp with a mildewed smell. A small window opens to the outside, no glass in it. The light has a strange quality and I walk over to investigate. My feet splash and I jerk back. It must be a puddle, I can’t see much of the floor in this light.
I find a dry way around and look out to see the ocean in front of me. It’s nearly level with the window and I realise that on some high tides it must flood my cell. My eyes are dragged out across the horizon. Nothing out there apart from the ubiquitous mist bank and the rise and swell of the waves. I stand on tiptoe and find waves breaking on the rocks in front of the window. Spray dampens my face and my tears slide to join them.
I spend hours huddled up on the steps, the driest place in the cell. The tide recedes, the only way of noting the time. Images of my family, the last happy afternoon I’d spent with Dominic in my shed and uneasy thoughts of Talia run through my mind. When the door thumps open behind me, I jump. The same man puts a bowl down on the step beside me.
“Soup. Eat it while it’s hot.” He sees me notice the open door and grins. “Forget it boy, just eat.”
He folds his arms and leans against the frame. The tattooed vines running down his bare arms twitch with the flexing of his muscles. I’m starving. The last thing I’d eaten had been roast rat, before then? Sunday dinner. How circumstances change, I’d even welcome Sarah coming through that door. I imagine her comments about me being here and wince internally.
“So lad, any names?”
My stomach grumbles and I grab for the bowl. “I’m not from around here. I’m from England. I don’t know anyone.” I manage to talk around a mouthful. I’m hungry and it tastes wonderful.
He looks amused. “So how did you get here?” At least he seems willing to listen, maybe he can influence this Igren to help m
e.
I stumble through my explanation, “Look I know it sounds strange but I followed this girl, she went through a rift or portal and I ended up here. I was attacked by this man,” I show him the lump on my forehead and he raises an eyebrow. “Talia rescued me and then took me back to her sleeping place. She was taking me somewhere else but I ran.” I feel lame, it sounds dreadful. “I want to go home.” That sounds worse, now I sound like a child.
He ignores the catch in my voice and asks, “Where is home?”
I put the bowl in my lap, desperately holding onto my hopes, “As I said, England.”
“Where is this England?” No recognition, he stumbles over the word and my hopes plummet yet again. Where is England? A simple enough question.
“Where am I now?”
He laughs, “You are in Narith.”
“Where’s Narith?”
“Narith is here. There is nowhere else.” There’s a finality to his words.
That does it. No England. No way of getting back home unless I can find the person who brought me here. When my parents discover me gone… what are they going to think? I put the nearly finished bowl of soup on the floor and sink my head into my hands. Will there be an investigation? I nearly sob in frustration. The only thing leading to my disappearance is a pile of grey dust on the footpath outside the orchard. Would they think it was my remains in the dust?
The man gives me a searching look, “Come with me.”
He grasps my upper arm and stands me up. We walk up several flights of stairs, the pulsing of the factory working its way through my feet. I’m puffing by the time we reach the top. We stand near the roof of the building, a low wall surrounding the edge. The sea is on one side, the low rise of the city on the other. Both city and ocean stretch as far as I can see into the mist.
“I explored a lot in my youth, then when I came to work for Igren, I travelled for him. There is nothing else boy. There is the city and the sea.”
I gaze upwards. Even the day has a grimy feel to it. Smoke from the various factories filter upwards into the mist and the buildings are covered in a black filth. The ocean is grey and blends into the bank of fog on the horizon and I shiver in the wind. The veil parts, a rare occurrence here I guess, and something humps itself into view. A moon – not mine. This is no silvery disc, this is a nauseating blend of oranges and greys. Despite the dirty filter of atmosphere, this moon lurches towards the earth. Valleys and canyons can clearly be seen. It’s enormous.
Even though I knew it, a chill runs down my spine at the final proof. This is not my world.
Chapter 6
I watch from my cell window as the water reveals more of the rocky shore, the tides must be huge here. That moon, I shudder. I try twisting the bars at the window and find no movement. I splash back to my step and sit. My warder was good natured in taking me back to my cell, even kindly. He seemed amused at my shock and made me finish the soup to keep my strength up before leaving and locking the door behind him.
What can I do? No one’s going to be looking for me in this world. If I’m working here in the mill, then who’s going to help me? Those other people were allowed out, would I be allowed to leave if I tell them I’ll work for them? My spirits sink – they’ve locked me up – I don’t think they’re that stupid. I wrestle my anxiety down. I need to show them I’m trustworthy, that I can do things for them. The higher I can get in this society, the more chance I have of getting out. I rub my face, I need to get back to Talia. She’d had ideas and knew people that might help. Maybe these “nobs” can help me after all.
The day passes, I swing between wild hopes and worrying myself sick. The tide changes and starts the gradual climb back up to my window, the sky darkening. With nothing else to do, my brain twists itself into knots, trying to work out how I got here. I try to remember the girl’s face and fail. My home was a world away, the baggy jeans and the fear streaming off her were all I could recall.
Just when I’ve sunk into yet another hopeless mood, I hear footsteps in the hall. I straighten, telling myself I need to make the best of this and square my shoulders, determined to prove my worth. My warder appears at the door. He’s in a cheerful mood, Igren has asked for me. The usual grasp on my arm and we walk up through the factory. It’s empty, the vast room is in darkness apart from the oil lamps. Huge shadows wrap themselves over the machinery, a silent picture ready to explode into motion in a moment.
