by Tara Basi
His words attack my ears like my coarsest rasp. I cannot endure it. I pull myself up, push Zero aside and step out into the cave. I want to be alone. The click-clacking of my buttons on Zero’s gown tells me that he is following.
“So, Ma, you know I get why you’re giving up trying to prove them all wrong because, you know, we’ve, like, totally got no chance. Especially since you’re like, ‘I’m all guilty,’ and, ‘I’m a totally horrible, evil person.’ Which, you know, I didn’t think myself, but you know best, Ma.”
Can Zero not understand that his words assault my senses like acid? I escape to the waterfall area. I have to lean against the white tiled wall. My whole body is shuddering uncontrollably. Zero is undeterred. The clicks and clacks are at my back.
With deep sobs that scratch my throat, I wrench myself away from the waterfall wall and stumble on. My eyes are unseeing. Habit guides me. I am making my way to the ladder where I plan to escape Zero for the solitude of my bunk-bed-coffin.
“Really, Ma, I had no idea you were such a super-bad person.”
His last words bring me to an abrupt halt with my hand on the Odd door. Every muscle tightens and knots. I feel as if my bladder is full to bursting with boiling urine. There is more blood in my body than it can possibly hold. I spin around and begin to poke Zero in the chest with my finger, as though to emphasise every single syllable, and I yell, “How dare you say that I am a bad person? I have committed no crime, harmed no one, flouted no rituals, never failed to punctually arrive for every appointment. This is all unjust, unfair and unacceptable.”
“Really, Ma? I thought you’d given up.”
My voice has become shrill. “You told me to listen to people. They said I was guilty of terrible crimes. Are they telling the truth?”
“Ma, really? You don’t know? Seriously, Ma, I thought for sure you’d notice doing some of those really terrible things.”
I try not to scream. I barely succeed. “So, what is the truth?”
“Look, maybe it’s like this, see, everyone blames you because they lost something when the Terrors stopped.”
I punch Zero in the chest, and it feels good. I see now that some physical contact has its merits. “What something?”
Zero coughs and takes a step back while rubbing his chest. “Exactly right, Ma. Wouldn’t we like to know?”
He receives an even sharper blow.
“Yes, we would like to know about that and many other things,” I say.
Zero retreats awkwardly towards the waterfall. “I’m all ears, Ma. Like what?”
I cannot subdue a long groan. “The Terrors. Why does everyone think I banished them?” I am stabbing Zero with my finger so hard it is no doubt hurting me more than it is him. “Do you imagine that I enjoy dreading sleep and waking in appalling fear every morning of my life? If I could, do you not think I would have banished the Terrors long ago?”
He withdraws further, past the waterfall and into the cave. “That’d be a great point to bring up at an appeal. But since we’re not doing any appealing, we should, maybe, get ready for the nailing up.”
I am clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails are cutting into my palm, even through the thick gloves of my Encounter gown. A snarl climbs up my throat. “I will not be nailed up, not for ten thousand nights, not for one night. I will not wash chamber pots. I will make buttons. I shall appeal. I demand justice. I demand answers. I demand that everything be restored to the way it was before all of this nonsense began, and I demand to be left alone.” I am shouting very loudly, which is something I have never done before today.
“That last bit doesn’t include me, does it, Ma? I mean, I’ll still be able to visit? Right?”
I am unable to suppress a fragile smile. He is a kind-hearted, if useless, fellow. “That will depend on your performance and how rapidly and smoothly my appeal progresses.”
“Wow, Ma! Really, appeal? Heavy! It’s not going to be easy. I’ll do my best, Ma.”
The shadow of a smile is erased. “Why will it not be easy? What is the process? Tell me everything.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be nailed up?”
My voice is rising again. “Zero, tell me immediately what I am required to do.”
“Well, okay. Fair enough. First thing you’ll need is representation.”
My shoulders rise and tighten. “Are you not my representation?”
“Wow, Ma, that’s so cool. Really, you thought I was a rep? Me? You’re joking. Right?”
“Get on with it.” I am growing to appreciate brevity.
