Memoranda (37 page)

Cley shuddered as he lifted his knife off the ground where it lay next to the sled. He knelt and dug a shallow hole in the earth. Very carefully, he dropped the seed in and gently covered it over, tamping the cold dirt with his palms. As soon as he was finished, he leaped to his feet and gathered his mittens and rifle. Grabbing the sled by its harness, he whistled for Wood and set out quickly for home.

When they arrived at the cave, he did not bother to remove his cloak but went directly to the back, to the shaft that led down into the burial chamber, and threw the necklace in as far as he could. Even after an hour had passed, he still sat against the rock wall, staring out at the sky.

Before the sun rose, he made an inventory of his belongings and placed them neatly in his pack. Since the temperature had risen in recent days, he rolled up the cat cloak, the mittens and leggings, and stuffed them also into the pack. He was pleased to be able once again to wear only his overalls, shirt, jacket, and the black hat adorned with wild-turkey feathers. Once he was fitted out for the journey, he slung the bow over his shoulder and took up the rifle. Before leaving the cave, he looked back into it once with a perverse sense of nostalgia.

He had rigged the tent to the sled the night before, and now all that was needed was to get Wood into the harness. It took some doing to convince the dog that dragging the weight was a good idea. For this purpose, he had saved a few strips of venison from the previous night's dinner, and with these he was able to coax his companion into the job of mule. Cley felt a measure of pride when the rig slid over the ground with ease.

They started around to the other side of the hill, and had not gone fifty yards, when they found a demon blocking their path. It lay facedown on the ground, unmoving, its wings folded in as if it was either asleep or dead. Cley stopped and brought the rifle up in front of him. He was wary of the beast, knowing the demons were not beneath a form of simple trickery. Wood was beside himself in the harness. Unable to attack, he growled in warning and frustration.

Cley advanced slowly, keeping a strict aim on the head of the creature. A wing lifted slightly, and without a second passing, the hunter fired, missing the base of the skull and instead chipping off the tip of the right horn. Then he realized that the movement of the wing had been caused by the wind. He walked over and, using his foot, flipped the body onto its back. The face the demon wore was so horrific, Cley almost fired again out of fright. Its eyes protruded as if momentarily frozen in the act of exploding, and its bulging tongue draped down across its chest. He knelt and touched the carcass. It was still quite warm, and he figured it had probably been killed within the past half-hour. Now he noticed the necklace of shell beads wrapped tightly around its throat, cutting deeply into the windpipe.

They navigated the hillside with minor difficulty and reached the plain by late morning. Out on the huge expanse, they moved quickly, half-fleeing the forest of demons, half-rushing toward the promise of the future. A sweet breeze blew in from the east, and beneath their feet were the first signs of green, sprouting out of the mud.

“i know you.”

Although I dare not neglect Cley's impossible journey, something miraculous has happened in my own insular world that has transformed the tenor of my existence. While I wait for the sheer beauty to begin to percolate and guide me back to the Beyond, I will record these recent events that have had the same effect on me that a new pair of stronger, cleaner spectacles might.

Two days past, after having stayed up all night in the thrall of the drug's dictation of Cley's months in the demon forest, I was completely exhausted. Although demons' lives are long in comparison with the normal span of a human's, I admit I am now getting on in years. The aftermath of the beauty has more of a deleterious effect on me than it once did. When younger, I could take the needle, experience its influence, and after a few hours be done with it until next I needed a touch of existential levity. Now, it dries me out, droops my lids, sags my wings, and leaves me feeling as if I could learn my wild brethren's practice of hibernation. The one thing it has never been able to do is trap me in addiction—I think.

I came away from this writing desk late into the following morning. Thoughts of Cley's cave, the black dog's wound, and those off-putting empty eye sockets of the ghost woman still swirled through my mind. The packs of cigarettes (stale ones this time from among the ruins), I'm sure, only added to my pitiful condition. Instead of going off to my room to sleep, I decided to step outside and take some fresh air to disperse those nightmarish images.

It was a clear summer day, and I welcomed the sun as an antidote to the frigid landscape of the Beyond. The ruins appeared as they now so infrequently do to me, namely, as truly wondrous as they are—more exotic than when the city was whole and vibrant. I flew up to perch on one of the more prominent piles of rubble. From my research I knew that it had once housed the Ministry of Justice. I often sit in this spot, where two slabs of coral have settled at right angles, creating a comfortable throne that allows my wings to hang over the back. Resting my arms on my knees and my head upon my arms, I stared sleepily out across the static mayhem that is my kingdom.

As I was making a mental note to fly to Latrobia that evening to filch some fresh cigarettes from the back room of the blind mask-maker who lives on the outskirts of town, I heard the sound of a human voice. There were no particular words I could discern, but I distinctly heard it, someone trying too hard to whisper. My initial reaction was anger. The last thing I needed in my present exhaustion was to be playing hide-and-seek with a troop of idiot treasure hunters. I saw it all in an instant—greedy, gun-toting fools eager to make off with Below's broken-down wonders. It would be easier to kill them than to scare them, but my all-too-human nature would not allow me that option.

Instead of leaping to action and crawling on all fours through the rubble in order to sneak up on them, the aftereffects of the beauty insisted that I sit still and wait for them to pass below my perch. While I waited, I could hear their voices grow more distinct. I sniffed at the air, and it brought me news of one female and either two or three males. I was pleased it wasn't the invading army I keep expecting. In my dotage I have become, in some ways, as paranoid as my father was. Minutes crawled by, and with each my anger grew until my tail was dancing and I half-considered the consequences of merely damaging one of them.