Igren is sitting behind his desk, the pile of counters has been moved to one side. He doesn’t waste time. “Any names?”
“No but I can read and write.” I figure few can in this world. I see a flicker cross his face and know I’m right. A glee fills me, I can do this.
“Prove it.” He snaps his fingers and the skinny ink stained man scowls and shoves a piece of paper in front of me. He doesn’t like having a rival with skills. I try to look casual and panic when I see the marks in front of me. It’s not English. They speak the same language, but it’s not written down the same.
“I can’t read this but I can write… pass me the pen.” A nod and a pen is passed. A nib strapped to a thin piece of wood. “Ink?” The scribe narrows his eyes and carefully places a bottle in front of me. I dip the pen and write as smoothly as I can. “This is my name, the date – as far as I know – and my place of birth.” It’s not come out too badly, despite the ink blobbing.
The scribe picks up the paper and squints. “It’s only scribbling. This ain’t writing.” He looks smug.
“It’s in my language.” I manage to keep my voice even and he snorts his disgust.
Igren takes the paper from him, turns it several ways. My hopes sink, he can’t read. “Looks like it’s writing but not ours.” He sighs, “If you’d said you were one of Dodie’s boys then I might have believed you. You’ve the right look.”
My guard interrupts, “Dodie’s dead.” Igren blinks and looks up. He shrugs, “I heard she fell over the other day and never got up again. They took her to the kilns yesterday.”
“Well, that changes everything.” Igren passes the paper back to his scribe and gathers himself, ready to make his judgement.
“I can write other things.” I’m desperate, I need to show my worth. “I can add and subtract, do your accounts for you.” Inspiration hits. “Just think, if no one else can read your accounts, then it’ll be a secret.”
Igren looks amused. “I keep my secrets in my head, boy, the best place for them.” He nods to my guard. “Get the details sorted and put him to work. Give him the wool bags first with Vihaan, get him used to it.” He smiles at me, “I’m not a bad man, if your family finds you then you can tell them that they’ll be welcome to join you. Three meals a day and I separate the men and women at night unless they find a man they want to be with. They’ll not believe the difference in you in a few weeks.”
I’m dragged out in shock. My guard’s grip is light as he takes me through the square. I glance at the few people left in the streets. The sun is beginning to set, the shadows darkening.
“They’ll be going home shortly. People don’t hang around here.” His voice is casual.
I can’t be forced to work for them, I need to get away. Anywhere is better than this, I might be able to find Talia and apologise to her. I twist and lunge out of his grip. His hand slips and I run, head down, my feet pounding, the blood thumping in my ears. People move out of my way – they’re helping – I’m going to get away. I can find a quiet doorway to sleep in tonight, forget the cold. Ideas race through my head, I’m going to do this, I’m going to get away.
Something tangles my feet together and I trip. A laugh from someone close by and I hit the floor hard. I twist to look, my feet have a rope wrapped around them with stones attached, some kind of bola. I try to free myself and a shadow falls over me.
“Don’t try that again,” he says in a kindly tone. He twists my arms behind my back – there’s nothing kindly about the rope he ties around my wrists. His hands are efficient but not rough. “I
wondered if you’d run if given the chance. Well, it won’t happen again. Up you get.” He loosens the bola and peels them off me. He shoves me towards a building, smoke seeping from the windows higher up into the dusk. Inside it’s hot, furnaces are burning brightly and the smell of iron pervades everything.
“Evening Darius. I’ve one for Igren. You got the message?” A grunt and a nod from one of the men. “Need him sorted now. He’s a bit frisky on his feet.”
Another grunt. My guard shoves me towards a table, face down and leans on my shoulder, wrapping his arm around my neck. I struggle, trying to get air into my lungs. A blast of warmer air runs across my back. They’ve ripped my shirt. I can’t see, can’t breathe. A burning warmth getting closer. I shrink away and begin fighting in earnest. My guard simply leans harder and tightens his grip. The world shrinks down to a small patch of skin on my right shoulder. A scream bursts from me. A searing pain spreads and I faint.
I wake retching. The bruise from Talia’s brick is nothing compared to this throbbing open wound. Something cold is slapped on my shoulder and I let out a muffled groan as it seeps into my skin. The pain recedes and I shiver. There’s no shirt left on me, they’ve cut it off my back.
I lie in the same position for what feels like ages, frightened to move in case I pull my injured shoulder. My brain imagines all sorts of injuries, seeping pus and gangrene. My limbs are like putty, they’ve left me face down. A thin mattress rises around my face and nearly smothers me. I can feel the leather straps attached to the frame underneath. Eventually I manage to turn my head.
Someone’s left a lamp in an alcove, just a simple wick in a puddle of oil. I gaze at it. So many things I’ve taken for granted. Light at the touch of a button, transport, talking to people miles away just by lifting a piece of plastic. I’m back to the stone age, in the ruins of a world that isn’t even my own. Tears leak out of my closed eyelids. I’ve no chance of finding Talia now. Is she even looking for me? Who was it she was taking me to meet? My family are never going to see me again. I’ll be crushed in one of those machines or hung in a creaking gibbet.