“Absolutely! Cool! Yeah! So, I’m like an administrator. You’ll need a solicitor and a barrister for the pre-hearing and the first-tier tribunal. That’s why we needed the loan from Marlon.”
“Very well, and since it appears I am exceedingly wealthy, you shall procure the services of an excellent solicitor and barrister. And, exactly, how many tiers of the tribunal are there?”
“After the pre-hearing, the first tier will tell us if they, like, find our appeal … appealing.”
My shoulders collapse. Nothing is simple. It seems I must again proceed one step at a time without knowing how many steps lie before me. One matter now troubles me above all others. “It is already one past one; if the appeal is not completed by day’s end, can we continue tomorrow?”
“Chill, Ma! There’s plenty of time.”
“Answer my question.”
“We’ll get it done today. Right?”
“Answer me, truthfully.” It is what I say, but it’s not what my heart covets.
“Wow! Right! Absolutely! It’s like this: we’ve got till nine past nine this evening.”
“What are the consequences if the appeal is not completed by then? Please, Zero, I must know.” I cannot keep the desperation I feel out of my voice.
Zero hangs his head. “Right. Yeah. Sure. Well, they’ll—”
All the air is sucked out of my lungs and my bowels pulse. I clap my hands together and squeeze one with another. “No matter. If I don’t appeal I will be entombed in my bunk-bed-coffin. If I appeal and fail, the result will be the same. It seems I have nothing to lose by appealing.”
“Right on, Ma! Though, you know, theoretically, they could increase the sentence if we fail. Which, obviously, we won’t.”
Something inside that has been bent to near-breaking snaps back. I laugh out loud, which startles Zero, who stumbles backwards through my workhouse door, sending his gown of buttons into a clattering frenzy.
“If my sentence is increased to twenty thousand days and nights, I doubt I could feel more horror and anger than I do now. My appeal must go forward. Have you secured a solicitor and a barrister? Can we meet with them and make progress? It is approaching two past one. I am running out of time.”
“Absolutely, Ma. Almost. Yeah! Exactly! So, this is the thing. Right! We have to visit Inns of Court and find ones we like, like.”
“What Inns? Where?”
“Ma, we’re going deep down, underground, into the bowels, to find us some badass, superfly and righteous representation.”
His words are meaningless to me, and I am too exhausted to question Zero further. I wave him out of my workshop. “Zero, please, I need a few moments of peace before we start out on another journey.”
“Sure, Ma.” Zero turns and starts to walk away.
“Wait, Zero! Do you require sustenance? There is more than ample for both our needs,” I say, indicating the napkin bundles sitting on my workbench.
Zero politely declines my offer with a shake of his head. “I’ll wait for you by the bunk-bed-tower ladder, Ma. Take your time.”
He departs the cave. I am alone and it is quiet. I close the workhouse door and unburden myself of the Encounter gown. It is wonderful to feel the air on my skin and to be able to breathe and see unhindered. Resting on my stool, I find myself staring at my workbench while trying to make sense of my situation.
Except for this morning, a blue box holding b
utton-making materials would always be sitting on my workbench awaiting my attention when I arrived at the workhouse. Inside the box there might be a solid bar of metal, oblongs of wood or blocks of ivory. If each piece of material were animated, then they might express the view that they were satisfied with their lot, having existed in their current form for a great length of time. Yet they are brought somewhere they do not recognise, and they are delivered to an omniscient power who cares nothing for their preferences or their pasts and begins burning, cutting and shaping them into something they neither understand nor desire to be. In a like manner, I have become mere material to be tortured and manipulated by unknown forces that care nothing for myself or my wishes. I am not inanimate. I have a little strength and a voice. And I have a friend in Zero. I raise my fist above my head and strike the workbench. Lighter tools jump and fall back. Heavier pieces tremor. My cruel punishment of entombment in limbo, neither alive nor dead while lost in the Terrors, will not go unchallenged.
Though I am anxious to get on, I am thankful for these moments of privacy. I attend to my bodily functions, wash, eat and drink some water. Not too much water. Who knows when I will next happen upon a chamber pot.
Tick.
