The Dark Water (12 page)

He laughs. “You do not understand a thing, little girl. Your father sent me here to find out what the map said. It is your father who ordered this.” He flicks some blood from his knife as if to emphasize the point.

“I do not believe you,” Lisa shouts.

“Then you do not know your father, Lisenthe. This is what the Topsiders are like. These ones”—he points his blade in my direction—“show up and threaten our world. We are Keepers, we are to keep by any means.”

“But what are you doing?” I ask, unable to mask the wobble in my voice. “Why are you torturing them?” I look at my father. “Dad, why don't you just tell him what's on the map? Why does it matter?”

“Because, hon,” Dad says, his voice weak, tired, “as long as they want what's on the map, they need us. And until they let us go, I won't give it to them.”

Straoc whirls on Dad, and without the slightest hesitation he slams the knife into Dad's shoulder. Dad grunts, his mouth open, somehow unable to scream. So I do it for him. Lisa lunges at Straoc but he backhands her across the room. I step toward him and he pulls the knife from my father's shoulder with a sickening sound and holds it in front of me, waving me forward, smiling.

“Stop,” Rob shouts, digging into his pocket for his OtterBox.

Smart Rob, gentle genius Rob. Hand over the map so my father can live.

“What, young Rob? What do you have in your pocket?”

Rob pulls out his OtterBox. I doubt it will make much sense to Straoc, but Rob turns it on and shows it to him. Straoc's puzzled, watching the apple on the screen as it boots up. Lisa slides herself up the wall into a standing position, nursing her elbow. She dips her hand into her pouch and licks her fingers, using the water to heal herself. Just like Straoc is doing with the birdbath here: he's cutting Dad and Brayden up and then healing them, able to torture them forever.

My dad coughs, and as if Straoc were reading my mind, the Keeper cups a handful of the water and tosses it at him. It lands all over, but some does hit his face and his arm, and I can see Dad lick his lips; immediately he begins to breathe easier. And I do too.

The iPhone turns on, and Rob flicks the screen to the map, then hands it over to Straoc.

Jo's been quiet up to this point, but I can see her, sidling down the wall to my dad. Lisa's looking at her, making eye contact, and she begins to move as well, slowly, toward the far side of the room.

“What is this? How does it have the map? It is so small.” Straoc seems to forget himself, his Topside fascination overwhelming him. He's almost eager, bouncing on his giant calves.

“It's a Topside thing,” Rob says, taking a slow step forward, his hand out, pointing at the screen. “Here, let me show you.” He takes the phone back from Straoc, who's lowered his knife, his eyes rapt and on this new gadget, and just as pleased with the luck of finding the map, whole, in a perfectly replicated image.

Rob holds up the phone in front of Straoc, the images facing me, so I can see when Rob taps the toolbar at the bottom. I get what he's doing. I'm actually ready when he pushes the button for the flashlight.

It might not work so well on someone in Fenton, but to a Keeper in a dark room who has eyes as big as apples, the light comes as a complete surprise, blinding Straoc. I'm not sure if Lisa and Jo were expecting it, but they're as ready as I am, and we all charge together, smashing into Straoc and sending him sprawling to the floor.

I fall with him and land hard on the hilt of my knife. Straoc gulps and pushes me off him, but that's not too hard to do; I can barely move, my body frozen by the nauseating feeling of his warm blood pumping onto my hands.

Straoc stumbles to his feet. My knife is still in his belly, the hilt so small against his enormous frame that it looks like a toy. He pulls it out, grunts and drops it to the floor with a
clang.
I step back, my nerves seizing, the room suddenly too small.

But Lisa doesn't wait. She charges, ducks a huge swing from Straoc and kicks him in the knee, sending him panting to the ground. “Rob, knock over the water,” she cries.

“What?” he shouts.

The water. Straoc can't be allowed to get to it. She's standing in front of the birdbath, blocking it, and Straoc's up again and moving her way, slashing deep into her arm with his own knife. She gasps in pain. Rob hurries to the water and kicks the stand over, sending it splashing onto the floor and into a drain underneath Brayden's table.