Then they appeared from around the corner of the blasted Ministry of War and began crossing the intact plaza, which lay fifty yards beneath me. My mind seized, my anger instantly deflated. There were three of them—children. My first thought was to sit stone still as not to frighten them. My second thought was
, “What irresponsible parent allows his children to go exploring among dangerous ruins where it is a known fact that a demon resides?”

They were neither very young nor very old, if that tells you anything of their age. The tallest was a boy with long brown hair, wearing a red shirt. He carried a sharpened stick in his hands with the same tenacity with which I had pictured Cley holding his rifle. I could tell by the way his gaze constantly roamed and he moved along in a partial crouch that he was scared. In fact I could smell his fear and that of the other, smaller boy with the peaked cap. The girl appeared second oldest to the boy with the stick, and she moved without care, leading the others onward. Her hair was long and blond, and she was thin, her arms gracefully swinging at her sides. The instant I saw her, I knew it was not the first time.

I could feel my anxiety rising. It was one thing to play rough with treasure hunters, but what does one do with children? I didn't realize until that moment how much more I would have preferred the invading army. Just then the girl looked up, and I could see her catch sight of me.

“
There he is,” she shouted, pointing up the mound of debris at me.

Her companions ran, screaming, and it was the last I would see of them. She not only stood her ground, but she smiled and waved to me. I tried to pretend I was a gargoyle made of stone, but she moved closer to the bottom of my hill.

“
I know you,” she yelled. “Do you remember how you saved me from the river?”

And so it was, that girl from Wenau I had pulled out of the river some years ago. “No good deed goes unpunished,” I thought. My gargoyle disguise was too flimsy even for my addled sensibilities. I lifted a hand and waved to her.

“
I know you,” I said.

She began straightaway to climb the blocks of coral to where I sat, and, afraid she would fall and hurt herself, I called down to her to stay put, that I would come to her. Since she was the first person to have come to the ruins actually to visit me, I decided to do my best.

Shaking off my fatigue, I slowly stood, sucking in my paunch and thrusting out my chest. Regal was the look I wanted, so I let my wings spread completely on either side before I flapped them and leaped into the sky. Not until I was on the descent did I see what effect my show was having, but when I saw her face she appeared mightily pleased with me.

I landed with a spectacular but unnecessary fluttering that lifted the coral dust off the plaza and sent her hair up over her head. The last thing that I expected was that she would point at me and laugh. At first I was wounded by her reaction, but the sound of her joy was infectious, and I could barely restrain myself from joining her.

“
Do I amuse you?” I asked.

“
The spectacles,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “When they draw you in the newspaper at Wenau, they make you a fierce monster.”

I had to smile.

“
You're not, though, are you?” she said quietly.

“
If only you knew, my dear,” I said.

“
Do you remember the river?” she asked.

I nodded. “Was it four years ago?”

“
Six,” she said. “I was seven then.”

“
Very good,” I told her, and then didn't know what else to say.

“
Those boys were frightened of you. The one with the hat is my brother, Caine. The other one is our friend, Remmel. My name is Emilia.” She held her hand out to me.

Those long fingers, that thin arm, looked too delicate for me to touch. I bowed slightly instead, and said, “Misrix.”

“
I've come to tell you that not everyone in Wenau is afraid of you. Many have read the books of Cley and know that you helped him and us. Many don't believe the Physiognomist and think you are a wild animal. Those in the church say you are the spirit of evil,” she said as if performing a speech she had memorized.

“
It is likely that they are all in some part correct,” I said.

“
Because you pulled me from the river, I knew you were gentle. You will not hurt me, will you?” Her eyes went wide, and she lightly touched a locket that hung from a chain around her neck.

“
That would never do,” I said. “You are my first guest. Would you like me to show you the ruins?”

“
Yes,” she said.

I started walking, and she followed me. This was an opportunity I had long waited for—someone to whom I could explain the ruins. Throughout the long, lonely years, I had become a kind of archeologist, digging artifacts out of the chaos, researching the lives and lifestyles of its citizens, reading the histories in the library, poring over surviving documents from each of the ministries. Now that I had the chance to expound, I was tongue-tied by the youth and honesty of the only one ever interested in listening.

We had walked a hundred yards in silence, and I was beginning to sweat, when she said, “Can I touch your wings?”

“
Of course,” I told her.

She came close to me and reached out her left index finger, running it along one bone and then down across the membrane.

“
Not as smooth as I thought,” she said.

“
Smooth is not my specialty,” I told her.

“
Tell me about this place, Misrix,” she said.

So I began, and although she was only a child, I decided to be as honest with her as possible. “All of this you see around you,” I said, “all of this destruction, this coral mess, and the metal and human remains that lie amidst it, when added together, combine to tell a story. A great, grand story. A tragedy for sure, a cautionary tale, but a love story nonetheless …”

I showed her the laboratory with its miniature lighthouse that still projected the forms and sounds of songbirds, the only remaining complete statue of a miner, in blue spire, brought here from Anamasobia, those sections of remaining architecture that might give an idea of the original grandeur of the place, the electric elevator that once led to the Top of the City but now only traveled four floors, the underground passages, and the blasted shell of the false paradise. There was, of course, much more. She was a great listener, only speaking when she had a question that could not wait. I appreciated her silence, her focused attention, her mere presence.

I ended the tour after two hours in my room, where I house the Museum of the Ruins, my own natural history installation of those objects I believe to hold an integral part of the essence of the Well-Built City. We strolled up and down the rows, and I showed her the head of the mechanical gladiator, the old shudder cups, etc. When we came to the back row, I took down the core of the fruit of Paradise that Cley, himself, had eaten, and let her smell it.

“
I see a beautiful garden surrounded by ice,” she said as I held the core up to her nose. For some reason, the look on her face almost made me weep.