It is time to join Zero. My hand caresses the workbench till it reaches a favourite tool, a delicate chisel. I pick it up and look around at the small space that is workhouse number Seven. This might well be the last time I ever set eyes on my day home. It, and everything it contains, has served me well. Within its confines, I have been happy and content. I shall not let them easily take it from me. I set the chisel down and make my way to the ladder.
Chapter Nine – Solicitation
Somehow, Zero has opened up a large hole at the base of the bunk-bed-tower ladder out of which a faint glow is emerging. When I come nearer I see, to my surprise, that the ladder extends into the depths.
“Has this always been so?”
“I think all this stuff, all these weird people and places, all arrived last night. But, like, that would be stupid, right, Ma?”
“You informed me, or your messenger did, that you were born yesterday. Is that correct?”
“Wow! Yeah, like, absolutely. Weird, though. Right?”
“And you claim to be my son?”
Usually Zero moves quite slowly, as though he is not entirely conscious. My last question has produced a bout of atypical animation. He stretches his arms wide and half sings, “A woman, when she is in travail, hath sorrow because her hour is come: but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish.”
Zero is misguided, though I believe he means well. He is most obviously not my son, and my anguish is very much remembered. I do not want to argue. I shake my head and wave Zero on. He steps gingerly onto the ladder and begins his descent.
A thought turns my stomach. “Zero, of course, you must promise not to look up as we descend. I will worry greatly and, most likely, unnecessarily if you do not.”
“Sure, Ma. I promise.”
I am relieved. When the point of his hood disappears down the hole, I follow. There is nothing to see but the ladder. Zero’s bulky gown blocks the view below, and I am surrounded by a featureless tube of stone. Zero’s buttons crackle and snicker as he, laboriously and with much grunting, makes his descent. He appears unused to ladder work, particularly the special care needed when wearing an Encounter gown.
Though nothing is yet visible, a sickly warmth is rising to meet us as we descend. The fetid smells of unemptied chamber pots, spoilt food and general corruption touch my nostrils. Justice smells bad.
There is brightening down below. Zero has reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped aside. I follow and am astonished by the scene above me as I emerge from the hole into the open. I grip the ladder tightly and stop moving and stare upwards. The ladder has emerged into a space that is impossibly large. A featureless stone ceiling, unblemished except for the hole where the ladder has emerged, stretches in every direction till it can no longer be seen. Still clinging to the ladder for support, I lower my eyes and look around. I cannot supress a yelp of astonishment. Zero is standing next to the ladder, which ends on a flat roof set in the midst of an extraordinary cityscape. He beckons me to descend. I keep my eyes fixed on the ladder and, by this means, am able to loosen my grip sufficiently to continue. Once I am down and supported by Zero, I slowly raise my head. We are standing on the small roof of an incredibly tall tower. The roof is edged with a low parapet.
Zero slowly spins with an outstretched hand. “Ma, the Inns of Court.”
On unsteady legs, I nervously survey the scene, turning slowly to look in every direction. I am shaking and barely able to keep my feet planted. I am not upright for long. The vista that surrounds me begins to spin and undulate, and I find myself swaying in time to its dizzying dance. Zero takes hold of my shoulders and gently helps me sink to the roof of the tower. Breathlessly, I ask, “Zero, how is this possible? What keeps the roof aloft?”
“Hot air?”
What a stupid boy. What an absurd answer. I take my hooded head in my hands and attempt to make sense of what I have seen. In every direction, the vista is the same, though the details differ. It is endless, an infinity of flat rooftops of varying sizes, sharp edges, irregular shapes and statures, though none approach the height of the tower where we find ourselves. The buildings are randomly arranged. It is as if they were arbitrarily dropped by some careless giant planting seeds, and they are planted much too close together. Alleys run between the structures with less utility than cracks in the shattered surface of a crème brûlée: my most favourite dessert of all the desserts my carers bring me. The passages are illuminated with spluttering flames that throw off black smoke. Sporadically, a larger building exudes a steadier red glow that might indicate a giant fire is burning inside. In every direction, it is the same vision of dimly lit, structural chaos, and it is without end.
“Ma, you okay?”
I nod and, slowly, I drag myself to my feet, aided by Zero. He leads me to a parapet and points. “The first-tier tribunal.”