“Help her,” I shout. And that seems to spark everyone in the room. Dad drags himself forward and wraps his arms around Straoc's leg. I grab Straoc's arm, Jo pushes hard on his wounded stomach and Straoc's on the ground again. Lisa stomps on his wrist, breaking his grip on the knife, sending it clattering to the stone. Jo pulls Straoc's pouch from his belt, spilling the rest of his water on the floor. He's on his back, tendons in his neck straining tight, bellowing in rage.

I grab my little knife from the floor and hold it to his throat.

“If you move, Straoc, I
will
kill you.” I don't know if I believe myself, but I sound threatening enough. I stare in fascination at the wet blade resting lightly against the skin of his neck, a thin line of blood already forming.

Straoc stops, his eyes wide, breathing hard, a wounded beast.

Lisa's grimacing, her arm split along a seam—it's amazing she's not passed out from shock. She looks around at us. “You need to go get someone. We need more Keepers here. We need to restrain him.”

“Mia,” Dad says, staring at my left hand, at some blue stains on my finger. “What's that?”

“What? Nothing. Berries,” I say, keeping my focus on Straoc, on the blade pressed to his neck. “I took them from the greenhouse. Who cares?”

I can't move because I'm the one keeping Straoc in check, so there's nothing I can do when Dad slips his hand into my pocket and pulls a few berries out. A rising dread courses through me as he rolls them in his hand, three blue circles—just like on the map—and then slams his palm over Straoc's mouth.

“Dad!” I shout, but it's too late. He pulls his hand away and Straoc's mouth and teeth and lips are bright blue. He tries to spit, his big tongue working past his lips. He's like a guppy gasping in the air.

“Oh man,” Rob says.

“What?” Lisa asks. “What is ‘oh man'? What is going on?”

Straoc seems to get what's going on because suddenly he comes to life, pushing me off him—getting his cheek cut halfway open in the process—and scrambling to his feet. Before we can even move, he's out the door, faster than I would have thought possible. But I hear him slam into the wall in the hallway. I run after him but he's already on his knees, breathing slow. Blood or saliva drips from his mouth onto the stone.

Lisa pulls out her own pouch and takes a shaky step forward, but Rob holds her good arm.

“Not you,” he says, taking the pouch.

Rob moves alongside Straoc and bends at the knees, pouch shaking in his outstretched hand, but before he gets a chance to give water to the Keeper, Straoc slumps forward, head onto the stone. Lisa closes her eyes, unable to watch any more, and I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay, Mr. Kish?” Jo asks after a while, trying to fill the silence. He smiles at both of us reassuringly. It's so strange to see him here, the relief in me so palpable that I feel spent, as if there's nothing more to do. Let's go home, let's ignore all this and get home and make pancakes and watch
Dead Poets Society.
But then Dad's face shows alarm, remembering something.

“Brayden,” I say, reading his mind.

Jo, Dad and I rush back inside, and all I can think is,
Maybe there's water somewhere, maybe on the floor, can I find some on the floor?
But when I see him I can't focus on saving him. Brayden betrayed me, I know this, but right now, seeing the skin along his chest curled open like a peeled orange, his face streaked with blood—right now it takes everything not to put my hand on his forehead and sob into his chest.

Dad feels for a pulse. He looks tired, grim. “He's alive, barely.”

Lisa stands in the doorway, blood all over her shirt. She's looking ragged. We all are. “We have to get him to water. I'll carry him.”

And she does, tossing him over her shoulder with no preamble. It's like she can't allow two people to die today. We follow, my father leaning on me and Rob. I smell his sweat, his blood. He's heavy, but he's trying. He needs more water himself.

We pass Straoc. I step on his hand accidentally. I feel his finger break beneath my heel. I don't think I'll ever forget the sound.

Up the stairs, in the light, Lisa bears a look of stark resolve. “There is no easy water here. The nearest font will be with Arcos and his clan. No one speaks but me, understand?”

We all nod, confused, and then she raises her head and screams like a banshee in the wind.

“Lisa, what're you doing?” Rob says, his voice straining. “You'll bring Arcos's men.”