Leaning forward, I peer into the distance. There is something markedly different. Gradually, I discern a mighty pyramid, clothed in shadows, rising almost to the height of our tower. There is more, I think. It is so distant that I cannot be sure my eyes are not being deceitful. As my sight grows accustomed to the gloom, I see that there are more pyramids beyond the first, and they are at least as tall as our tower. “Zero, what lies beyond?”
“Ma, that’s the other tribunals and, if we have to, the Supreme Court.”
“How is it you know so much of the justice system and this place if you were only born yesterday?”
“Like I said, Ma, it all arrived last night, same as me, and I, like, dig it.”
“Are you mad? How could such a vastness have been constructed in one night? And how is digging related to your knowledge?”
“Yeah, Ma, exactly! I’m with you. Isn’t it all crazy? Love to, like, discuss and ponder but time’s a-ticking.”
Unfortunately, this is the only thing which Zero has said that makes any sense. It’s almost thirty-five past one. He approaches a large door set in the roof and flings it open to reveal a flight of stone stairs. I follow and am surprised to find a well-lit space employing familiar lightbulbs. Zero has descended a short flight and has come to a halt on a small landing. The stairs continue, spiralling around the inner walls of the tower, enclosing an empty shaft at its centre.
“Why have you stopped?” I say.
Zero only nods towards the central space. Cautiously, I peer over the edge of the landing. On and on the stairs wind, and it makes me dizzy to follow their progress. There is something else. A square shape is rising towards us. It is moving very quickly. Zero gently guides me back from the edge. A moment later, a box arrives and its doors slide open. Zero enters and, after a brief hesitation, I follow. The wall on the right has a giant glass button labelled Up. On the opposite wall is an identical
button labelled Yours. Zero depresses this button, the doors slide shut and the floor falls away. The little box is filled with screams. It is hard to say who is screaming loudest. Zero and I are floating weightlessly in the middle of the box. While Zero continues his squeaky lament, my screams die away. It is an enjoyable feeling not to be burdened with aching limbs, a sore back and unhappy feet. No doubt, there will be a reckoning. Meanwhile, I shall savour this feeling while I may. If only Zero would cease his purposeless squealing. There is nothing we can do. And I am comforted by the lack of blood stains in the box.
Gradually, the burdens of age return until I am again standing on my feet and suffering my full weight. At least Zero has fallen silent. The doors slide open and I step out. We are at the base of the tower facing an archway that leads out into a narrow passage, like those I noted from the top of the tower. Beyond the tower archway, there are no lightbulbs, only rambunctious shadows. The faint stench I smelled atop the tower is now very strong.
“What now, Zero? Zero?” Looking back, I see Zero is slumped on the floor of the box. “Get up! We have no time. What now?”
Unsteadily, Zero climbs to his feet and staggers out of the box to join me at the archway.
“That was fun.” He does not sound convincing. He points down the alley. “We need to find a solicitor first.”
“Why not a barrister first? Is that not the more important appointment? And where will we find a solicitor? Will it take long?”
“Don’t sweat it, Ma. It’s just protocol to hire a solicitor first. We’ll find one in the Grey Light District up ahead. Then we’ll be off to Pots Chambers. It’s all cool.”
I bow my head and take a few moments to study the hem of my gown. At least there are protocols. “Very well.”
We move off down the passageway. The sheer, blackened walls of the edifices on either side of the lane rise up like cliffs. The edges of their roofs merge and melt and are lost in the darkness and vastness of the similarly hued, overarching, stone sky. I feel entombed. The buildings’ exteriors are featureless apart from the occasional braziers filled with smouldering coals or infrequent metal sleeves clutching burning wooden staves wrapped in oily rags. A light shower of sparks, rag ash and the occasional ember are constantly falling to a hissing death in one of the many rank puddles that cover the uneven stone floor. The air is clammy and dense. The faces of the buildings sweat oily drops that cling for a while before losing their grip and slithering away. Corners arrive unexpectedly and randomly sprout new passages that fly off at acute angles. Our own path wildly zigs first this way and then that, as though it is trying to shake off its followers.