She looks at him, her face impassive. “That is exactly the plan.”

IT DOESN'T TAKE LONG.

They come as a troop, more soldierly than I have yet seen, nine Keepers running three abreast. Both male and female, they're dressed in thin, tight silver shirts and pants that appear to be hybrid armor and clothing. They shimmer as they run. Each has the same long black hair twisted into a bun on top of his or her head. They are big and scary and stop fifteen feet from us, watching warily.

One of them, the collar of her shirt lined in a shimmering red, calls out to Lisa in their native tongue. We've gathered together in a clump, a pretty pathetic group. Dad can't stop rubbing my back, as if he's not sure he can believe I'm here.

Lisa responds in English, presumably for our sake: “Please, friend Keeper. We need safe passage to a font.”

The Keeper is tall, fierce looking, and I notice that she has a paint streak of that same red down the ridge of her nose. She glances at the open door to the Lock and squints suspiciously. With her large eyes, it makes for a very intense expression.

“Where are those who guard the Lock?” She looks us over. “Why are you carrying a Topsider?”

“I understand, and I am sure the seeing of us now and at this moment brings questions to your heart,” replies Lisa. Keeper diplomacy seems very proper, a slow way of doing business. “I am Lisenthe, daughter of Randt, one of the Keepers of the Source. You know of me, surely. We surrender ourselves to you and Arcos, Keeper of the Source, so that we might have your protection and speak to Keeper Arcos.” She motions to Brayden with her head. He's bleeding down her shirt. “But most of all we need a font, all of us.”

The officer considers this. “I am Palu, commander. And who does not know of the daughter of Randt, kept in his tower? You look of your father, and Keeper Arcos has little to trust in him at the moment. You will come, and you will be bound.”

At a gesture from Palu, the soldiers fan around us, giant pale shadows, and without a word we're trussed up and organized. A Keeper takes Brayden from Lisa and puts him on his shoulder; another carries Dad, who winces with each step his carrier takes, but I get it: he'd only slow us down if he walked on his own.

Once we're lined up we move quickly. I'm tired, both physically and emotionally, and soon the hallways blur and I'm lost in the rhythm of running, just trying to keep up. Like the end of a day doing laps at the pool, exhaustion fading in. I stare at Rob's feet, watching him stumble over and over again.

I don't realize we've entered a new tower until the stone under my feet turns abruptly to wood. Long wide boards, dark with a distinctive wood grain, laid in crisscross pattern. The boards must be thick because they don't give at all. I catch my father looking at me as he dangles almost upside down from a Keeper's back. He shakes his head. I'm not sure why.

We're in an enormous spherical courtyard at the center of a huge building, like the inside of Epcot. Everything's wood. There are wooden beams lining the walls, balconies supported by columns as thick as redwoods. On the floor there are trees, like at Randt's tower, except here they jut from huge planters dug into the floor instead of grassy gardens. The place is empty, the vastness reminding me of the inside of a cathedral.

Palu takes us directly to another gazebo/elevator, this one with a wooden door, but we head down, not up. Levels flash as we go, exits into foyers like at Randt's tower. Five, six, seven of them until we stop.

Palu motions for us to rise. “You must not speak unless spoken to,” she says, her voice deadly earnest. “I cannot repeat myself enough. To speak will be to end your lives. Have patience. Is this clear?”

We nod our heads like schoolchildren. I'm tired of the surprises this place brings. I can hear the sound of Straoc's finger under my foot. I can see the faint bubble of breath on Brayden's lips. I just want to get this over with.

Palu opens the door and steps out, guiding us into an amphitheater filled with Keepers in all manner of clothing and style. It's like the Exchange, only quiet. Five hundred pairs of bright eyeballs stare at us from their seats as we're ushered in, but no one makes a noise. I wonder why they're all here; surely not because of us? That would be impossible. Palu walks down the center aisle and motions for us to sit in the first row, which is empty. She lays Brayden down on the thick wooden beams in front of me, then steps off to the side, as if she doesn't want to obstruct the view of the Keepers behind me.

In front of us, onstage, is the fattest Keeper I've yet seen. He's huge, easily five hundred pounds, but at seven feet tall his bulk seems manageable—at least mobile. He's got several chins, and a long black braid that goes over his left shoulder and drapes down his ruby red robe. His eyes are fierce green and he's staring blankly at the crowd, as if in a daze. Beside him is a font, and behind him is a large white canvas, mounted between two gray and stiff pieces of petrified wood, gas lamps and glowflowers positioned all around to provide light.

I lean over to ask Dad what he thinks is going on, but he waves me away, and I remember the rule not to speak. Dad winks reassuringly, the crows' feet around his eyes wrinkling, and it's just like him to try to make light of a serious moment. An irrational anger flares; why can't he see that I got us this far, that I'm not some helpless kid who needs his comfort?

What are we doing here?
Jo mouths to me. Her knees bounce and I wish I had that kind of energy.

The Keeper onstage dips his fingers in water from the font and sucks them greedily, then picks up a large brush from the ground. It's the size of a broom, though the head is smaller and more refined. He dips it in some paint—it looks like there are dollops of color at his feet, as if he's using the floor as a paint palette.

This must be Arcos himself, one of the Three, and like Randt with his library of scrolls he must paint images, except that Arcos seems to prefer a bigger canvas and a larger audience. Watching his robes shift and his massive bulk move gracefully back and forth is entirely surreal. I feel like I'm at some bizarre performance for the Postmodern Club back at Westbrook. But it's what Arcos draws that actually matters.

He divides the canvas in half, right down the middle, and on the left side he draws Capian, just as I remember it from the gates. It's stunningly accurate, identical to the memory I have of the view from the steps leading in. He finishes the towers quickly, and then he turns to the empty canvas on the right. He's pushing his brush hard, scraping the paint on. At first I think he's just drawing something from Capian I haven't seen before but then, suddenly, I know. My stomach curls. I've seen that view, I
stood
there, on the hill above Westbrook by the broken statue of Socrates. I could see the school and Fenton beyond. There was snow and soldiers and spotlights and we escaped Sutton's quarantine by knocking the statue down and racing across the frozen lake. And in less than five minutes Arcos has dipped into my memory and sketched exactly what I saw. He paints a line of blue between the cities, and underneath them, like an aquifer.

Arcos steps back and examines his work. He picks up a fresh paintbrush and dips it in a bowl of red and then yellow paint and smears it violently across the Keeper city, lighting it on fire. I can feel the breaths behind me suck in. The hair on my arms stands on end. Even Palu looks queasy.

Then he dips the same brush in black and red and splatters Westbrook, and only Westbrook. But he draws little tendrils up to Fenton, and I'm sure Rob and Jo and my dad recognize that the tendrils aren't random, but follow the exact line of Highway 504, snaking through the mountains.

Arcos drops the brush, turns around and stares right at me.

“The source speaks of a falling city, of Capian in flames, but I do not know why.” He squints at me, then at the rest of us, settling finally on Brayden on the floor. “Palu, I do not want sickness and hurt here. Take him to my personal font.”

Palu nods, then hurries to lift Brayden from the floor onto her shoulders. His hair falls down his face and a drip of blood streams from his nose. Before I can do anything she runs up the steps and is gone. I stare at the blood he left on the floor, shuddering.

“I know why Capian falls,” Lisa says, standing slowly.

“Oh yes, Lisenthe, daughter of Randt, youngest of us all. Your father has finally shown you his scrolls, where he stores the visions the source gives him? The ones he locks away and guards like a treasure. I paint what I take from the source for all to see. I do not fear you reporting back to him. It is a shame that we no longer share our visions, that we are shown such different realities. When the Seven were here, when Feileen was alive and your father cooperative, we came together and could grasp the full meaning of the source every time. And now we are left with this,” he says, indicating the canvas. “An imperfection.”

“The city falls because of the Seven you speak of, and the map they made,” Lisa says, her eyes fierce and defensive. Alarm bells go off in my head. Arcos shares his visions with his Keepers, which means they know of the map too. It is no secret at all.

“Lisa, no!”

But she goes on as if she hasn't heard me. “The Topsiders here, this one”—she points at Dad—“he has seen and memorized the map.” The room erupts into shouts, not just shocked whispers but full-throated shouts.

Arcos stares at Lisa, and then at my father, his great brow clearing. He steps closer. “The Seven, my sisters and brothers, left when we were young. Did Randt tell you why they left? Does anyone here understand why they left?”

No one says a thing.

“They left to ensure the source. To keep us safe. And any map they left was created for the same purpose.”

“My father thinks differently,” Lisa replies, speaking loudly, defensively, as if on trial. “He believes the map is a guide to the Seven, that when we were ready enough to go Topside, it would be there to show us the way.”

“We all know of your father's politics, Lisenthe. Feileen has long opposed his wish to go Topside, to abandon us like the Seven. The map we sense is an excuse for Keeper Randt, nothing more. We Three made a vow to await the Seven and until then we will not allow anyone to leave, even if that involves force.” There are rumbles of approval around the room, but Lisa just takes it all in stride. She believes her dad, she has faith in him.

“You don't understand the map,” Dad whispers, so quiet I can barely hear him. But apparently loud enough.

“Speak, Topsider, speak for your kind. There is little else you can do,” Arcos says. He holds out a huge hand to silence the crowd.

Dad stands gingerly, his face a flower patch of bruises, his lips swollen. He cradles his arm awkwardly. But he still manages to look strong, smart, someone to listen to. I feel my heart swell in pride. It occurs to me that it's not Lisa who's on trial, but us.

“Two of your cycles ago I found the map. And I can say this clearly: it will not lead you to the Seven,” he says, easily picking up the lingo. “I believe it was created to guide me,” he pauses, looks at me, “to guide us Topsiders to the source.”

The crowd goes crazy, lurching to their feet with roars of indignation. The closest Keepers begin to spit all over us, disgusting warm globs that smack. We jump out of our seats and climb the stage, but guards are there immediately and hold us in place. Dad, though, won't be cowed.

“How do you think we got here? Why is this the first time a Topsider has found you? It's because we were shown the way. The Seven
want
us here.” He struggles against the Keeper who holds him tight. “Keeper Arcos of the Three, you see the sickness that's spreading among our people. The Topside needs the source to survive. Not just the water, but the source. Do you know why?” He's still looking at me, as if this is all for my benefit. His years of secrets and theories laid bare. “Because we're too late. Because the water has been tainted and turned evil and spreads too fast. Because we need a source of our own Topside to heal from the death that is coming. We need its visions and water and life Topside, not every seventeen years.”

“The source does not work that way,” Arcos says after a moment. “Its powers differ for each of us, its gifts work best when we are all together. It cannot be moved. It is for us alone.”

“I've seen the map,” Dad replies with conviction. Everyone's listening, they can't help it. “You are here, keeping the source safe, protecting it. Right? But for what reason? I believe you keep it for
this very moment.
Keeper Arcos, the Seven sent me to ask for your help.”

I'm watching him in awe. Part of what he's saying is totally spot on. There's no way at all we'd have known to go through the well without the map. There's no way I'd have jumped in without having seen the images on the map change to give me the hint I needed to find this place. Dad's had the map for years; who knows how much more he could have deciphered. Maybe he's right—maybe we're here to bring the source home.

Arcos looks back at his painting, at his burning city and the dark Topside. “And does the map tell you what the source is? Do you know what it truly does?”

“I don't,” Dad admits, rueful. “Not completely—”

“I do,” I interrupt. “I know you and Randt use it to find people, to
feel
people, to understand what they are thinking. But you have to
look,
it won't just tell you what's going on in everyone's minds. I know that if the virus spreads, we could use the source to find those who are sick and heal them.”

I flinch, expecting the crowd to erupt again. But they don't. They don't make a sound, and in some ways, that's scarier. Arcos blinks once, slowly, taking it all in. His eyes bore into my father, then me, and I feel it—the same thing I felt when Randt stared me down. Like he's looking inside me right now, digging into my mind in some way. I squirm against the feeling, but it doesn't stop.